Engraved  "by  C  "Wan-e 


iM'M   aU®HS®H 


Of^  KS 


0  F    TH  E 


CAREFULLY     SELECTED      FROM     THE      ORIGINAL     EDITIONS 


WITH     BIOGRAPHICAL      NOTES      &C.&C. 


THE  CELEB  SATED   3-LOBE  THEATRE  . 


W^  W.  SWAYNE, 
BRGGKL.TK    &    NEW    YORK 


evwDTra'vvs 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE,     ,  , 

ORIGIN"  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF  THE  BRITISH  DRAMA, 

JOHN  LILLY- 
BIOGRAPHICAL  Notice,  ........ 

Alexander  and  Campaspe,      ,.....• 

GEORGE  PEELE— 

Biographical  Notice,  .....••• 

The  Love  of  King  David  and  Fair  Bethsabe,  with  the  Tragedyof 

Absalon,     ,....•••• 

ROBERT  GREENE- 
BIOGRAPHICAL  Notice,  .  .  . 
The  Honourable  History  op  Fkiar  Bacon  and  FriarBtjngay,    . 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE— 

Biographical  Notice,  ......•• 

The  Troublesome  Reign  and  Lamentable  Death  of  Edward  the  Second, 
King  of  England,  ....... 

The  Tragical  History  of  Dr.  Faustus,        .  .  .  .  • 

BEN  JONSON— 

Biographical  Notice,  ......•• 

The  Alchemist,  ......•• 

Epiccene  ;  OR,  The  Silent  "Woman,     ...... 

Every  Man  in  His  Humour,    ....... 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER— 

Biographical  Notice,  .  .  .  . 

Philaster ;.pR,  Love  lies  A-Bleeding,         ..... 

A  King  and  no  King,  ....... 

The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  .  .  .  •     ,      • 

JOHN  WEBSTER- 
BIOGRAPHICAL  Notice,  .  .  •  •  •  • 
The  Duchess  OF  Malfi,           .           •           • 


41 

42 


58 
59 

76 

78 

97 

100 
127 


140 

142 
179 
209 


237 
240 
264 
291 

316 
317 


r'4::1970 


iv  CONTENTS, 


JOHif  MARSTON—  PAOi 

Biographical  Notice,              •            ....._.  346 

Antonio  and  Mellida,             .......  347 

Antonio's  Revenge.    The  Second  Part  of  the  History  of  Antonio  and 

Mellida,     .........  364 

PHILIP  MASSINGER— 

Biographical  Notice,              .......  386 

The  Virgin-Martyr,    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .386 

The  Duke  of  Milan,    .,...,..  411 

A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,         .            .            .            .            .            .  "435 

JOHN  ford- 
Biographical  Notice,              .            .           .            .           .            .            ,  460 

The  Lady's  Trial,        .........  461 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD— 

Biographical  Notice,              .            .            .            .            .            .            .  483 

A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness,     ......  484 

JAMES  SHIRLEY- 
BIOGRAPHICAL  Notice,             .......  503 

The  Traitor.     A  Tragedy,       .......  505 

The  Brothers.     A  Comedy,     .......  523 


PREFACE. 


^g^.B^EETAIN'  periods  in  British  history  have  been  marked  by  the 
^t^  prevalence  of  particular  forms  of  literature.  The  present  age, 
^  for  example,  is  characterized  by  the  superabundance  of  prose 
fiction ;  this  is  the  period  of  the  novel.  During  the  early  half  of  last 
century,  the  most  popular  and  common  form  of  literature  was  the  short 
essay,  which  appeared  in  shoals  in  such  periodicals  as  the  Spectator  and 
Tatlcr.  It  is  not  difficult  to  account  for  the  shower  of  pamphlets  which 
deluged  the  period  comprehended  in  the  greater  part  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  I.  and  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth ;  while  the  latter  half  of 
the  sixteenth,  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  em- 
phatically the  period  of  the  drama,  during  which  this  form  of  imaginative 
literature  held  supreme  and  unexampled  sway.  It  would  be  interesting 
to  inquire  into  the  causes  which  in  each  age  determine  the  groove  in 
which  its  popular  literature  will  run;  for  although,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  pamphleteering  period,  these  do  not  always  lie  on  the  surface,  still 
no  doubt  a  close  scrutiny  would  prove  that  they  are  always  clear  and 
well  defined,  depending  mainly  upon  the  political,  social,  religious,  and 
commercial  state  of  the  country  at  the  time.  Why  the  reigns  of  Eliza- 
beth and  James  should  have  given  birth  to  so  many  men  of  high  and 
prolific  genius,  and  why  those  men  should  spontaneously  adopt  the  drama 
as  the  form  of  literature  best  adapted  to  afford  an  outlet  for  their  welling- 
iip  thoughts  and  fancies,  we  have  not  the  space,  even  if  we  had  the 
requisite  knowledge  and  insight,  to  attempt  to  discover.  We  believe  it 
would  be  found  that  the  drama  was  the  channel  most  suited  to  receive 
the  overflowings  of  the  abundant  intellectual  energy  of  the  age ;  although 
those  who  adopted  it  did  not  cut  it  out  for  themselves,  but  found  it  ready 
made  to  their  hands.  Indeed,  it  will  be  found  that  a  great  genius  seldom, 
if  ever,  creates  a  new  form  of  literature,  into  which  to  throw  the  products 
of  his  intellect ;  he  generally  adopts  that  which  is  already  popular,  and 
consecrates  it  to  his  purpose.  During  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  our  country 
had  got  fairly  over  the  turmoils  and  distractions  of  the  Eeformation ;  it 


vi  PREFACE. 

had  become  'a  land  of  settled  government;'  it  was  a  time  of  great  com- 
mercial prosperity  and  of  comparative  peace ;  an  era  of  unprecedented 
intellectual  and  religious  freedom  had  dawned  upon  men;  all  the  old 
beliefs  had  been  shaken,  and  many  of  them  dethroned.  The  forces  which 
had  been  so  vigorously  at  work  to  bring  about  all  this  were  now  unem- 
ployed ;  a  new-born  spirit  of  restless,  inquisitive,  vigorous  mental  activity 
was  abroad,  prying  into  all  things,  divine  and  human,  and  bound  to  take 
some  tangible  form.  All  the  circumstances  of  the  time  being  considered, 
we  think  no  more  suitable  form  could  have  been  found  than  the  drama, 
peculiarly  the  literature  of  action,  of  restless  many-sided  human  life,  by 
means  of  which  to  give  utterance  to  the  multitudinous  and  strange 
thoughts  and  fancies  engendered  of  this  restless,  unrestrainable,  abun- 
dant mental  energy. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  causes  at  work,  for  about  sixty  years 
after  1570,  hundreds  of  dramas,  many  of  them  of  supreme  excellence, 
laden  with  deep  and  striking  thoughts  as.  well  as  rich  and  exquisite 
fancies,  were  produced  by  a  race  of  authors,  of  many  of  the  greatest  of 
whom  almost  all  we  know  is  their  names ;  even  the  biography  of  the 
very  greatest  among  them  is  little  else  than  a  series  of  unsatisfactory 
conjectures.  These  dramatists  appear  to  have  formed  a  class  by  them- 
selves, mixing  little  with  general  society ;  but  most  of  them  leading  a 
strange  land  of  wild  '  Bohemian '  existence,  having  no  fixed  abode,  living 
mostly  in  taverns  and  other  strange  places,  and  forming  themselves  into 
clubs  for  drinking,  smoking, '  quipping,'  and  contriving  plays.  Whether 
this  was  a  consequence  or  a  cause  of  their  being  tabooed  from  respect- 
able society,  we  cannot  say.  What  little  we  know  of  the  lives  of  most 
of  them  is  rather  saddening :  few  of  them  lived  long ;  most  of  them  were 
penniless,  and  generally  in  debt  to  the  managers ;  and  many  of  them  died 
from  excessive  indulgence  in  eating,  drinking,  and  other  gratifications. 
Nevertheless,  they  have  left  behind  them  much  that  men  ought  not  '  will- 
ingly to  let  die.'  Of  the  many  hundred  works  produced  by  these  old 
dramatists,  comparatively  few  have  reached  our  time,  although  those 
extant  might  still  be  counted  by  the  hundred.  Possibly  we  need  not 
regret  the  loss,  as  only  the  most  vigorous  may  have  survived.  It  is 
needless  for  us  to  show  here  why  those  extant  works  of  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists  are  worthy  of  attention,  and  deserving  of  admiration ;  it  is 
long  since  this  has  been  allowed  by  all  competent  critics ;  and  it  is  quite 
customary  for  all  who  pretend  to  any  knowledge  of  English  literature,  to 
accord  to  them,  as  to  other  literary  masterpieces,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
the  highest  praise,  although,  we  fear,  many  of  those  who  talk  thus  do  so 
without  knowledge.  However,  few  men  perhaps  are  to  be  blamed  for 
the  want  of  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  works  of  these  dramatists, 
considering  the  many  all -important   matters  demanding   attention  in 


PREFACE.  vii 

the  present,  the  great  number  of  the  dramas  extant,  and  to  men  of 
moderate  means,  the  comparatively  great  expense  of  even  the  cheapest 
editions.  Many,  too,  would  not  care  to  read  through  the  whole  works 
of  any  one  dramatist,  and  to  most,  such  a  task  would  be  tiresome  and 
profitless ;  and  therefore  to  such,  as  well  as  to  all  who  desire  to  know 
wherein  the  glory  of  these  old  writers  consisted,  it  is  hoped  the  present 
volume  will  prove  acceptable. 

The  editor,  assisted  by  the  criticisms  of  those  writers  most  competent 
to  judge,  has  endeavoured  to  select  from  the  works  of  the  greatest  of  the 
Elizabethan  dramatists  those  which  display  the  highest  genius,  are  most 
characteristic  of  their  authors,  and  are  best  fitted  for  general  perusal. 
With  regard  to  this  last  point,  he  has  found  that  the  best  dramas  are 
generally  the  freest  from  impurity,  and  in  the  following  pages  almost 
nothing  has  been  thought  necessary  in  the  way  of  purgation.  As  any 
one  who  can  spare  a  sixpence  can  purchase  the  works  of  Shakespeare, 
they  have  been  excluded  from  the  selection.  To  ensure  correctness  of 
text,  the  best  editions — in  the  case  of  Ben  Jonson,  the  original  quarto — 
have  been  used.  Prefixed  to  each  selection  is  a  brief  biography  of  the 
author,  which,  sad  to  say,  is  generally  little  more  thaja  a  confession  of 
inability  to  write  a  biography  for  lack  of  material.  Where  no  good  pur- 
pose was  to  be  served  by  retaining  the  antiquated  spelling,  it  has  been 
modernized ;  and  wherever  it  was  thought  necessary  to  the  imderstand- 
ing  of  the  text  by  an  ordinary  reader,  notes  have  been  appended  at  the 
foot  of  the  page.  The  editor  has  avoided  wasting  space  by  indulging  in 
the  note  critical,  or  by  pointing  out  to  the  reader — what  he  is  no  doubt 
able  enough  to  discover  for  himself — the  beauties  of  an  author,  and  the 
feelings  which  it  has  been  generally  thought  they  are  fitted  to  call  forth. 
The  notes  are  purely  explanatory ;  and  where  the  editor  has  been  unable 
to  throw  light  on  a  word  or  passage,  he  has  seldom  attempted  a  con- 
jecture which  might  be  misleading.  Those  notes  which  are  not  his 
own,  the  editor  has  always  endeavoured  to  remember  to  acknowledge, 
although,  no  doubt,  he  has  occasionally  omitted  to  do  so ;  and  to  the 
labours  of  the  editors  of  the  various  excellent  editions  of  the  dramatists 
he  has  been  indebted  for  much  valuable  assistance.  It  is  hoped  that 
these  notes  will  be  found  conducive  to  the  purpose  which  this  volume 
is  designed  to  serve,  viz.  to  enable  the  general  reader  to  form  an  in- 
telligent acquaintance  with,  and  appreciation  of,  the  best  works  of  our 
greatest  dramatists. 

It  has  been  thought  appropriate  to  prefix  a  short  Introduction,  giving 
a  brief  account  of  the  origin  and  early  history  of  the  British  Drama ;  and 
as  the  book  is  meant  mainly  for  general  readers,  the  editor  has  deemed  it 
not  out  of  place  to  begin  by  describing  what  is  generally  allowed  to  be 


viii  PREFACE. 

the  origin  of  the  Greek,  the  parent  of  the  European  Drama.  The  chief 
purpose  of  the  Introduction,  however,  is  to  endeavour  to  discover  the 
germs  from  which  arose  the  early  British  Drama,  and  to  trace  its  history- 
down  to  the  time  when  what  is  known  as  the  *  legitimate  drama '  had 
taken  firm  root  in  our  literature,  i.e.  down  to  about  the  date  of  our  first 
specimen  from  John  Lilly.  Of  course,  with  the  small  space  which  could 
be  allotted  to  this  purpose,  the  editor  has  been  compelled  to  restrict  him- 
self to  a  brief  statement  of  facts ;  and  many  things  have  been  necessarily 
omitted  which  are  highly  interesting  in  connection  with  our  dramatic 
history,  but  which  would  have  been  out  of  place  in  a  book  of  this  kind. 
All  the  best  and  most  recent  authorities  have  been  consulted  to  obtain 
material  for  the  Introduction ;  but  any  one  at  all  acquainted  with  the 
subject,  knows  that  any  writer  on  the  early  history  of  our  Drama  must  be 
largely  indebted  to  the  invaluable  work  of  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier. 

In  conclusion,  both  publisher  and  editor  hope  that,  as  a  whole,  this 
volume  wiU  be  found  adapted  to  the  purpose  for  which  it  is  intended. 

J.  S.  K. 

Edineuegh,  February  1870. 


ORIGIN   AND   EARLY   HISTORY 


BRITISH   DRAMA. 


OETRY,  in  respect  of  the  form  -which  it  may  assume,  has  been 
divided  into  three  kinds — Epic,  Lyric,  and  Dramatic:  the  first 
(from  the  Greek  epos,  a  word)  consisting  of  the  stately  narration 
of  heroic  actions ;  the  second  (from  the  root  of  lyre)  setting  forth 
human  emotions  in  such  a  form  as  admits  of  being  set  to  music  ;  and  the  last 
(in  Greek  signifying  '  action,'  from  drao,  to  do,  to  act)  is  concerned  with  the 
representation  (as  distinct  from  the  narration)  of  human  actions,  and  exhibits 
a  number  of  persons,  called  the  dramatis  personcE,  or  persons  of  the  drama,  in 
continued  and  animated  conversation, — the  progress  of  the  story,  action,  or  plot 
being  gathered  from  their  sayings  and  doings.  The  two  main  divisions  of  the 
drama  are  tragedy  and  comedy ;  the  former  of  which  Aristotle  well  defines  as 
the  imitation  of  some  action  that  is  serious,  entire,  and  of  a  proper  magnitude, — 
effecting  through  pity  and  terror  the  refinement  of  these  and  similar  affections  of 
the  soul.  Tragedy,  in  its  best  form,  concerns  itself  with  the  deepest,  noblest, 
most  earnest  side  of  man's  nature,  striving  to  elicit  our  strongest  sympathy  in 
behalf  of  others  who  are  vividly  represented  before  us  as  actually  taking  part  in 
certain  scenes  of  life  which  bring  upon  them  sorrow  and  suffering.  Comedy, 
on  the  other  hand,  deals  with  the  ordinary  commonplace  events  of  everyday 
life,  and  ministers  to  the  amusement  of  the  spectator  by  exhibiting  the  ludicrous 
mistakes  and  follies  of  his  fellow-men.  Tragic  poetry  has  been  described  as 
that  Avhich  interests  the  mind  in  the  highest  degree,  and  comic  poetry  as  that 
Avhich  engages  us  in  the  most  complete  lawlessness.  In  comedy,  gloom,  sadness, 
sobriety,  have  no  recognised  existence ;  while  gaiety,  joviality,  riotous  mirth,  are 
unknown  in  tragedy.  Tragedy,  consistently  with  its  origin,  as  will  be  seen,  shows 
us  man,  if  we  may  so  speak,  in  the  '  struggle  for  existence,'  fighting  against  fate, 
striving  to  hold  his  own  against  unfeeling  nature  and  man's  inhumanity ;  while 
comedy  exhibits  him  in  a  state  of  unconcern  and  self-abandonment. 

If  it  were  left  to  mere  conjecture  to  account  for  the  origin  of  the  drama,  one 
might  very  naturally  suppose  that  it  took  its  rise  partly  from  what  appears 
to  be  an  innate  propensity  in  man,  as  it  is  certainly  a  universal  practice,  to 
take  an  interest  in  and  to  recount  the  sayings  and  doings  of  others.  Even 
among  the  cultivated  classes  of  the  present  day — and  far  more  so  is  it  the  case 
among  the  uncultivated  and  uneducated,  who  are  living  examples  of  what  all 
classes  at  one  time  were — when  two  or  three  are  met  together,  are  not  the  affairs 
of  themselves  and  their  friends  almost  invariably  the  staple  subject  of  conversa- 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


tion  ?  And  if  any  one  with  his  ears  open  passes  two  gossips  in  conversation,  he 
is  almost  sure  to  observe  that  the  one  is  recounting  to  the  other,  in  an  animated 
and  dramatic  manner,  some  exploit  of  which  he  or  she  is  the  victorious  hero  or 
heroine.  In  this  way,  however,  the  origin  of  the  epic  would  perhaps  be  more 
appropriately  accounted  for,  it  being  essentially  a  narrative  set  forth  by  one 
narrator,  generally  interspersed  with  fragments  of  conversation,  and  resembling 
the  drama  in  being  concerned  with  the  exhibition  of  a  progressive  action.  The 
epic,  we  believe,  was  the  first  form  of  poetry,  if  not  of  all  literature,  and  at  first 
was  probably  nothing  more  than  mere  narrative  vigorously  and  picturesquely 
set  forth.  The  epic  in  many  respects  bears  a  considerable  resemblance  to, 
and  one  would  fancy  could  not  fail  to  suggest,  the  drama,  which,  we  shall  see, 
was  not  exactly  the  case.  Theoretically,  however,  to  account  for  the  origin 
of  the  latter,  in  addition  to  the  gossiping  or  story-telling  propensity  in  man, 
we  have  also  to  take  into  consideration  the  earliest  developed  and  perhaps  the 
strongest  of  all  his  propensities — that  of  imitation  or  mimicry.  This  propensity 
is  seen  in  earliest  childhood :  without  it  there  would  be  no  possibility  of  educa- 
tion. Are  not  the  very  games  of  children  merely  the  mimicry  of  the  serious 
life-business ,  of  their  elders  ?  Savages  have  been  described  as  the  children  of 
nature ;  and  they  do  resemble  children  in  many  respects,  especially  in  the  nature 
of  their  amusements,  which  are  generally  mere  imitations  or  representations  of 
their  most  serious  employments — war  and  the  chase.  Among  nearly  every  known 
people  on  the  face  of  the  globe,  from  the  ultra-civilised  and  theatre-loving  Parisian 
down  to  the  almost  brute-like  Australian,  is  there  something  to  be  found  corre- 
sponding to  dramatic  representation,  something  imitative  of  active  life.  Doubtless 
in  many  instances,  among  savage  nations,  this  takes  a  very  rude  form  ;  but  even 
in  its  rudest  form  it  is  an  outcome  of  the  same  propensity  as  the  most  elaborate  pro- 
duction of  the  greatest  dramatist, — viz.  a  desire  to  afford  pleasure  by  representing 
the  realities  of  active  life.  In  its  rudest  form  it  is  to  be  seen  in  the  war-dance 
of  the  North  American  Indians  and  other  savages,  which  is  simply  a  representa- 
tion of  a  battle,  and  may  be  regarded  as  tragedy  in  its  crudest  form  ;  while  the 
comic  and  love  dances  of  the  South  Sea  Islanders  and  others  exhibit  comedy  in 
its  earliest  stage.  Indeed,  dancing  seems  at  all  times  to  have  been  intimately 
connected  with  di'amatic  representation  ;  and  one  of  the  most  important  parts  ot 
the  ancient  classic  drama,  the  chorus^  takes  its  name  from  this  fact.  When  the 
Spaniards  visited  Peru,  they  found  the  natives  in  possession  of  a  drama  of  a 
comparatively  advanced  order.  '  The  Incas,'  says  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  *  repre- 
sented upon  festival  days  tragedies  and  comedies  in  due  form,  intermingling 
them  with  interludes  which  contained  nothing  low  or  grovelling.  The  subjects 
of  their  tragedies  were  the  exploits  and  victories  of  their  kings  and  heroes.  On 
the  other  hand,  their  comedies  were  drawn  from  agriculture  and  the  most  com- 
mon actions  of  human  life  ;  the  whole  mingled  with  sentences  full  of  sense  and 
gravity.'  The  Chinese  are  known  to  have  had  a  drama  from  a  very  early  period 
— no  doubt  of  a  somewhat  grotesque  kind,  characteristic  of  the  people — which 
to  all  appearance  must  have  been  of  native  growth ;  and  there  is  no  satisfactory 
proof  that  the  Indians  were  indebted  to  the  Greeks  for  the  idea  of  their  most 
elaborate  and  certainly  ancient  drama.  Indeed,  the  love  of  dramatic  represen- 
tation is  as  prevalent  and  as  natural  to  man  as  religion  itself,  with  which  it  is 
very  often  found  in  some  way  connected,  and  to  which  the  European  drama, 
ancient  and  modern,  owes  to  a  large  extent  its  origin. 

Notwithstanding  this  innate  propensity  to  dramatize  the  facts  of  human 
life,  it  can  scarcely  be  said  that  to  it  is  to  be  ascribed  the  origin  of  the  Greek 
drama,  of  which  the  modern  European  drama  may  be  regarded  as  the  lineal 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xi 

descendant.  The  idea  of  dramatic  representation  was  familiar  to  the  Greeks 
even  before  the  invention  of  the  drama  proper.  It  was  customary  among  them 
to  represent  certain  legends  connected  with  the  gods  in  a  visible  dramatic  form. 
'Thus,'  says  Ottfried  Miiller,  the  historian  of  Greek  literature,  'Apollo's  combat 
with  the  dragon,  and  his  consequent  flight  and  expatriation,  were  represented  by 
a  noble  youth  of  Delphi ;  in  Samos,  the  marriage  of  Zeus  (Jupiter)  and  Hera 
(Juno)  was  exhibited  at  the  great  festival  of  the  goddess.  The  Eieusinian 
Mysteries  were  (as  an  ancient  writer  expresses  it)  "  a  mystical  drama,"  in  which 
the  history  of  Demeter  and  Ceres  was  acted,  like  a  play,  by  priests  and  priestesses. 
.  .  .  There  were  also  mimic  representations  in  the  worship  of  Bacchus  :  thus,  at 
the  Anthesteria  at  Athens,  the  wife  of  the  second  archon,  who  bore  the  title  of 
Queen,  was  betrothed  to  Dionysus  in  a  secret  solemnity,  and  in  public  processions 
even  the  god  himself  was  represented  by  a  man.'  But  it  is  to  the  rites  connected 
with  the  worship  of  Bacchus  that  we  must  look  for  the  immediate  origin  of  the 
drama.  It  was  the  custom,  especially  among  the  Dorians  of  the  Peloponnesus, 
to  celebrate  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  generally  in  early  spring  and  in 
autumn,  the  worship  of  Dionysus  (popularly  identified  with  the  Latin  Bacchus), 
not  so  much  as  the  god  of  wine,  or  the  vine,  but  mainly  as  the  personification  of 
the  productive  force  of  nature.  This  they  did  at  first  by  singing  wild,  impassioned 
songs,  known  as  dithyrambs,  generally  improvised  under  the  influence  of  wine, 
and  which  were  accompanied  with  sacrifices,  orgies,  and  rites  of  various  kinds. 
'  But  the  worship  of  Bacchus,'  says  Miiller,  '  had  one  quality  which  was  more  than 
any  other  calculated  to  give  birth  to  the  drama,  and  particularly  to  the  tragedy ; 
namely,  the  enthusiasm^  which  formed  an  essential  part  of  it.  This  enthusiasm 
proceeded  from  an  impassioned  sympathy  with  the  events  of  nature  in  connection 
with  the  course  of  the  seasons  ;  especially  with  the  struggle  which  Nature  seemed 
to  make  in  winter,  in  order  that  she  might  break  forth  in  spring  Avith  renovated 
beauty.'  About  580  B.C.,  Arion  the  lyric  poet,  we  have  good  authority  for 
.  beHeving,  improved  upon  the  wild,  improvised  dithyrambs  mentioned  above,  by 
inventing  what  was  called  the  tragic  chorus,  being  a  regular  choral  song  sung  by  a 
number  of  people  who  probably  represented  the  companions  of  Bacchus,  and  who 
danced  around  the  altar,  on  which  a  goat  was  sacrificed.  Hence,  it  is  said,  the 
origin  of  tragedy,  which  thus  means  literally  the  goat-song,  from  the  Greek  tragos, 
a  goat,  and  ode,  a  song  :  chorus  in  Greek  literally  means  a  dance,  or  company 
of  dancers.  This  dithyrambic  tragic  chorus  continued  to  chant  the  sorroAvs  and 
mishaps  of  Bacchus  as  the  god  of  nature,  in  his  struggle  for  life  with  the  adverse 
powers  of  winter, — the  particular  festival  at  Avhich  it  Avas  sung  being  held  at  the 
end  of  Avinter  or  in  early  spring ;  hence  the  meaning  which  came  to  be  attached 
to  the  words  tragic  and  tragedy,  for  it  was  from  this  particular  part  of  the  Avorship 
of  Bacchus  that  tragedy  Avas  developed.  The  further  development  of  tragedy, 
according  to  MiiUer,  belongs  to  the  Athenians ;  while  among  the  Dorians  it  seems 
to  have  been  preserved  in  its  original  lyric  form.  Miiller  supposes  that,  even  in 
the  above  elementary  form  of  tragedy,  the  leaders  of  the  chorus  came  forward 
separately,  and  narrated  the  perils  which  threatened  the  god,  and  his  final 
escape  from  or  triumph  over  them ;  the  body  of  the  chorus  afterwards  express- 
ing its  feelings,  as  if  at  passing  events. 

The  next  important  innovation  in  connection  with  the  worship  of  Bacchus, 
which  indeed  marks  the  birth  of  the  regular  tragic  drama,  according  to  all  ac- 
counts, Avas  made  by  Thespis,  a  native  of  Attica,  about  535  B.C.  To  give  rest 
to  the  singers,  and  relieve  the  monotony  of  the  long  effusions  of  the  chorus,  he 
is  said  to  have  come  forward,  or  caused  an  actor  to  come  forward,  probably  on  a 
small  platform,  and  recite  a  legend  connected  with  some  god  or  hero.     *  Now,' 


xii  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 

says  Miiller,  *  according  to  the  idea  which  we  have  formed  from  the  finished 
drama,  one  actor  appears  to  be  no  better  than  none  at  all.  When,  however,  it  is 
borne  in  mind  that,  according  to  the  constant  practice  of  the  ancient  drama,  one 
actor  played  several  parts  in  the  same  piece  (for  which  the  linen  masks  intro- 
duced by  Thespis  must  have  been  of  great  use)  ;  and,  moreover,  that  the  chorus 
was  combined  with  the  actor,  and  could  maintain  a  dialogue  with  him, — it  is  easy 
to  see  how  a  dramatic  action  might  be  introduced,  continued,  and  concluded  by 
the  speeches  inserted  between  the  choral  songs.'  It  is  thought  by  some  authori- 
ties that  these  actors  might  at  first  be  chosen  from  among  the  professional  rhap- 
sodists  who  were  in  the  habit  of  traversing  the  country,  and  reciting  the  works 
of  Homer  and  other  poets.  This  they  often  did  with  characteristic  gesticulation, 
sometimes  several  together,  each  representing  a  different  hero,  and  reciting  his 
speeches  in  character. 

Thus  was  tragedy  born,  and  in  a  comparatively  short  time  it  reached  its  full 
development  in  the  works  of  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides,  all  nearly 
contemporary  during  the  fifth  century  B.C.  The  first  of  these  made  the  next 
important  innovation  and  improvement  in  the  character  of  the  drama,  by  intro- 
ducing another  actor, — thus  giving  the  dramatic  element  its  due  development, 
'  Tragedy,  as  he  received  it,  was  still  an  infant,  though  a  vigorous  one :  when 
it  passed  from  his  hands,  it  had  reached  a  firm  and  goodly  youth.'  Sophocles 
introduced  a  third  actor,  and  otherwise  improved  on  his  predecessor.  Euripides 
invented  the  prologue,  which  Miiller  thinks  was  a  step  in  the  backward  direction  • 
and  he  and  his  immediate  successors  made  further  additions  and  improvements, 
tending  to  render  the  Greek  tragic  drama  as  complete  in  form  as  it  could  well 
be,  consistently  with  the  stringent  rules  which  Greek  notions  of  art  imposed 
xipon  it. 

Comedy,  like  tragedy,  had  also  its  origin  in  the  worship  of  Bacchus,  but, 
according  to  the  best  authorities,  took  its  rise  in  an  entirely  different  Avay,  and 
in  connection  with  quite  another  festival.  Tragedy,  as  we  have  seen,  had  origi- 
nated in  the  winter  celebrations  of  the  worship  of  Bacchus,  when  the  poAvers  of 
nature  were  struggling  to  free  themselves  from  the  thralls  of  griping  Avinter-;  and, 
as  in  a  struggle  of  life  and  death,  the  minds  of  the  people  seemed  filled  with  sadness 
and  apprehension,  finding  utterance  in  the  tragic  chorus.  Comedy,  on  the  other 
hand,  took  its  rise  in  connection  Avith  the  joyous  ingathering  of  the  vintage,  the 
fruit  of  nature's  triumphant  efforts,  when  all  was  mirth  and  jollity.  The  festivals 
of  this  joyous  period  were  held  in  autumn,  and  by  the  country  people ;  comedy 
thus,  unlike  tragedy,  having  a  rustic  origin.  At  these  joyous  country  festivals  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  people,  having  drunk  freely  of  the  gifts  of  their  generous 
god,  to  go  round  in  procession  from  village  to  village,  carrying  aloft  an  image  of 
the  phallus,  the  emblem  of  nature's  productive  powers,  the  chorus  singing  songs  of 
thanksgiving  to  the  liberal  Bacchus.  After  doing  their  god  due  honour,  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  people  to  indulge  in  the  wildest  and  often  most  licentious  revelry  ; 
and  the  chorus,  turning  their  attention  to  the  spectators,  quizzed  and  satirized  them 
in  the  most  unrestrained  manner.  It  Avas  from  this  custom,  it  is  said,  that  the 
regular  comedy  took  its  rise ;  its  origin  being  generally  ascribed  to  Susarion,  a 
native  of  Megara,  Avho  had  removed  to  Icaria  in  Attica,  and  who,  according  to 
one  account,  Avas  the  first  to  contend  Avith  a  chorus  of  Icarians  in  order  to  obtain 
the  prize — a  basket  of  figs  and  a  jar  of  wine.  According  to  another  account, 
quite  consistent  with  the  above,  Susarion,  someAvhere  betAveen  580-564  B.C.,  Avas 
the  first  to  regulate  this  amusement,  and  thus  lay  the  foundation  of  regular 
comedy.  The  name  applied  by  the  Greeks  to  a  drunken  revel  like  the  above 
Avas  hdmos  (comus),  so  that  comedy  literally  means  the  '  revellers'  song.'     The 


THE  BRITISH  D.^AMA.  xiii 

tionvation  of  comedy  from  Z-c>??iJ,  a  village,  beonuse  ic  is  said  the  H';tors  wtiut 
jbout  from  village  to  village  satirizing  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  people,  rests 
en  no  good  foundation.  We  have  no  such  menus  of  marlcing  the  gradual  rise  of 
comedy  i ';  perfection  as  we  have  in  the  ease  of  tragedy.  By  \\\\i\':,  Bieans  it  was 
nadually  developed,  can  only  be  inferred,  as  Mliller  says,  from  the  drama  itself, 
V  Iiich  still  retained  much  of  its  original  organization,  and  from  the  analogy  of 
trngedy. 

Comedy,  however,  took  much  longer  than  tragedy  to  attain  to  the  perfection 
of  art,  retaining  its  original  form — that  of  personal  satire — till  the  time  of  the 
greatest  Greek  comedian,  Aristophanes  (444-380  B.C.).  In  this  form,  known  as 
the  old  comedij.,  the  characters  were  real  persons,  introduced  under  their  o'ft-n 
r.amos :  most  of  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes  .are  of  this  class.  This  form  of 
the  comic  drama  inevitably  became  unbearable ;  and  after  passing  through  ihe 
stage  of  what  is  knowii  as  the  middle  comedy^  in  which  real  characters  were 
introduced  under  assumed  names,  the  comic  art  gradually  reached  perfection  in 
the  new  comedy^  essentially  resembUng  the  modem  comic  drama,  iu  which  the 
characters  are  purely  fictitious,  the  only  requirements  Being  that  they  should  be 
true  to  reality,  and  conformable  to  the  rules  of  art. 

As  we  are  not  writing  a  history  of  the  Greek  drama,  nor  even  of  the  drama 
in  general,  but  have  introduced  the  above  statements  only  because  we  deemed 
it  necessary  l;>riefly  to  lay  before  the  reader  what  is  known  o\  the  origin  of  the 
European  drama,  we  shall  not  enter  into  further  details  on  this  part  of  the 
subject.  Sulfice  it  to  say,  that  the  great  difference  in  form  between  the  ancient 
Greek  or  classic  drama,  and  the  modern  English  or  romantic  drama,  is,  that  in  the 
former  was  introduced  what  is  known  as  the  chorus,  Avhich,  from  the  supreme 
part  it  played  originally  at  the  festivals  of  Bacchus,  gradually  came  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  altogether  subordinate  part  of  the  main  drama.  This  chorus 
consisted  of  a  group  of  persons,  in  some  way  connected  with  the  dramatis  personce, 
whc,  at  intervals  in  the  progress  of  the  drama,  gave  utterance  to  certain  moral 
reflections  suggested  by  the  scene?:,  or  were  used  by  the  dramatist  as  a  means 
of  letting  the  audience  know  any  details  that  were  necessary  to  the  full  ^ander- 
standing  of  the  plot.  Even  after  the  regidar  Greek  drama  had  made  consider- 
able progress,  the  chorus  seems  to  have  continued  to  chant'its  part  in  the  play, 
and,  true  to  its  name,  enlive?.'  J  the  performance  by  dancing  to  its  own  music. 
Only  one  other  difference  between  the  classic  and  modem  or  romantic  drama 
can  we  mention  here :  it  is,  that  the  former  generally  endesvoured  to  adhere 
rigidly  to  what  are'  known  as  the  dramatic*  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action. 
The  first  of  these  enacts  that,  to  keep  up  the  illusion,  everything  represented 
iu  the  drama  should  happen  on  the  same  day;  the  second,  that,  for  the  same 
reason,  all  the  actions  should  take  place  on  the  same  spot,  or  very  nearly  so ; 
and  the  third,  that  there  slK/iild  be  only .  one  mail!,  action  or  plot,  to  which 
everything  else  must  be  subser\ient.  This  difference  between  th§  Greek  and  the 
English  drama  is  not,  howev^,  merely  formal ;  it  arises  from  .the  very  different 
principles  on  which  ancient  Greek  and  modern  English,  or  rather  Gothic,  art  is 
based.  A  writer  quoted  by  Hazlitt  says,  that  the  great-  dilVerence  between 
ancient  and  modern  poetry  is,  that  the  one  is  the  poetry  of  form,  the  other  of 
effecu  'The  one  seeks  to  identify  the  imitation  with  the  external  object — clings 
to  it,  is  inseparable  from  it — is  either  that  or  nothing  ;  the  other  seeks  to  identify 
!  ae.  original  impression  with  whatever  ol.'^e,  within  the  range  of  thought  or  feeling, 
can  strength im,  relieve,  adorn,  or  elevate  it.  Hence  the  severity  and  simplicity 
of  the  Greek  tragedy,  which  excluded  everything  foreign  or  unnecessary  to  the ; 
subject.     Hence  the  Unidcs.'  "^ 


ORIGIN  AI^D  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


it.  maj  not  be  deemed  out  of  place  to  montion  that  the  ancient  theatres  were 
mmease  semicircular  buikLugs,  open  to  the  sky,, the  base  of  the  semicircle  being 
occupied  by  the  stage,  and  the  seats  risiiig  in  tiers  in  the  forui;  of  an  amphi- 
theatre, and  often  capable  of  containing  thousands  of  spectators.  The  actors 
always  wore  masks  suited  to  the  characters  they  represented,  tlie  mouths  of 
tl:e  masks  being  constructed  on  tlie  priiiciple  of  the  sj^eaking-trumpet,  through 
•which  the  voices  of  the  performers  soi.inded  in  a  sort  of  loud  chant,  which  was 
'vecessary  in  order  that  their  speeches  might  be  heard  throughout  the  immense 
Liiiiding.  Hence  the  origin  of  the  phrase  dramatis  i)crson/s  (t'rom  the  Latin  jser, 
ihrough',  and  sono,  to  sotmd),  i.e.  persons,  literally  arid  originally  inasks  of  the 
'  rama,  each  character  having  its  own  particular  mask.  SaoL  is  t\u:  origin  of 
person,  which  literally  m.eans  a  '  speaking-trumpet.' 

The  E^mans  borrowed  their  drama,  which  is  mainly  of   the  comic  ordur. 

chiefly  from  the  Greeks.     The  Greek  and  Koman  drama  flourished  down  to  -i 

considerable  time  aft(;r  the  ChrLstian  era,  and  was  so  extremely  popular  in  all 

the  provinces  and  colonies,  and  was  Ijitterly  of  such  a  licentious  nature,  that  the 

authorities  of  the  Christian  Church  deemed  it  necessary  to  threaten  with  severe 

censure  nil  those  who  frequented  the  theatres,  and  ultimately  persuaded  some 

f  the  Emperors  to  iisue  edicts  against  the  performance  of  stage-plays.     But 

!  either  church  censures  nor  imperial  edicts  were  found  sufficient  to  eradicate 

,  orr;  the  people  the  i'lborn  love  of  dramatic  representation  ;  and  therefore  the 

'  'ergy  determined  to  direct  this  passion  into  what  they  deemed  a  more  proper 

luumel, — an  examp'.e  which  it  would  be  wise  in  our  modern  dergy  to  follow 

C)fteaer  than  they  do.     The  modem  European,  like  the  ancient  Greek  drama, 

owes  its  origin  to  religion.     The  first  known  play  on  a  religious  subject,  of 

which  sofne  fr^ments  in  Greek  iambics  are  still  extant,  is  said  to  have  been 

Written  by  Eisekiel,  a  Jew,   shortly  after  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,      It 

is  taken   from  the  Exodus,   or   the   departure   of  the  Israelites   from  Egypt 

under  their  leader  Moses,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Ezekiel  for 

the  purpose  of  animating  his  brethren  with  the  hopes  of  a  future  deliverance 

frc>r.'    their  captivity  under   the   conduct   of    a   new  Moses.      The   principal 

char;  cters  are,  Moses,  Sapphora,  and  '  God  from  the  bus]i..'     Moses  deUvers  th<j 

prologue  in  a  speech  of  sixty  lines,  and  his  rod  is  turned  into  a  serpent  on 

i  :i  srage.     The  first  known  Ghriscian  writer  of  plays  was  Apollinarius,  Bishop 

■'  l.:i,odicea  ixi  the  fourth  century  A.D.,  who  is  said  to  have  tuxned  some  of  the 

abjtcts  of  tlie  OldTestameu!;  into  plays.     The  oldest  play  extant  on  a  ChristLin 

iibject  is  written  in  Greek,  entitled  Ghristos  Paschon,  '  The  Passion  of  Christ,' 

.  ud  is   somewhat  doubtfully  attributed  to.  Gregory  Nazianzen,  Patriarch  and 

' '  chbishop  of  Constantinople  in  the  fourth  century  :  it  is  written  on  the  model 

[  Euripides,  and  is;  said  to  have  been,  intended  to  supersede  the  representation 

Oi  the  works  of  the  Greek  dramatists.     In  this  play,  which  is  a  poor  production, 

the  Virgin  Mary  makes  her  fii-st  appearance  on  the  stage,  and  is  representad 

nil  mtmy  weaknesses  and  as  iudidging  in  most  undignified  and  uncliristian, 

-L,...iguage,    "We  heax  no  mora  of  miracle  plays,  as  these  rehgious  dramas  are 

called,  until  the  tenth  century,  when  Eoswitha,  a  mm  in  the  convent  of  Gan- 

dersheim  in  Saxony,  wrote  six  plays  in  Latin  on  subjects  connected  mth  the 

lives  of  the  Saints,  which  were  intended,  however,  solely  for  the  amusement  and 

' 'istructioxi  of  her  sister  nuns.     Although  this  is  the  only  instance  on  rec 

J'  the  performance  of  religious   dramas  at  such  an  early  period,  still  it  i 

;  vobable  that  the  practice  of  representing  plays  of  this  kind  in  churches  and 

rt-ligious  houses  by  the  clergy  for  their  f.-",-'^  oT>ni^r. -..^  r,<-  ip^y  not  have  been 

I  ucommon  even  at  this  early  period. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


It  is  known  that  from  the  time  of  Pope  Gregory  the  Great  (the  eleventh 
century),  it  became  quite  common  for  the  clergy  to  commemorate  the  passion 
of  Christ  by  processions,  choruses,  chants,  and  dialogues,  at  first  only  in  the 
churches,  the  laity  taking  no  part  in  them.  A  writer  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes  of  July  1,  1868,  says  that  it  is  in  the  mass,  of  which  the  dramatic 
character  became  most  distinctly  marked  from  the  time  of  Gregory  the  Great, 
that  the  most  recent  research  finds  the  germ  of  the  modern  drama.  Ere  long 
the  gratification  of  the  eye  as  well  as  the  ear  was  ministered  to  in  these 
periodical  representations.  By  the  side  of  Christ  and  His  disciples  were  to 
be  seen,  figuring  before  the  altar  and  in  the  procession,  Adam  and  Eve  bearing 
the  tree  of  knowledge,  John  the  forerunner  and  his  lamb,  Judas  and  his  bag, 
the  devil  and  the  executioner,  and  ere  long  the  patron  saint  of  the  locality 
on  horseback,  dragging  after  him  some  vanquished  monster.  Naturally  this 
became  not  the  least  agreeable  part  of  the  service  to  the  faithful ;  and  the 
clergy,  perceiving  this,  soon  began  to  represent  in  the  churches  a  sort  of  tableaux 
vivants  of  the  chief  scenes  in  biblical  history,  first  from  the  New  Testament 
— as  the  miracle  of  Cana,  that  of  the  loaves  and  fishes,  the  Lord's  Supper,  the 
curing  of  the  blind,  the  resurrection  of  Lazarus,  and  the  more  popular  parables, 
such  as  those  of  the  prodigal  son  and  the  fooUsh  virgins.  It  could  be  shown 
that  in  France  these  vast  representations  embraced  the  whole  of  biblical  history. 
Although  these  exhibitions  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  the  origin  of  the  religious 
drama — religious  plays  having  been  privately  represented  at  an  earlier  period — 
still  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  tended  in  a  great  degree,  along  with  other 
influences,  to  convert  it  into  a  regular  and  popular  institution,  fostering  and 
sanctioning  with  the  Chmxh's  approval  the  natural  love  of  the  people  for 
dramatic  representation. 

Another  powerful  influence  tending  in  the  same  direction,  and  which,  working 
along  with  and  modifying  the  above,  gave  to  a  certain  extent  the  religious 
drama  its  ultimate  form,  was  the  Feast  of  Fools  and  the  Feast  of  the  Ass, 
instituted  by  Theophylact,  Patriarch  of  Constantinople,  about  990,  in  order, 
according  to  Hone,  to  wean  the  people  from  the  ancient  spectacles,  particularly 
the  bacchanalian  and  calendary  solemnities,  on  the  principle,  we  suppose,  of 
similia  similibus  curantur.  These  feasts,  the  orgies  connected  with  which  lasted 
from  Christmas  to  the  end  of  January,  rapidly  became  highly  popular,  and 
were  celebrated,  in  France  at  least,  in  the  maddest,  most  sacrilegious,  and  most 
licentious  manner.  The  most  sacred  persons  and  offices  were  burlesqued,  and 
the  churches  were  made  the  scenes  of  the  coarsest  buffoonery ;  indeed,  during 
the  continuance  of  these  feasts,  the  people  seemed  to  be  so  many  devils  let  loose 
for  the  purpose  of  holding  hellish  revelry,  and  making  game  of  all  that  is 
generally  considered  sacred.  '  The  Feast  of  Fools,'  says  a  Avriter  in  Blachwood^s 
Magazine  for  December  1869,  '  was  carried  on  with  the  utmost  licence  of  action 
and  language,  the  maskers  singing  obscene  songs,  taking  lascivious  postures, 
playing  dice  and  eating  sausages  and  puddings  on  the  altar,  wearing  spectacles 
with  orange-peel  in  place  of  glasses,  and  mocking  the  practice  of  incensing  by 
burning  an  old  shoe  or  excrement  in  the  censer,  and  incensing  the  priest  with  its 
smoke.  The  mock  office  being  finished,  they  leaped  and  danced  through  the 
church  like  madmen,  sometimes  stripping  themselves  qviite  naked  in  their  dances. 
They  then  recited  a  farce  in  the  atrium  or  cemetery  of  the  church,  where  they 
shaved  their  heads  and  arranged  their  beards.'  The  Feast  of  the  Ass,  as  cele- 
brated in  France,  consisted  almost  entirely  of  dramatic  show.  The  clergy, 
habited  in  different  vestments  to  represent  the  ancient  prophets  and  other 
celebrated  characters,  including  John  the  Baptist,  Virgil,  Balaam — in  honour  of 


xvi  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF  ' 

whose  ass  it  was  instituted — Nebuchadnezzar,  and  others,  moved  in  procession 
through  the  body  of  the  church  chanting  versicles,  and  conversing  in  character 
on  the  nativity  of  Christ,  till  they  came  into  the  choir.  At  Rouen  they  per- 
formed the  miracle  of  the  furnace :  Nebuchadnezzar  spoke,  the  sibyl  appeared 
at  the  last,  then  an  anthem  was  sung,  which  concluded  the  ceremony.  The 
Feast  of  the  Ass,  as  it  was  performed  at  Beauvais  every  year  on  the  14th  of 
January,  commemorated  the  flight  of  the  Virgin  into  Egypt  with  the  infant  Jesus, 
To  represent  the  Virgin,  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  city,  with  a  pretty  child 
in  her  arms,  was  placed  on  an  ass  richly  caparisoned.  Thus  mounted,  she  pre- 
ceded the  bishop  and  his  clergy,  all  marching  in  procession  through  the  streets 
to  the  Church  of  St.  Stephen.  There  they  ranged  themselves  on  the  right  side 
of  the  altar,  when  mass  Avas  performed,  the  various  parts  of  the  service  being 
terminated  by  the  burden  Hin-han,  to  imitate  the  braying  of  an  ass.  At  the 
conclusion  of  the  service,  the  officiating  priest,  instead  of  saying  Ita  missa  est, 
repeated  Hin-han  three  times,  and  during  the  service  various  hymns  were  sung 
in  praise  of  the  ass.  These  facts  prove,  that  even  so  early  as  the  eleventh 
century,  exhibitions  of  a  dramatic  nature,  connected  with  Old  and  Ncav  Testament 
subjects,  were  quite  common  in  the  west  of  Europe,  and  that  the  people  took 
part  in  them  both  as  spectators  and  actors.  '  Originally,'  says  the  writer  above 
quoted,  *in  the  church  dramas  proper,  as  distinguished  from  the  Asinaria,  the 
language  employed  was  Latin.  But  toward  the  close  of  the  eleventh  century 
Latin  began  to  give  way  to  the  popular  tongue ;  and  in  a  dialogue  between  the 
wise  and  foolish  virgins,  written  in  France  in  the  eleventh  century,  the  Proven9al 
dialect  is  adopted.  ...  As  the  language  of  the  people  superseded  the  Latin,  so 
did  the  wild,  irregular,  and  undisciplined  sentiment  of  the  people  overcome  the 
restrictions  of  the  Church,  and  run  riot  into  licence  and  folly.'  To  such  a 
scandalous  extent  was  the  farcical  element  in  these  exhibitions  carried,  that  the 
Church  authorities,  who  themselves  had  set  the  stone  rolling,  deemed  it  necessary 
to  interfere,  and  endeavoured  by  edicts  and  bulls  at  length  to  piirge  or  put  a  stop 
to  them.  But  this  was  impossible.  The  clergy,  however,  gradually  withdreAv 
from  taking  any  prominent  part  in  them  ;  and  finally  the  religious  orgies  were 
prohibited  altogether  from  being  performed  in  churches.  On  the  withdrawal  of 
the  clergy,  societies  of  laymen  were  formed  for  the  purpose  of  representing 
plays  founded  on  biblical  subjects,  such  as  the  '  Fraternity  of  the  Gonfalone,' 
founded  in  Rome  in  1264,  and  the  'Brothers  of  the  Passion'  at  Paris. 

On  the  whole,  consistently  with  the  most  recent  researches,  the  above  is 
the  most  satisfactory  way  to  account  for  the  origin,  or  perhaps  revival,  of  the 
strictly  modern  religious  drama, — the  precursor,  in  England  at  least,  of  what  is 
known  as  the  regular  drama.  Apparently  it  was  in  France  that  it  received  the 
strongest  impidse,  and  soonest  became  established  as  a  popular  institution ;  but 
by  the  fourteenth  century  the  representation  of  miracle  plays  and  mysteries  had 
become  common  over  nearly  the  whole  of  Europe :  indeed,  the  Church  itself,  as 
a  writer  remarks,  might  be  said  to  have  become  a  theatre.  It  was  mainly  at 
the  principal  Church  festivals  that  these  dramas  were  enacted ;  and  it  is  worthy 
of  notice  how  considerable  a  resemblance,  in  this  and  other  respects,  the  origin 
and  early  history  of  the  modern  European  religious  drama  bear  to  those  of  the 
Greek  drama.  Each  in  its  origin  formed  an  integral  part  of  the  religious 
services  connected  with  the  commemoration  of  the  sufferings  and  triumph  of 
One  whom  his  worshippers  considered  their  greatest  benefactor,  and  for  a  long 
time  each  continued  to  be  intimately  associated  with  the  festivals  of  the  religious 
institution  out  of  whose  form  of  worship  it  was  developed. 

Various  other  causes  are  given  by  Dibdin,  the  uncritical  historian  of  the 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xvii 

stage,  and  others,  as  contributing  to  the  origin  of  the  earliest  form  of  the 
modern  drama.  About  the  time  that  it  took  its  rise,  the  mad  furor  connected 
with  the  Crusades  was  at  its  height,  and  everything  and  everybody  connected 
with  religion  enjoyed  the  greatest  popularity.  The  people  were  never  wearied 
of  hearing  the  highly  coloured  stories  narrated  by  the  pilgrims  and  palmers 
of  their  adventures  on  their  pious  journeys.  Menestrier,  a  French  antiquary, 
quoted  in  Bayle's  Dictionary,  ascribes  the  origin  of  the  mystery  to  the  habit  of 
the  pilgrims  Avho  had  returned  from  the  Holy  Land,  the  shrine  St.  James  of 
Compostella,  and  other  holy  places,  composing  songs  on  their  travels,  mixing  them 
with  a  recital  of  the  life  and  death  of  the  Son  of  God,  or  of  the  last  judgment, 
miracles  of  saints,  etc.  These  pilgrims,  we  are  told,  who  went  in  companies,  and 
who  took  their  stand  in  streets  and  public  places,  where  they  sang  with  their  staves 
in  their  hands,  and  their  hats  and  mantles  covered  with  shells  and  painted  images 
of  divers  colours,  formed  a  kind  of  spectacle  which  pleased  and  excited  the 
piety  of  some  citizens  of  Paris  to  raise  a  fund  for  purchasing  a  proper  place  to 
erect  a  theatre,  in  which  to  represent  these  mysteries  on  holy  days,  as  well  for 
the  instruction  of  the  people  as  for  their  diversion.  It  appears  also  to  have  been 
the  custom  of  the  merchants  who  frequented  the  many  fairs  held  throughout 
Europe  from  the  time  of  Charlemagne,  to  be  accompanied  with  jugglers, 
minstrels,  and  buffoons,  who  used  every  art  to  inveigle  the  people  to  become 
purchasers  of  their  masters'  wares.  These  exhibitions  soon  became  very  popular, 
and  for  various  reasons  were  regarded  with  disfavour  by  the  clergy,  who,  when 
they  saw  they  could  not  extinguish  them,  substituted  in  their  stead  dramatic 
exhibitions  of  a  religious  character. 

It  appears  to  us,  then,  that  one  might  venture  to  assert  that,  from  the  time  the 
Greek  drama  was  instituted  by  Thespis,  down  to  the  present  time,  dramatic 
representation  in  one  form  or  other  has  been  kept  alive  in  Europe.  We  have 
seen  that  at  a  very  early  period  of  the  Christian  era,  the  clergy  attempted  to 
substitute  plays  of  a  religious  character  for  those  pagan  dramas  which  they 
deemed  must  exercise  an  evil  influence  on  the  people.  What  little  record  we 
have,  seems  to  authorize  a  presumption  that  the  drama  was  kept  alive  in  monas- 
teries and  convents,  where  it  was  not  unusual  to  represent  subjects  of  a  religious 
character,  and  even  the  plays  of  the  Latin  comedians ;  for  we  are  told  that  Nun 
Koswitha,  in  the  tenth  century,  wrote  the  religious  plays  formerly  referred  to 
as  a  substitute  for  the  comedies  of  Terence,  which  were  favourites  with  the  nims. 
But,  as  we  have  already  said,  what  especially  gave  rise  to  the  modern  mystery  and 
miracle  play,  was  the  more  dramatic  character  assumed  by  the  mass  in  the  eleventh 
century,  combined  with  the  farcical  exhibitions  connected  with  the  celebration  of 
the  Feast  of  Fools  and  the  Feast  of  the  Ass  ;  the  other  causes  mentioned  above  no 
doubt  contributing  to  render  them  more  and  more  popular  and  common. 

As  the  reader  will  have  perceived,  what  we  have  written  above  concerning 
the  origin  of  the  religious  drama  of  the  middle  ages  refers  chiefly  to  France  : 
we  have  no  direct  means  of  knowing  what  were  the  earliest  causes  at  work  in 
England  in  the  same  direction,  althoi;gh  doubtless  most  of  the  above  statements 
would  apply,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  to  nearly  all  the  Catholic  countries 
of  Europe.  The  main  reason,  however,  why  we  have  been  so  particular  in  set- 
ting forth  the  influences  at  work  in  France  which  tended  to  originate  the 
religious  drama,  is,  that  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  from  that  country  the 
earliest  miracle  plays  were  imported  into  England.  There  is  no  record  of  any- 
thing which  could  in  any  strict  sense  be  called  a  drama  having  existed  among 
our  stolid  ancestors  the  Anglo-Saxons.  Their  gleemen,  like  the  ancient  Greek 
rhapsodists,  went  about  among  the  palaces  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  princes,  reciting 


xviii  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 

or  chanting  the  deeds  of  their  heroes,  and  no  doubt,  like  their  prototypes, 
would  put  as  much  action  into  their  recitations  as  possible ;  but  the  idea  of 
dramatic  representation  apparently  never  occurred  to  them.  Still  it  is  possible, 
nay  probable,  especially  in  the  later  period  of  Anglo-Saxon  domination,  that, 
as  in  the  religious  houses  of  the  Continent,  religious  and  even  profane  plays 
were  performed  by  the  monks  and  nuns  for  their  own  amusement :  for  there 
was  a  considerable  amount  of  good  scholarship  among  the  Anglo-Saxon  clergy. 
This,  however,  is  mere  conjecture.  It  would  be  a  waste  of  space  and  time  to 
go  back  to  the  Celtic  period. 

The   scanty  records  we   have  concur  with  probability  in   authorizing  us 
to  assign  to  the  French  the  introduction  of  the  earliest  form  of  the  modern 
drama  into  England.     The  Norman  Conquest  (1066)  took  place  just  about  the 
time  when  tlio  various   causes  above  referred  to  were   conspiring  to   give  a 
regular  form  to,  and  render  popular,  the  religious  drama  or  miracle  play.     That 
event,  we  know,  made  French  influence  for  the  time  supreme  in  England :  all 
offices  of  any  importance  were  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the  conquered  Anglo- 
Saxons,  and  filled  Avith  the  French  followers  of  William ;  and  among  others,  all 
the  important  offices  connected  with  the  Church  were  speedily  filled  with  French 
ecclesiastics.     As  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  both  clergy  and  laity  would  bring 
with  them  from  France  their  recently  formed  tastes  for  religious  dramatic  repre- 
sentations, we  might  naturally  expect  to  find  the  religious  drama  soon  becoming 
an  English  institution.     Facts  show  that  this  was  actually  the  case.     According 
tp  Mr.   Collier,   the  learned  historian   of  the  English   stage,    '  no  country  of 
Europe,   since  the  revival  of  letters,  has  been  able  to  produce  any  notice  of 
theatrical  performances  of  so  early  a  date  as  England.'     Matthew  Paris,  writing 
about  1240,  informs  us  that  Geoffrey,  who  afterwards  became  Abbot  of  St. 
Albans,  was  at  first  brought  from  Normandy  to  teach  the  school  there,  but  that, 
in  consequence  of  some  delay,  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Dunstable ;  and  while 
there  he  brought  out  the  play  of  St.  Catherine,  borrowing   copes  from  the 
neighbouring  monastery  of  St.  Albans  for  the  purpose  of  decorating  those  who 
took  part  in  the  play.     As  Geoffrey  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  Abbot  of  St. 
Albans  in   1119,  it  is   certain  that  the  above  performances  must  have  taken 
place  before  that  date;  Warton  says  about  the  year  1110,  and  Collier  thinks 
possibly  even  earlier.     According  to  Bulseus,  who  refers  to  the  performance  of 
the  play  in  his  History  of  the  University  of  Paris,  the  above  performance  was  no 
novelty,  sed  de  consuetudine  magistrorum  et  scholarum — '  but  was  according  to  the 
custom  of  masters  and  scholars.'     The  performance  of  miracle  plays,  however,  is 
referred  to  by  a  much  earlier  writer  than  Matthew  Paris,  viz.  William  Fitz- 
stephen,  the  biographer  of  Thomas  a  Becket,  who,  as  he  speaks  of  what  came 
within  his  own   observation,  is  a  witness  of  the  highest  value.     Fitzstephen 
probably  wrote  about  the  year  1180;  and  in  giving  a  description  of  the  city 
of  London,  he  tells  us  that  in  that  city  holy  plays  were  enacted — '  represen- 
tations of  those  miracles  which  were  wrought  by  the  holy  confessors,  or  of  the 
sufferings  in   which  the  martyrs  so  signally  displayed  their  fortitude.'     This 
latter  statement  shows  that,  so  early  as  the  twelfth  century,  the  representation  of 
religious  plays  was  quite  a  common  thing  in  London  ;  and  from  the  former,  we 
might  infer  that  they  were  occasionally  to  be  seen  even  in  the  provinces. 

The  allusions  to  the  performance  of  these  religious  plays  are  exceedingly 
rare  until  we  come  down  to  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries ;  but  the  few 
notices  that  are  to  be  met  with  warrant  us  in  inferring  that,  during  the  course 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  they  had  become  a  recognised  and  regularly  estab- 
lished amusement  in  England.     Under  the  year  1258  there  is  a  passage  in  the 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xix 

Annates  Bwtonenses  forbidding  the  performance  of  plays  by  histriones,  which 
probably  here  means  strolling  players,  who  were  no  doubt  laymen,  for  as  yet 
the  clergy  were  not  only  the  composers,  but  the  only  authorized  actors  of  these 
plays.  In  an  Anglo-French  poem  entitled  Manuel  de  Peche,  generally  ascribed  to 
Bishop  Grossetete,  who  lived  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  there  is  a 
minute  account  of  the  authors  of  miracle  plays,  their  subjects,  and  the  circum- 
stances under  which  they  were  usually  performed.  The  institution  of  the  festival 
of  Corpus  Christi  in  1264  appears  to  have  given  a  strong  impulse  to  the  more 
general  performance  of  miracle  plays, — one  of  the  chief  features  of  that  festival, 
even  at  the  present  day,  being  pageants  and  processions.  It  is  supposed  that  four 
years  after  the  institution  of  this  festival,  i.e.  about  1268,  the  custom  of  perform- 
ing plays  in  the  streets  of  large  towns  was  introduced  into  this  country ;  and 
Collier  and  other  authorities  think  that  it  was  about  this  date  that  the  annual 
representation  of  miracle  plays  during  Whitsuntide  was  instituted  at  Chester. 
'  Exhibitions  of  a  similar  kind  took  place  at  Coventry,  York,  Newcastle-upon- 
Tyne,  Durham,  Lancaster,  Leeds,  Preston,  Bristol,  Witney,  Cambridge,  Man- 
ningtree,  and  other  places  ;  and  it  may  be  conjectured  that  they  were  originally 
introduced  into  large  towns  nearly  contemporaneously,  for  the  purpose  of  dis- 
seminating a  certain  degree  of  knowledge  of  Scripture  history.'  During  the 
fourteenth  century  frequent  allusions  are  made  to  these  performances  in  contem- 
porary poets,  chronicles,  and  statutes.  They  are  spoken  of  in  Piers  Plowman's 
Ci'eede,  and  Chaucer  refers  to  them  again  and  again,  attending  'plays  of  miracles' 
being  one  of  the  amusements  indulged  in  during  Lent  by  the  lusty  Wife  of  Bath. 
In  the  latter  part  of  the  fourteenth  century  the  choristers  and  scholars  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  petitioned  Eichard  ii.  to  prohibit  certain  persons,  probably  laymen, 
'  from  acting  the  history  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  to  the  great  prejudice 
of  the  clergy  of  the  Church,  who  had  expended  considerable  sums  for  a  public 
representation  of  plays  founded  upon  that  portion  of  Scripture  at  the  ensuing 
Christmas ;'  and  in  1391,  according  to  Stow,  the  parish  clerks  of  London  per- 
formed a  play  at  Skinner's  Well,  near  Smithfield,  in  presence  of  the  king, 
queen,  and  nobles,  which  lasted  three  days. 

As  we  are  more  concerned  here  with  the  literature  of  the  drama  than  with 
the  history  of  the  stage,  it  is  iinnecessary  to  pursue  this  part  of  the  subject 
further.  Sufficient  evidence  has  been  adduced  to  show  that  the  earliest  form  of  the 
British  drama  is  nearly  as  old  as  the  Norman  Conquest ;  that  the  custom  of  re- 
presenting miracle  plays  at  certain  Church  festivals,  and  on  other  great  occasions, 
gradually  spread  itself  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land :  the  custom  was 
almost  as  universal  as  the  celebration  of  the  Church  festivals  themselves.  During 
the  fifteenth  century  these  exhibitions  had  made  such  progress,  that  nearly  every 
large  city  had  its  own  company  of  performers,  generally  composed  of  the  various 
trade  corporations ;  and  the  king  himself,  and  many  of  the  nobility,  kept  among 
their  retainers  complete  companies  of  players,  who  often  went  about  from  place 
to  place  giving  performances.  They  continued  to  be  as  common  and  popular 
as  ever  during  the  sixteenth  century,  even  after  the  regular  drama  had  been 
developed,  and  did  not  cease  to  be  represented  in  England  till  at  least  the  begin- 
ning of  the  seventeenth  century.  Miracle  plays  have  never  entirely  ceased  to  be 
represented  on  the  Continent,  and  still  continue  to  be  acted  in  Germany,  Spain, 
and  Italy.  Some  years  ago  an  article  appeared  in  Macmillan's  Magazine.,  giving 
a  minute  description  of  a  most  elaborate  and  well-acted  religious  drama  on  the 
Passion,  which  was  represented  in  the  open  air  in  a  most  decorous  manner  at 
Oberammergau,  in  Bavaria,  in  the  year  1860.  This  representation  takes  place 
every  ten  years,  in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  made  by  the  inhabitants  in  the  17th 


XX  ORIGIN  AND  EARL  V  HISTOR  V  OF 

century.  In  All  the  Yea?'  Hound  is  an  interesting  description  of  one  on  the 
same  subject,  wliich  took  place  at  Brixlegg,  in  the  Tyrol,  in  August  1868.  There 
were  300  performers  and  sixteen  acts  :  the  play  began  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  an  hour  for  refreshment,  lasted  till  four  in  the  after- 
noon.    The  most  recent  English  religious  drama  is  Byron's  Cain,  a  Mystery. 

As  we  have  already  remarked,  miracle  plays  originated  with  the  clergy;  and 
they  were  for  a  long  time  mostly  written  and  performed  by  them  as  a  part  of 
the  celebration  of  Church  festivals,  of  which  they  were  a  regular  adjunct  doAvn 
to  the  time  of  the  Reformation.  Even  after  the  corporations  of  the  toAvns  and 
choristers  of  the  churches  had  become  the  regular  performers  in  these  religious 
dramas,  which  practice  probably  began  to  be  common  during  the  fifteenth  century, 
there  is  evidence  that,  so  late  as  about  1540,  the  clergy  occasionally  took  part  in 
the  performances,  probably  in  the  country  districts ;  and  so  long  at  least  as  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  maintained  its  ground,  they  seem  generally  to  have  acted 
as  superintendents  and  directors.  This  we  need  be  neither  surprised  nor  shocked 
at,  if  we  bear  in  mind  the  origin  and  object  of  these  religious  plays:  they  arose,  as 
we  have  seen,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  service,  some 
parts  of  which  even  at  the  present  day  are  of  a  highly  dramatic  character ;  and 
whether  or  not  the  clergy  had  this  object  in  view  in  encouraging  them,  they  were 
the  only  means  within  the  reach  of  the  great  majority  of  the  people  of  obtaining  a 
knowledge  of  the  events  of  Scripture  history.  No  doubt  these  exhibitions  gave 
rise  to  many  disorders,  and  the  language  of  the  plays  themselves  was  often  very 
coarse,  and  even  what  we  should  call  blasphemous  ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  superintendence  of  the  clergy,  these  evils  would  have  been 
immeasurably  aggravated :  witness  the  ribaldry  and  licentiousness  that  charac- 
terized the  Feasts  of  Fools  and  of  the  Ass  mentioned  above.  Indeed,  Collier 
supposes  that  certain  great  disorders,  '  revellings,  drunkenness,  shouts,  songs,  and 
other  insolences,'  which  took  place  at  York  during  the  representation  of  the  Corpus 
Christ!  plays  previous  to  1426,  arose  from  the  non-interference  of  the  clergy. 
These  miracle  plays,  the  manner  of  their  representation,  and  all  their  accompani- 
ments and  consequences,  were  quite  in  keeping  with  the  character  of  the  people 
and  the  times,  and  were  no  outcome  of  a  spirit  of  irreverence  or  irreligion :  their 
character  arose  from  the  very  materialistic  notions  of  religion  that  then  pre- 
vailed ;  and  we  need  be  no  more  shocked  at  the  people  of  those  times  indulging 
in  such  amusements,  than  we  need  be  at  an  uncultured  hind  of  the  present  day 
preferring  the  tumbling,  grimaces,  and  rude  jests  of  a  clown  to  the  performance 
of  Shakespeare's  Hamlet.  It  is  within  the  memory  of  some  still  living,  that  scenes 
not  unlike  what  attended  the  performance  of  these  miracle  plays,  were  the  usual 
concomitants  of  the  celebration  of  the  Communion  in  many  of  our  Scotch  country 
districts :  any  one  may  read  of  them  in  Burns's  Holy  Fair. 

As  the  clergy  Avere  the  originators,  and  for  long  the  only  performers,  in  these 
holy  plays,  so  it  is  certain  that  churches  and  monasteries  were  the  theatres  in 
which  they  were  at  first  represented.  We  formerly  mentioned  that  the  abuses 
which  arose  from  the  performance  of  those  dramas  were  carried  to  such  a  height, 
that  various  edicts  were  issued  by  the  Church  authorities,  forbidding  the  clergy 
to  take  part  in  them,  and  prohibiting  the  churches  from  being  used  as  theatres 
for  their  performance.  In  the  reign  of  Alexander  ii.  of  Scotland,  penalties  were 
decreed  against  all  players  who  desecrated  by  their  performances  either  the  inside 
of  the  church  or  the  churchyard ;  and  in  a  provincial  synod  held  at  Worcester  in 
]  240,  the  clergy  were  forbidden  to  appear  at  such  exhibitions.  The  Manuel  de 
Peche\  mentioned  above,  expressly  mentions  both  the  interior  and  the  cemeteries 
of  churches  as  the  scenes  of  such  performances.     Even  long  after  it  had  become 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


customary  to  exhibit  miracle  plays  on  scaffolds  or  platforms  constructed  for  the 
purpose,  and  erected  in  the  open  air,  churches  were  occasionally  made  use  of 
as  theatres.  So  late  as  1542,  Bishop  Bonner  issued  a  proclamation  to  the  clergy 
of  his  diocese,  prohibiting  '  all  manner  of  common  plays,  games,  or  interludes,  to 
be  played,  set  forth,  or  declared  within  their  churches  and  chapels.'  From  a 
tract  published  in  1572,  quoted  by  Mr.  Collier,  the  practice  seems  to  have  been 
not  altogether  given  up  even  then.  The  author,  speaking  of  the  manner  in  Avhich 
the  clergy  neglect  their  duties,  says :  '  He  again  posteth  it  (the  service)  over 
as  fast  as  he  can  gallop :  for  either  he  hath  two  places  to  serve,  or  else  there  are 
some  games  to  be  played  in  the  afternoon,  ...  or  an  interlude  to  he  played ; 
and  if  no  place  else  can  be  gotten,  it  must  be  done  in  the  church.' 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  at  a  very  early  period,  in  the  large  towns  the 
clergy  ceased  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  getting  up  and  representation  of 
these  religious  plays,  the  task  being  taken  up  by  various  corporations.  We 
have  seen  that  in  London  the  corporation  of  parish-clerks  exhibited  a  miracle 
play  at  Skinner's  Well ;  but  in  most  instances  it  was  the  trading  companies 
of  the  various  cities  where  these  plays  were  represented  that  took  upon  them- 
selves the  duty  of  management,  each  guild  undertaking  a  portion  of  the 
performance,  and  sustaining  a  share  in  the  expense.  In  the  case  of  the  Chester 
plays,  for  example,  it  Avas  the  duty  of  the  tanners  to  represent  The  Fall  of 
Lucifer;  the  drapers  undertaking  to  set  forth  The  Creation  and  Fall;  the  water- 
drawers  of  the  Dee,  NoaKs  Flood;  The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents  devolving  upon 
the  goldsmiths ;  The  Passion  of  Christ  falling  to  the  lot  of  the  fleshers,  bowyers, 
coopers,  and  strangers ;  and  The  Crucifixion  to  the  ironmongers.  From  the 
number  of  actors  engaged,  the  elaborate  nature  of  the  '  properties,'  and  the 
amount  of  time  consumed,  the  corporations  must  have  been  put  to  considerable 
expense  in  these  representations. 

At  an  early  period  the  representations  seem  at  times  to  have  taken  place  in 
the  open  air.  The  Manuel  de  Peche^  Avritten  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  alluded  to  above,  particularly  reprobates  the  performance  of  miracle 
plays  '  in  the  streets  of  cities ; '  and  it  is  well  knoAvn  that,  when  the  acting 
of  these  plays  devolved  upon  the  city  trade  corporations,  the  performances 
always  took  place  in  the  streets,  attracting  immense  crowds  from  all  the  districts 
round  about.  The  stage  was  generally  a  scaffold,  which  in  its  most  perfectly 
developed  form  consisted  of  three  platforms  or  storeys ;  but  on  this  point  we 
shall  take  the  liberty  of  quoting  from  Mr.  Collier,  still  the  greatest  authority 
on  aU  matters  connected  with  the  early  British  drama.  'Miracle  plays,'  he 
says,  '  were  acted  on  temporary  erections  of  timber,  indifferently  called  scaffolds, 
stages,  and  pageants ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  some  instances  they 
were  placed  upon  wheels,  in  order  that  they  might  be  removed  to  various 
parts  of  large  towns  or  cities,  and  the  plays  exhibited  in  succession.  The 
testimony  of  Archdeacon  Eogers,  who  wrote  his  account  of  Chester  prior  to 
the  death  of  Elizabeth,  seems  decisive  on  this  point,  as  far  as  the  perform- 
ances there  are  concerned.  He  says  that  the  scaffold  consisted  of  two  rooms,  a 
higher  and  a  lower :  in  the  lower  the  performers  attired  themselves ;  and  in  the 
higher  they  acted,  which  was  open  at  the  top  in  order  that  all  might  be  able  to 
see  the  exhibition.  The  same  authority  would  lead  to  the  conclusion  that  only 
one  scaffold,  stage,  or  pageant  was  present  at  the  same  time  in  the  same  place ; 
and  doubtless  such  was  the  fact,  according  to  the  arrangement  of  the  plays  to 
which  Archdeacon  Eogers  refers.  It  is  indisputable,  however,  that  the  Chester 
miracle  plays,  as  they  exist  in  the  British  Museum,  could  not  have  been  so 
represented.     Some  of  the  pieces  require  the  employment  of  two,  and  even  of 


xxu 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


three  scaffolds,  independent  of  other  contrivances :  the  street  also  must  have 
been  used,  as  several  of  the  characters  enter  and  go  out  on  horseback.  In  the 
Coventry  Plays,  "  the  place  "  and  "  the  mid-place  "  are  mentioned ;  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt,  from  the  terms  of  some  of  the  stage  directions,  that  two,  three, 
and  even  four  scaffolds  were  erected  round  a  centre — the  performers  proceeding, 
as  occasion  required,  from  one  to  the  other,  across  "  the  mid-place."  In  one 
Widkirk  play  Cain  is  exhibited  at  plough  with  a  team  of  horses ;  and  in  another 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  story  that  something  like  the  interior  of  a 
cottage  should  be  represented,  with  a  peasant's  wife  in  bed,  who  pretends  to 
have  been  just  delivered  of  a  child,  which  lies  by  her  side  in  a  cradle,'  Strutt, 
however,  according  to  Hone,  informs  us  that  the  stage  consisted  of  three  plat- 
forms, one  above  another.  On  the  uppermost  sat  God  the  Father,  surrounded 
by  his  angels ;  on  the  second,  the  glorified  saints ;  and  on  the  last  and  lowest, 
men  who  had  not  yet  passed  from  this  life.  On  one  side  of  the  lowest  platform 
was  the  resemblance  of  a  dark  pitchy  cavern,  from  which  issued  the  appearance 
of  fire  and  flames  ;  and  when  it  was  necessary,  the  audience  was  treated  with 
hideous  yelUngs  and  noises,  in  imitation  of  the  bowlings  and  cries  of  wretched 
souls  tormented  by  relentless  demons.  From  this  yawning  cave  the  devils  them- 
selves constantly  ascended  to  delight  and  to  instruct  the  spectators.  Mr.  Wright, 
editor  of  the  Chester  Plays,  says  that  he  has  somewhere  read  of  charges  for  coals 
to  keep  up  hell-fire  ;  and  that  on  one  occasion  hell  itself  took  fire,  and  was 
nearly  burnt  down.  Among  other  extracts  from  the  books  of  accounts  con- 
nected with  the  representation  of  some  of  these  plays,  are  found  the  following 
articles  of  expenditure : — 'Item,  paid  for  mending  hell-mouth,  2d. ;'  'Item,  paid 
for  keeping  of  fire  at  hell-mouth,  4d. ; '  '  Paid  for  setting  the  world  on  fire,  5d.' 
This  last  entry  would  lead  us  to  infer  that  the  '  sensation  drama'  is,  after  all,  not 
quite  so  modern  as  the  days  of  Mr.  Boucicault,  Avho,  if  he  were  consulting  some 
of  these  antiquated  miracle  plays,  might  get  a  few  hints  as  to  the  production  of 
certain  stage  effects  that  would  completely  ecUpse  any  '  sensation '  scene  hitherto 
attempted.  We  learn  from  some  other  entries  in  the  records  connected  with  the 
performance  of  these  plays,  that  the  actors  must  have  dressed  in  character,  and 
also  that  they  must  have  been  allowed  either  a  certain  salary  or  so  much  for 
necessary  expenses.  Some  of  these  entries  will  sound  to  modern  ears  ludicrously 
profane,  but  certainly  no  feeling  of  impiety  or  irreverence  actuated  those  who 
dictated  them.  Thus  Ave  meet  with  such  entries  as,  '  God's  coat  of  white  leather, 
(6  skins) ; '  '  Cheverel  (peruke)  for  God ; '  '  Paid  to  God,  2s.  ; '  '  Item,  to  Herod, 
3s.  4d. ; '  '  Item,  to  the  devil  and  to  Judas,  18d.  ; '  '  Item,  paid  to  the  two 
angels,  8d. ; '  'Item,  paid  to  the  demon,  16d.'  So  rigid,  indeed,  were  their 
notions  of  dressing  in  character,  and  so  strictly  did  our  simple  ancestors  adhere 
to  the  letter  of  Avhat  is  written,  that  in  the  Chester  and  Coventry  plays  on  The 
Creation,  Adam  and  Eve  are  made  to  appear  on  the  stage  '  in  all  the  simplicity 
of  immortal  costume,'  until,  after  having  eaten  of  the  forbidden  fruit,  they- 
discover  their  nakedness.  In  the  Chester  play,  Adam,  after  having  tasted  the 
*  griefiul'  (to  use  an  obsolete  but  expressive  term)  fruit,  says : 


Out !  alas  !  what  aileth  me  ? 
I  am  naked,  well  I  see !  .  .  . 

Eve. 

Alas,  this  adder  hath  done  me  [nye  !]* 
Alas,  her  rede*  why  did  I  ? 


Naked  we  ben  both  for  thy,  a 
And  of  our  shape  ashamed. 

Adam,  husband,  I  rede  we  take 
These  fig-leaves  for  shame's  sake, 
And  to  om-  members  a  hilling*  make 
Of  them  for  thee  and  me. 


•  nye — annoyance,  injury.         ^  rede — advice.  ^for  thy — therefore.         ■*  hilling — covering. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xxiii 

The  stage  directions  instruct  tliat  '  Adam  and  Eve  shall  cover  their  members 
with  leaves,  hiding  themselves  under  the  trees.'  Warton  observes  '  that  this 
extraordinary  spectacle  was  beheld  by  a  numerous  company  of  both  sexes  with 
great  composure  :  they  had  the  authority  of  Scripture  for  such  a  representation, 
and  they  gave  matters  just  as  they  found  them  in  the  third  chapter  of  Genesis.' 
It  is  only  fair  to  mention,  however,  that  !Mr.  Wright  is  strongly  inclined  to  think 
that  it  is  altogether  an  error  to  suppose  that  the  representatives  of  our  first 
parents  appeared  in  a  perfectly  nude  condition  on  the  stage — that  the  direction 
is  merely  figurative,  and  that  they  were  only  to  be  supposed  to  be  in  a  state  of 
nudity.  '  Still,'  he  adds,  '  that  part  of  the  performance  which  related  to  the 
fig-leaves  could  not  be  otherwise  than  what  would  now  be  considered  very  inde- 
corous.' Altogether,  when  we  take  into  account  the  subjects  of  these  miracle 
plays,  the  language  put  into  the  mouths  of  the  dramatis  personce,  the  actors,  the 
stage  appointments,  and  all  the  accompanying  details,  together  with  the  absurd 
beliefs  which  they  lead  us  to  infer  must  have  been  held  by  those  who  looked 
upon  them  as  a  genuine  representation  of  reahty,  we  cannot  fail  to  be  amused  at 
the  simplicity  of  our  ancestors  ;  at  the  same  time  regarding  them  with  that  feeling 
cf  tender  pity  with  which  eveiy  thoughtful  man  is  filled  when  he  thinks  on  the 
trifles  that  afforded  him  infinite  pleasure,  and  the  absurd  beliefs  he  cherished, 
in  the  days  of  his  childhood  and  boyhood.  "We  must  now,  however,  review  the 
plays  themselves,  which  we  can  afford  to  do  briefly,  as  we  intend  to  give  a 
specimen  of  one. 

This  earhest  form  of  the  British  drama,  as  the  reader  will  have  perceived,  is 
indifferently  denominated  Miracle  Play  or  Mystery ;  the  latter  term,  however, 
seems  to  have  been  a  late  importation  from  France, — the  only  names  under  which 
these  religious  dramas  were  known  to  our  ancestors  being  Miracles  or  Plays  of 
Miracles.  In  France  there  was  always  a  distinction  made  between  the  appli- 
cation of  the  two  terms :  the  term  mystery  was  used  to  designate  a  drama 
founded  on  some  incident  or  story  in  the  Old  or  New  Testament,  or  in  the 
apocryphal  Gospel  of  Nicodemus  ;  miracle  play  being  applied  to  one  founded  on 
some  miraculous  incident  in  the  life  of  a  saint.  The  two  terms,  however,  as  we 
have  said,  are  applied  indiflTerently  by  English  writers  to  the  same  thing.  The 
origin  of  the  term  miracle  or  mii'acle  play  as  applied  to  these  early  dramas  is 
obvious,  as  in  most  of  them,  from  the  nature  of  their  subjects,  there  is  a  strong 
infusion  of  the  supernatural.  The  word  mystery,  again,  it  is  generally  said,  is 
appropriately  used  in  this  connection  to  indicate  that  the  plays  thus  denominated 
were  intended  to  set  forth  to  the  populace  the  mysteries  of  the  Christian  faith. 
But  this  is  the  case  with  very  few  of  these  dramas,  most  of  which  are  founded 
on  simple  narratives  devoid  of  all  mystery,  taken  from  both  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments.  Moreover,  in  many  French  manuscripts  the  word  is  written  mistere, 
— its  origin,  according  to  some  of  the  latest  and  best  authorities,  being  found  in 
the  Latin  ministerium,  '  service,'  '  office,'  pointing  to  the  time  Avhen  these  plays 
formed  a  regular  part  of  religious  service  or  worship.  At  all  events,  we  know 
that  the  English  mkacle  play  or  mystery  was  a  drama  founded  on  some  historical 
part  of  the  Old  or  New  Testament,  or  on  some  incident  in  the  life  of  a  saint : 
those  extant  are  mostly  of  the  former  character. 

The  oldest  specimen  of  a  miracle  play  extant  is  a  fragment  of  that  alluded 
to  formerly  as  generally  ascribed  to  Gregory  Nazianzen,  which  has  been  trans- 
lated into  French.  The  oldest  extant  specimen  of  a  miracle  play  in  Enghsh  is, 
according  to  Mr.  Collier,  to  be  found  among  the  Harleian  Manuscripts  in  the 
British  Museum,  the  MS.  being  as  old  as  the  earlier  part  of  the  reign  of  EdAvard  in., 
i.e.  the  early  half  of  the  fourteenth  century.     It  is  founded  upon  the  sixteenth 


xxiv  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 

chapter  of  the  apocryphal  Gospel  of  Nicodemus — which  is  the  source  of  many  later 
ones — and  relates,  to  the  descent  of  Christ  to  hell  to  liberate  Adam,  Eve,  John 
the  Baptist,  and  the  prophets.  However,  the  principal  extant  miracle  plays 
vmtten  in  English  consist  of  three  separate  sets  known  as  the  Towneley  or  Wid- 
kirJc  collection,  consisting  of  thirty  plays  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  Widkirk 
Abbey  before  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries,  the  manuscript  of  which  appears 
to  have  been  written  about  the  reign  of  Henry  vi.  (1422—1461) ;  the  Coventry 
Plays,  forty-two  in  number,  consisting  of  miracle  plays  said  to  have  been  repre- 
sented at  Coventry  on  the  feast  of  Corpus  Chtisti,  the  manuscript  of  which  Avas 
written  at  least  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Henry  vii.  (1485-1509) ;  the  Chester 
Whitsun  Plays,  twenty-four  in  number,  of  which  the  oldest  extant  manuscript 
.was  written  in  1581, — there  being  four  others  of  the  dates  1592,  1600, 1604, 1607 
respectively.  The  first  collection  has  been  published  by  the  Surtees  Society,  and 
the  two  others  by  the  Shakespeare  Society.  Although  the  manuscripts  are  of 
the  above  dates,  the  plays  themselves  bear  internal  evidence  of  being  very  much 
older,  although  it  is  impossible  to  fix  the  dates  with  anything  like  certainty, 
especially  as  most  of  the  plays  have  apparently  been  modernized  and  otherwise 
tampered  with.  The  Chester  plays,  according  to  the  prologue,  were  originally 
composed  in  the  mayoralty  of  John  Arnway  by  one  Done  Randall,  a  monk  of 
Chester  Abbey,  whom  certain  good  authorities  suppose  to  have  been  no  other 
than  Eandal,  Eanulph,  or  Ralph  Higden,  author  of  the  Polych^onicon  ;  but  this 
can  scarcely  be  credited,  if,  as  the  best  authorities  say,  Higden  died  about  1360. 
A  note  on  one  of  the  British  Museum  Manuscripts  of  these  plays  mentioned 
above,  however,  says  that  Higden  '  was  thrice  at  Rome  before  he  could  obtain 
leave  of  the  Pope  to  have  them  in  the  English  tongue,'  which  indicates  that  the 
writer  of  the  note  believed  that  tliese  plays  were  not  originally  written  in  English. 
Warton  conjectured  that  they  mtist  have  been  written  in  Latin ;  but  Mr.  Col- 
lier's hypothesis,  that  they  were  originally  in  French,  is  far  more  likely  to  be  the 
truth.  This  supposition  he  bases  on  certain  remarkable  coincidences  in  language 
between  some  of  the  Chester  plays  and  old  French  plays  on  the  same  subjects, 
and  on  the  fact  that,  at  the  time  these  are  said  to  have  been  composed,  French 
was  still  the  prevailing  fashionable  and  literary  language.  Another  note,  appa- 
rently written  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  appended  to  a  '  proclamation' 
used  for  these  plays  in  the  time  of  Henry  viii.,  contained  in  another  Harleian 
manuscript,  contains  the  following  statement  : — '  Sir  John  Arnway,  mayor, 
1327  and  1328,  at  which  time  these  plays  were  written  by  Randall  Higgenett, 
a  monk  of  Chester  Abbey,  and  played  openly  in  the  Whitsun  week.'  The 
inference  from  these  statements  is,  that  when  the  Chester  plays  were  first  insti- 
tuted in  1268,  the  dramas  exhibited  were  written  in  French,  but  that  when 
English  became  the  recognised  and  prevailing  language  of  all  classes  under 
Edward  iii.,  these  plays  were  translated  from  French  into  English,  possibly  by 
Ralph  Higden  the  chronicler,  who  may  have  added  a  few  of  his  own  composition. 
We  know  that  plays  were  regularly  performed  at  Chester  and  other  large  towns 
shortly  after  the  institution  of  Corpus  Christi  festival;  and  the  probability  is,  that 
the  dramas  now  extant  are  those  which  were  used  from  the  beginning,  the  language 
having  been  at  various  periods  modernized  in  order  to  suit  the  changes  undergone 
by  the  English  tongue.  '  The  Chester  series,'  says  Mr.  Collier,  '  affords  specimens 
of  orthography  of  different  ages,  from  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  to  the 
beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century.'  The  Coventry  plays  have  been  altered 
even  to  a  greater  extent ;  the  Widkirk  collection  being  the  only  one  which  has 
been  handed  down  in  a  comparatively  pure  state. 

The  dramas  in  these  three  collections  are  nearly  all  on  the  same  subjects  ;  and 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


XXV 


the  language  and  mode  of  treatment  are  in  many  instances  so  very  much  aUke, 
as  to  lead  to  the  belief  that  they  were  translated  or  adapted  from  a  common 
source.  The  subjects  are  mostly  taken  from  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  and 
from  the  apocryphal  Gospel  of  Nicodemus, — the  Chester  series,  however,  draw- 
ing very  sparingly  from  the  latter  source.  The  language  of  most  of  these  plays 
is  very  rude,  and  often  disgustingly  coarse  and  obscene :  the  most  sacred  and 
divine  persons  are  frequently  made  to  speak  in  a  manner  that  would  be  now 
considered  unbecoming  even  in  Billingsgate,  though  no  doubt  the  language  was 
regarded  by  those  who  heard  it  as  perfectly  proper  and  appropriate.  As  the 
writers  of  these  dramas  were  not  likely  to  make  their  characters  and  the  lan- 
guage they  used  coarser  and  more  nauseous  than  what  they  saw  and  heard 
around  them  in  their  contemporary  men  and  women,  we  may  safely  regard 
them  as  a  very  faithful  picture  of  society  at  the  time  the  plays  were  written. 
No  doubt  the  scene  between  Noah  and  his  wife  in  the  play  of  The  Deluge^ 
common  to  the  three  collections,  may  be  regarded  as  a  faithful  picture  in  lan- 
guage and  action  of  scenes  then  common  in  the  married  life  of  all  classes  of 
society ;  and  indeed,  scenes  not  very  different,  and  language  equally  forcible, 
are  not  so  rare,  even  at  the  present  day,  between  husband  and  wife  among 
certain  classes  of  society.  The  progress  of  refinement  in  manners  and  language 
must  indeed  be  very  slow,  since  even  at  this  distance  from  the  time  at  which 
these  plays  were  written,  improvement  in  these  as  in  other  respects  is  only 
slowly  working  its  way  down  through  the  lower  strata  of  society.  In  the 
structure  and  conduct  of  the  miracle  plays,  as  might  be  expected,  there  is  little 
or  no  display  of  art  or  taste ;  and  although  occasionally  we  meet  with  scenes 
and  language  naively  natural  and  life-like,  full  of  dramatic  effect,  '  and 
even  of  gentle  and  tender  sentiment,'  still,  on  the  whole,  they  are  devoid  of 
literary  merit.  The  composers  of  these  plays  seem  to  have  felt  bound  to  mix 
the  dulce  with  the  utile^  and  therefore  in  almost  every  one  of  them  we  meet  with 
scenes  of  the  coarsest  humour  and  most  riotous  and  inappropriate  fun,  which 
no  doubt  well  served  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  intended,  viz.  to  keep 
the  rude  audience  in  good  humour  by  furnishing  them  with  food  for  uproarious 
laughter.  Altogether,  they  will  seem  to  readers  of  the  present  day — what  they 
certainly  were  not  meant  to  be  by  their  writers,  and  assuredly  were  not 
considered  by  the  audiences  who  witnessed  them — coarse  caricatures  of  the 
most  sacred  persons  and  events  in  holy  writ,  and  a  lamentable  picture  of  the 
state  of  society  in  the  time  of  our  ancestors.  Few  of  them  can  be  said  to  be 
intrinsically  interesting :  they  soon  pall  upon  the  modern  taste,  and  are  likely 
to  be  perused  with  profit  only  by  the  antiquarian,  diligent  historian,  and  perse- 
vering student  of  manners. 

The  Towneley  plays  are  the  coarsest  of  the  three  collections  ;  the  Coventry 
series  being  the  best  in  language,  and  least  indelicate  in  sentiment ;  and  the 
Chester  dramas  a  shade  better  than  the  Towneley.  As  a  specimen  of  the  subjects 
of  these  primitive  dramas,  we  shall  here  transcribe  the  titles  of  the  mysteries 
contained  in  the  Chester  collection.  From  these  the  reader  will  perceive  that 
many  of  the  most  important  episodes  in  Scripture  history,  and  especially  in  the 
life  of  Christ,  were  dramatized,  and  doubtless  would  serve  the  same  purpose 
in  these  dark  and  rude  ages  as  the  *  Pictorial  Bible '  does  at  the  present  day. 
The  following  are  the  titles  of  the  Chester  plays  as  they  occur  in  the  Shake- 
speare Society  edition  : — 


1.  The  Fall  of  Lucifer. 

2.  The   Creation  and  Fall,  and  Death  of 

Abel. 


3.  Noah's  Flood. 

4.  The  Histories  of  Lot  and  Abraham. 

5.  Balaam  and  his  Ass. 


XXVI 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


10. 
11. 
12. 

13. 
14. 
15. 


The  Salutation  and  Nativity. 

The  Play  of  the  Shepherds. 

The  Three  Kings. 

The  Offering  and  Return  of  the  Three 

Kings. 
The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents. 
The  Purification  of  the  Virgin. 
The  Temptation,  and  the  Woman  taken 

in  Adultery. 
Lazarus. 

Christ's  Entry  into  Jerusalem. 
The  Lord's  Supper  and  Christ's  Betrayal. 


16.  The  Passion  of  Christ. 

17.  The  Crucifixion. 

18.  The  Harrowing  of  Hell.' 

19.  The  Resurrection  of  Christ. 

20.  Christ  and  the  Discij)les  on  the  way  to 

Emmaus. 

21.  Chfist's  Ascension. 

22.  The  Election  of  Matthias,  and  the  Emis- 

sion  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 

23.  EzekieL 

24.  On  the  Appearance  of  Antichrist. 

25.  On  the  Last  Judgment. 


As  a  specimen  of  these  miracle  plays,  and  to  give  the  reader  the  means  of 
forming  for  himself  an  idea  of  what  they  really  were,  we  have  given  at  the  end 
of  this  Introduction  the  greater  part  of  the  one  entitled  NodlCs  Flood. 

Having  dwelt  with  such  comparative  minuteness  on  the  origin,  history,  and 
nature  of  the  earliest  form  of  the  British  drama,  we  shall  now  briefly  trace  its 
progress  through  the  intermediate  phase  of  what  is  known  as  the  '  morality,'  till 
it  reached  its  full  development  in  that  form  which  has  been  consecrated  by  the 
genius  of  Shakespeare  and  his  contemporaries.  As  we  shall  give  at  the  end  of 
this  Introduction  specimens  illustrating  the  gradual  progress  of  the  drama  to  what 
is  known  as  its  'legitimate'  form,  there  is  no  great  necessity  for  discursiveness  here. 

At  a  comparatively  early  period  there  were  occasionally  introduced  into 
miracle  plays  characters  of  an  abstract  or  allegorical  nature,  intended  to 
represent  virtues,  vices,  passions,  etc. ;  but  when  this  innovation  Avas  first  made, 
there  is  no  means  of  ascertaining.  One  of  the  earliest  specimens  of  a  drama  of 
this  kind  is  to  be  found  in  the  Coventry  series,  in  the  eleventh  play  of  which 
Truth,  Justice,  Peace,  and  Pitt/  are  introduced  into  the  Parliament  of  Heaven.  In 
other  plays  of  the  same  series.  Death  and  the  Mother  of  Death  are  represented  as 
taking  part ;  '  until  at  length  such  characters  as  Beufin  and  Lyon  were  employed, 
partaking  of  greater  individuality,  though  still  personifying  the  feelings  and 
passions  which  are  supposed  to  have  actuated  the  Jews  against  our  Saviour.' 
Gradually  such  characters  became  more  and  more  numerous,  until,  instead  of 
being  merely  subsidiary  to  the  scriptural  characters  forming  the  dramatis  personcB 
of  the  miracle  play,  they  ultimately  put  the  latter  into  the  shade,  and  a  kind  of 
play  was  established  in  which  they  were  the  sole  or  chief  part  of  the  characters. 
This  kind  of  drama  was  called  a  '  Moral '  or  '  Moral  Play,'  though  now  it  is 
generally  known  under  the  name  of  a  '  Morality.'  It  must  not,  however,  be 
imagined  that  these  moral  plays  entirely  superseded  the  mysteries,  which  long 
after  the  invention  of  the  former  continued  to  be  almost  as  popular  as  ever,  and, 
as  we  have  seen,  did  not  entirely  cease  out  of  the  land  untU.  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 

A  moral  or  moral  play  is  well  defined  by  Collier  to  be  'a  drama,  the 
characters  of  which  are  allegorical,  abstract,  or  symbolical,  and  the  story  of  which 
is  intended  to  convey  a  lesson  for  the  better  conduct  of  human  life.'  Evidence 
can  be  adduced  to  show  that  early  in  the  fifteenth  century  the  morality  was  in 
a  state  of  considerable  advancement ;  and  Warton  thinks  it  reached  the  highest 
perfection  of  which  it  was  capable  about  the  end  of  the  same  century,  although, 
as  Collier  remarks,  it  subsequently  acquired  a  greater  degree  of  complication, 
and  exhibited  more  labour  and  ingenuity  in  its  construction.  As  much  of 
what  we  have  said  with  regard  to  miracle  plays  is  equally  applicable  to  moral 
plays,  it  is  not  necessary  here  to  enter  into  a  minute  examination  of  the  cha- 


1  i.e.  The  descent  of  Christ  into  hell,  to  release  Adam  and  other  old  saints, 
taken  from  the  Gospel  of  Nicodemus. 


This  is 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xxvii 

racter  and  structure  of  the  latter.  In  many  instances  tliey  are  characterized 
by  as  much  coarseness  and  buffoonery  as  are  their  predecessors  the  mysteries, 
although,  as  might  be  expected  from  the  later  date,  and  the  improvement  which 
had  taken  place  in  literary  taste  generally,  they  manifest  greater  skill  in  the  use 
of  language,  and  greater  art  in  dramatic  construction.  Although  the  change  in 
the  characters  of  the  drama  from  persons  to  personifications  might  seem  a  step 
baclcAvard,  yet  as,  from  the  nature  of  these  plays,  there  Avas  a  greater  necessity 
for  distinctiveness  in  the  portraiture  of  character,  they  were  really  a  step  in 
advance  of  the  miracle  play,  and  no  doubt  in  this  respect  paved  the  way  for  the 
invention  of  the  legitimate  drama.  Nevertheless  the  pure  morality,  we  cannot 
but  imagine,  must  have  been  a  very  tedious  affair  indeed,  and  could  not  long 
have  maintained  its  populai'ity,  had  there  not  been  introduced  into  it,  perhaps 
from  the  very  first,  scenes  of  buffoonery  and  coarse  wit  such  as  were  almost 
invariably  mixed  up  with  the  miracle  play.  Many  of  the  later  moralities,  Avhile 
still  retaining  their  peculiar  character  as  dramas  of  personification,  show  that 
vast  advances  had  been  made  in  the  dramatic  art  and  literary  skill  generally, 
being  not  unfrequently  characterized  by  considerable  force  and  originality  of 
language,  as  well  as  genuine  humour,  while  they  show  much  insight  into  human 
nature,  and  power  of  depicting  character.  Still  even  the  best  of  them,  as 
compared  with  the  regular  drama,  would  now  be  considered  '  stale,  flat,  and 
unprofitable,'  '  tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured,'  and  seem  as  little  calculated 
to  accomplish  their  moral  end  as  Richardson's  Pamela.  As  we  shall  see,  how- 
ever, they  were  ere  long  so  considerably  modified  in  their  character,  as  to  be 
but  a  little  removed  from  the  legitimate  drama.  What  we  have  said  with 
regard  to  the  structure  of  the  stage,  and  the  representation  of  miracle  plays, 
applies  equally  well  to  the  plays  under  consideration. 

We  have  already  said  that,  to  relieve  the  tedium  which  must  have  been 
induced  by  the  representation  of  the  unmodified  moral  plays,  scenes  of  coarse 
fun  and  uproarious  buffoonery  were  frequently  introduced ;  and  in  nearly  all 
moral  plays,  the  great  suppliers  of  these  articles  are  two  staple  characters  in 
nearly  all  dramas  of  this  kind,  known  as  The  Devil  and  The  Vice.  Any  notice 
of  moralities  would  be  incomplete  without  a  description  of  these  characters,  the 
latter  of  which  is  frequently  alluded  to  by  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  We 
shall  take  the  liberty  of  quoting  Mr.  Collier's  account  of  these  two  stock  '  moral' 
characters : 

'  The  Devil  was  no  cTou'bt  imported  into  moral  plays  from  the  old  miracle  plays,  where  he 
figured  so  amusingly,  that  when  a  new  species  of  theatrical  diversion  had  been  introduced, 
he  could  not  be  dispensed  with  :  accordingly,  we  find  him  the  leader  of  the  Seven  Deadly 
Sins,  in  one  of  the  most  ancient  moral  plays  that  have  been  preserved.  He  was  rendered  as 
hideous  as  possible  by  the  mask  and  dress  he  wore  ;  and  from  Ulpian  Fulwell's  Like  xuill  to 
Like,  1568  (and  from  other  sources  of  the  same  kind  which  need  not  be  particularized),  we 
learn  that  his  exterior  was  shaggy  and  hairy,  one  of  the  characters  there  mistaking  him  for 
"a  dancing  bear."  His  "bottle-nose"  and  "evil  face"  are  mentioned  both  in  that  piece, 
and  in  T.  Lupton's  All  for  Money,  1578  ;  and  that  he  had  a  tail,  if  it  required  proof,  is 
evident  from  the  circumstance  that  the  Vice  asks  him  for  a  piece  of  it  to  make  a  fly-flap. 
His  ordinary  «zclamation  on  entering  was,  "Ho,  ho,  ho  !"  and  on  all  occasions  he  was  prone 
to  roaring  and  crying  out,  especially  when,  for  the  amusement  of  the  spectators,  he  was 
provoked  to  it  by  castigation  at  the  hands  of  the  Vice.  Malone  states  that  "his  constant 
attendant  was  the  Vice,"  as  if  the  Devil  never  appeared  without  him  but  in  TJie  Disobedient 
Child  (n.  d.  but  printed  about  1560),  and  in  one  or  two  other  morals  he  exhibited  alone. 

'  Regarding  the  Vice,  Mr.  Douce  is  of  opinion  (with  that  sagacity  and  knowledge  which 
distinguish  him,  and  make  diff'erence  dangerous)  that  the  name  was  derived  from  the  nature 
of  the  character  ;  and  certain  it  is  that  he  is  represented  most  wicked  by  design,  and  never 
good  but  by  accident.  As  the  Devil  now  and  then  appeared  without  the  Vice,  so  the  Vice 
sometimes  appeared  without  the  Devil.  Malone  tells  us  that  "  the  principal  employment  of 
the  Vice  was  to  belabour  the  Devil ;"  but  although  he  was  frequently  so  engaged,  he  had 
also  higher  duties.     He  figured  now  and  then  in  the  religious  plays  of  a  later  date  ;  and  in 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


The  Life  and  Repentance  of  Mary  Magdalen,  1567,  he  performed  the  part  of  her  lover, 
before  her  conversion,  under  the  name  of  Infidelity  :  in  King  Darius,  1565,  he  also  acted  a 
prominent  part,  by  his  own  impulses  to  mischief,  under  the  name  of  Iniquity,  without  any 
prompting  from  the  representative  of  the  principle  of  evil.  Such  was  the  general  style  of  tlie 
Vice,  and  as  Iniquity  he  is  spoken  of  by  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson.  The  Vice  and 
Iniquity  seem,  however,  sometimes  to  have  been  distinct  persons,  and  he  was  not  unfre- 
quently  called  by  the  name  of  particular  vices. 

'  The  Vice  was  wholly  unknown  in  our  "  religious  plays"  which  have  hitherto  gone  by 
the  name  of  Mysteries. 

'With  regard  to  "  Moralities,"  it  is  certainly  true,  that  in  the  most  ancient  moral  plays 
characters  of  gross  buftbonery  and  vicious  propensities  were  inserted  for  the  amusement  and 
instruction  of  the  audience;  but  although  we  hear  of  "the  fool"  in  Medwall's  interlude 
performed  before  Henry  viii.  in  1516,  such  a  character  seems  very  rarely  to  have  been  speci- 
fically called  "  the  Vice"  anterior  to  the  Eeformation. 

*0n  the  external  appearance  of  the  Vice,  Mr.  Douce  has  observed,  that  "being  generally 
dressed  in  a  fool's  habit,"  he  was  gradually  and  undistinguishably  blended  with  the  domestic 
fool  ;  and  there  is  every  probability  that  such  was  the  result.  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  Devil  is 
an  Ass,  alludes  to  this  very  circumstance  when  he  is  speaking  of  the  fools  of  old  kept  in  the 
houses  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  : 

"  Fifty  years  agone  and  six, 
When  every  great  man  had  his  Vice  stand  by  him 
In  his  long  coat,  shaking  his  wooden  dagger." 

The  Vice  here  spoken  of  was  the  domestic  fool  of  the  nobility  about  the  year  1560,  to  whom 
also  Puttenham,  in  his  A^-te  of  English  Poesie,  alludes,  under  the  terms  "buffoon  or  vice  in 
plays."  In  the  second  Intermean  of  his  Staj^le  News,  Ben  Jonson  tells  us  that  the  Vice 
sometimes  wore  "a  juggler's  jerkin  with  false  skirts  ;"  and  though  Mr.  Douce  is  unquestion- 
ably correct  when  he  states  that  the  Vice  was  "generally  dressed  in  a  fool's  habit,"  he  did 
not  by  any  means  constantly  wear  the  parti-coloured  habiliments  of  a  fool :  he  was  some- 
times required  to  act  a  gallant,  and  now  and  then  to  assume  the  disguise  of  virtues  it  suited 
his  purpose  to  personate.  The  Vice,  like  the  fool,  was  sometimes  furnished  with  a  dagger 
of  lath,  and  it  was  not  unusual  that  it  should  be  gilt. 

'Just  preceding  the  mention  of  the  "juggler's  jerkin"  by  Ben  Jonson,  as  part  of  the 
dress  of  the  Vice,  is  an  allusion  to  the  ludicrous  mode  in  which  poetical  justice  was  not 
unfrequently  done  to  him  at  the  conclusion  of  a  moral.  Tattle  observes,  "  but  there  is  never 
a  fiend  to  carry  him  away  ;"  and  in  the  first  Intermean  of  the  same  play,  Mirth  leads  us  to 
suppose  that  it  was  a  very  common  termination  of  the  adventures  of  the  Vice,  for  him  to  be 
carried  oS  to  hell  on  the  back  of  the  Devil :  "he  would  carry  away  the  Vice  on  his  back, 
quick  to  hell,  in  every  play  where  he  came."' 

Of  moral  plays  a  considerable  number  are  still  extant,  some  in  manuscript, 
and  some  printed.  The  subjects  or  aims  of  them  are  various,  though  the  moral 
of  very  many,  especially  of  the  earlier  ones,  may  be  expressed  appropriately  in 
a  slight  modification  of  a  well-known  proverb,  '  Do  right  and  shame  the  devil ; ' 
or,  as  the  epilogue  attached  to  one  of  the  oldest  of  these  plays,  The  Castle  of 
Perseverance,  puts  it — 


'  All  men  example  hereat  may  take. 
To  maintain  the  good  and  menden  their 

[ways]. 
Thus  endeth  our  gamys  : 


To  save  you  fro  sinning, 
Ever  at  the  beginning. 
Think  on  your  last  ending 
Te  Deum  laudamus  ! ' 


Of  this  class  are,  besides  the  one  just  mentioned,  Mind,  Will,  mid  Understanding, 
Manhind,  Nature,  The  World  and  the  Child,  Hick  Horner,  Every  Man,  Lusty 
Juventus.  Others  are  of  a  more  general  character,  but  still  have  for  their  aim 
to  enforce  various  lessons  for  human  conduct, — one  of  them,  entitled  The  Nature 
of  the  Four  Elements,  being  intended  '  to  bring  humanity  to  a  conviction  of  the 
necessity  of  studying  philosophy  and  the  sciences  ; '  another.  The  longer  thou 
livest,  the  mo7'e  Fool  thou  art,  written  by  a  W.  "Wager,  probably  soon  after  the 
accession  of  Ehzabeth,  is  intended  to  enforce  the  necessity  of  giving  children  a 
good  education.  One  which  was  licensed  about  1569  (but  founded  on  one 
much  older),  and  entitled  The  Mairiage  of  Art  and  Science,  has  the  peculiarity 
which  belongs  to  no  other  extant  play  of  this  class,  of  being  regularly  divided 
into  five  acts,  and  each  act  into  a  number  of  scenes.     Besides  Art  and  Science, 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


XXIX 


some  of  the  other  characters  are,  Reason,  Experience,  Instruction,  Study,  Dili- 
gence, Will,  Idleness,  Ignorance,  and  Tediousness,  a  Giant  the  deadly  foe  of 
Science.  After  various  adventures,  Art  manages  to  strike  off  the  head  of 
Tediousness  and  presents  it  to  Science,  to  whom  he  is  then  married ;  Art  con- 
cluding thus : 

'  My  pain  is  past,  my  gladness  to  begin, 
My  task  is  done,  my  heart  is  set  at  rest, 
My  foe  subdued,  my  lady's  love  possest. 
I  thank  my  friends  whose  help  I  have  at  need  ; 
And  thus  yon  see  how  Art  and  Science  are  agreed. 
We  twain  henceforth  one  soul  in  bodies  twain  must  dwell : 
Eejoice  I  pray  you  all  with  me,  my  friends,  and  fare  ye  well.' 

Other  morals  of  this  general  character  are.  All  for  iI/one_y  (printed  1578),  by 
Thomas  Lupton  ;  The  Three  Lords  and  Three  Ladies  of  London  (1590);  and 
Liberality  and  Prodigality  (1602).  Some  of  these  are  scarcely  entitled  to  be 
called  pure  morals,  i.e.  plays  in  which  the  characters  are  purely  allegorical,  as 
there  are  introduced  into  them  characters  with  personal  names,  often,  however, 
representing  some  particular  quality  or  abstract  idea.  As  we  cannot  afford 
space  to  give  a  lengthened  example  of  a  pure  moral  play,  Ave  shall,  before  going 
further,  quote  Mr.  Collier's  analysis  of  one,  by  the  famous  John  Skelton  (1460- 
1529),  the  only  important  author,  so  far  as  is  known,  who  attempted  this  kind 
of  dramatic  writing.  Skelton  probably  wrote  several  plays  of  this  kind,  but 
the  only  one  extant  is  that  entitled  Magnifcence,  written  very  possibly  before 
1509.  In  order  to  show  the  state  of  the  language  at  the  time  this  piece  was 
written,  we  shall,  in  the  quotation,  retain  the  original  spelling,  which  will  offer 
very  little  difficulty  to  the  reader  : — 

'  The  moral  purpose  of  Magmjfycence  is  to  show  the  vanity  of  worldly  grandeur.  It 
opens  with  a  soliloquy  by  Felicity,  who  is  soon  joined  by  Liberty  ;  and  while  they  are 
discussing  the  degree  to  which  freedom  ought  to  be  allowed,  Measure  enters  to  moderate 
between  the  disputants,  and  enlarges  on  his  own  importance. 

'  Magnificence  is  immediately  afterwards  introduced,  and  becomes  acquainted  with  Fancy 
(who  calls  himself  Largess),  with  Counterfeit-countenance,  Crafty-conveyance,  Cloked-coUu- 
sion,  Courtly-abusion,  and  Folly,  who  also  impose  upon  him  under  feigned  names.  Courtly- 
abusion  offers  to  carry  him  to  a  young  lady,  whose  virtue  is  not  inaccessible,  and  whose 
beauty  is  described  with  some  luxuriance  of  style  : 


As  lyly  white  to  loke  upon  her  heyre, 
Her  eyen  relucent  as  carbuncle  so  clere ; 
Her  mouth  embawmed  dylectable  and  mery, 
Her  lusty  lyppes  ruddy  as  a  chery." 


"  A  fayre  maystresse, 
That  quycklyis  envyvedwith  rudyes  of  the  rose, 
Inpurtured  with  features  after  your  purpose. 
The  strejmes  of  her  veynes  as  asure  Inde  blewe, 
Eubudded  with  beautye  and  colour  fresshe  of 
hewe, 

'  Magnificence,  ruined  by  his  friends  and  retainers,  falls  into  the  hands  of  Adversity  and 
Poverty,  and  the  latter,  in  the  following  striking  lines,  contrasts  the  present  with  the  former 
condition  of  Magnificence : 


That  was  wonte  to  lye  on  fetherbeddes  of 

downe, 
Nowe  must  your  fete  lye  hyer  than   your 

crowne. 
Where  you  were  wonte  to  have  cawdels  for 

your  hede, 
Nowe  must  you  monche  mamokes  and  lumpes 

of  brede. 
And  where  you  had  chaxmges  of  ryche  aray, 
Now  lap  you  in  a  coverlet  full  fayno  that 

you  may. 


And  where  that  ye  were  pomped  with  what 

that  ye  wolde, 
Nowe  must  ye  suffre  bothe  hungre  and  colde. 
With  courtely  sylkes  ye  were  wonte  to  to 

drawe, 
Nowe  must  ye  lerne  to  lye  on  the  strawe. 
Your  skynne  that  was  wrapped  in  shertes  of 

raynes, 
Nowe  must  be  stormy  beten  with  showres 

and  rayues." 


'  Despair  and  Mischief  next  encounter  Magnificence,  and  at  the  suggestion  of  the  latter, 
•who  furnishes  him  with  a  halter  and  a  knife,  he  is  on  the  point  of  committing  suicide,  when 
Good-hope  steps  in,  and  stays  his  hand  ;  he  is  followed  by  Redress,  Circumspection,  and 


XXX 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


Perseverance,  and  they  convince  Magnificence  of  the  weakness  and  vanity  of  his  former  state 
of  exaltation,  and  he  is  content  to  move  in  a  humbler  and  happier  sphere.  Several  attempts 
are  made  to  enliven  the  seiious  part  of  the  "interlude,"  hy  comic  incident  and  dialogue,  the 
burden  chiefly  resting  upon  Fancy  and  Folly,  who  on  one  occasion  get  Crafty-conveyance 
into  their  company,  and  persuade  him  to  lay  a  wager  that  Folly  will  not  be  able  to  laugh 
him  out  of  his  coat ;  it  is  accomplished  in  the  following  humorous,  but  not  very  delicate 
manner  : 


"  [Sere  foly  makeih  semhlaunt  to  take  a  lowse 

from  crafty-conveyaimce  shoulder. 
Fancy.  What  hast  thou  found  there  ? 
Foly.  By  God,  a  lowse. 
Crafty-convey.  By  cockes  harte,  I  trowe  thou 

lyste. 
Foly.  By  the  masse,  a  spanyshe  moght  with  a 

gray  lyste. 


Fancy.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 
Crafty-convey.   Cockes  armes,  it  is  not  so,  I 
trowe. 

[Here  Crafty-conveyaunce  putteth,  ofhisgoione. 

'  Foly.  Put  on  thy  gowne  agayne,  for  nowe  thou 

hast  lost. 
Fancy.  Lo,  Johna  bonam,  where  is  thy  brayne  ?  " 


'  The  versification  is  varied,  and  the  length  of  the  piece  required  that  much  should  be 
done  to  lighten  the  burden. 

'  The  moralization  at  the  end  of  the  piece  is  spoken  by  Eedress,  Circumspection,  Perse- 
verance, and  Magnificence  : 

"And  ye  that  have  harde  this  dysporte  and  game, 
Jhesus  preserve  you  frome  endlesse  wo  and  shame," 

'  Skelton's  aim  in  this  moral  play  was  against  grandeur  in  general. ' 

As  we  have  said,  characters  not  strictly  allegorical,  but  representative  of 
persons,  are  introduced  into  some  of  the  above  morals,  although  when  this 
innovation  first  took  place  cannot  be  ascertained  ;  probably  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  The  earliest  instance  we  have  seen  of  the  introduction  of  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  person  into  a  moral  play  is  in  the  case  of  The  Nature  of  the  Four 
Elements^  where  a  Taverner  is  one  of  the  characters ;  and  in  some  of  the  others 
of  a  not  very  much  later  date,  it  is  attempted  '  to  invest  even  symbolical  repre- 
sentatives with  metaphysical  as  well  as  physical  peculiarities,  and  to  attract  for 
them  a  personal  interest.'  In  Ulpian  Ful well's  Like  Will  to  Like,  not  printed  till 
1568,  besides  allegorical  impersonations  there  are  characters  with  such  names  as 
Eafe  Roister,  Tom  Tosspot,  Philip  Fleming,  Cuthbert  Cutpurse,  etc. 

Other  plays,  generally  considered  as  belonging  to  this  class,  but  which  more 
nearly  resemble  the  regular  drama  than  any  above  mentioned,  are  Tom  Tiler  and 
his  Wife,  The  Conflict  of  Conscience,  Jack  Juggler,  Cambyses,  and  Appius  and 
Virginia.  Tom  Tiler  and  his  Wife  is  a  sort  of  comedy,  the  plot  of  which  turns 
on  the  sufferings  of  a  husband,  Tom  Tiler,  under  the  affliction  of  a  shrewish  wife 
named  Strife.  It  was  first  printed  in  1578,  but  was  probably  written  some 
years  earlier,  and  contains  among  its  dramatis  personce,  besides  Destiny,  Desire, 
and  Patience,  two  friends  of  the  wife  known  as  Sturdy  and  Tipple,  and  Tom 
Tiler's  friend  Tom  Tailor.  The  poor  henpecked  husband's  friend  proposes  to 
Tom  to  cure  his  shrewish  wife  by  disguising  himself  in  the  husband's  clothes, 
and  administering  to  Strife  a  sound  beating.  This  is  done  to  such  purpose  that 
the  shrew  is  brought  to  humble  submission  ;  but  Tom  Tiler  goes  home,  and  in 
a  weak  moment  confesses  the  truth  to  his  own  cost,  for  she,  snatching  up  a 
stick,  '  lays  load  upon  him  '  most  unmercifully,  until  he  exclaims — 


'  0  wife,  wife  !  I  pray  thee  save  my  life  ! 
You  hurt  me  ever,  I  hurted  you  never  : 
For  God's  sake,  content  thee. 
Strife.  Nay,  thou  shalt  repent  thee, 


That  ever  Tom  Tayler,  that  ruffian  and 

railer, 
"Was  set  to  be  at  me :  he  had  better  had 

eat  me. ' 


However,  matters  are  brought  to  a  happy  conclusion  by  the  intervention  of 
Patience,  who  renders  Tom  Tiler  contented  with  his  wife,  and  Strife  more 
merciful  to  her  husband.  Six  songs  are  interspersed  in  various  lyrical  measures, 
but  none  of  them,  according  to  Collier,  of  peculiar  merit.  The  Conflict  of 
Conscience,  by  Nathaniel  Woodes,  minister  of  Norwich,  was  probably  written 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xxxi 

about  1560,  and  is  remarkable  as  being  one  of  the  earliest  moral  plays  in  which 
a  historical  character  is  introduced.  This  is  Francis  Spiera,  an  Italian  lawyer, 
who  in  the  drama  is  named  Philologus,  and  who,  as  the  title-page  expresses  it, 
'  forsook  the  truth  of  God's  gospel  for  fear  of  the  loss  of  life  and  worldly  goods.' 
Besides  Spiera,  other  personal  characters  are  his  two  sons,  Cardinal  Eusebius, 
Cacenos,  a  Catholic  priest  who  speaks  the  Scotch  dialect,  etc.;  the  allegorical 
characters  being  Conscience,  Hypocrisy,  Tyranny,  Sensvial  Suggestion,  etc. 
Jack  Juggler^  which  was  printed  about  1562,  but  probably  written  about  ten 
years  before  that,  resembles  a  moral  mainly  in  its  design,  and  in  the  fact  that  a 
'  vice '  Jack  Juggler  is  introduced, — all  the  other  characters  having  personal 
names,  as  Martha  Bongrace,  Dame  Coy,  Jenkin  Careaway,  etc.,  mostly  significant, 
and  indicative  of  the  character  of  the  persons  to  whom  they  belong.  Its  main 
peculiarity,  however,  is,  that  it  is  one  of  the  very  oldest  pieces  in  EngUsh 
founded  on  a  classic  original,  the  author  professing,  in  his  prologue,  to  have 
been  indebted  to  Plautus's  first  comedy.  Of  the  other  two  plays  mentioned 
above,  Camhyses  and  Appius  and  Virginia,  both  containing  a  mixture  of  history 
and  allegory,  the  latter  is  superior  to  the  former  both  in  construction  and  in 
literary  merit,  though  neither  can  boast  of  much  of  these  two  qualities.  The  latter 
is  founded  on  a  well-known  incident  in  Roman  history,  and  is  called  by  its 
author,  whose  initials  R.  B.  only  are  known,  a  '  tragical  comedy,'  the  exact 
signification  of  neither  of  these  words  being  yet  weU  defined.  The  characters 
are,  besides  Virginijis,  Virginia  his  daughter,  her  mother,  Judge  Appius,  and 
Claudius ;  Conscience,  Haphazard,  Justice,  Eumour,  Comfort,  ReAvard,  and 
Doctrina,  and  some  domestics.  It  was  written  not  later  than  1563,  and,  like 
most  plays  before  and  for  some  time  after  this,  it  is  in  rhyme.  The  author 
apparently  had  no  notion  of  dramatic  propriety  and  decorum,  as  he  makes 
Virginius  weU  acquainted  with  the  events  narrated  in  the  beginning  of  Genesis, 
and  makes  him  talk  of  his  wife  and  daughter  going  to  church  like  Christians  ; 
ofie  of  the  servants  swearing  '  by  the  mass.'  Still,  notwithstanding  these  draw- 
backs, it  compares  favourably  with  preceding  productions  of  the  same  class, 
and  is  interesting  as  marking  an  important  stage  in  the  development  of  the 
historical  drama  out  of  the  old  moral  play,  although  there  was  produced  about 
the  same  time  a  drama,  which,  so  far  as  the  characters  are  concerned,  is  entitled 
to  be  called  a  regular  historical  play. 

We  cannot  foUow  the  history  of  moral  plays  further,  as  our  only  design  in 
noticing  them  is  to  show  the  share  they  had  in  giving  birth  to  the  legitimate 
drama ;  and  what  we  have  said  above  is  sufficient  for  this  purpose,  as  we  have 
broiTght  owx  observations  down  to  a  point  when  the  first  regular  dramas,  some- 
what crude  in  form,  make  their  appearance.  We  have  traced  the  history  of  the 
miracle  play,  the  earliest  form  of  the  British  drama,  down  to  the  period  when 
it  gave  birth  to  the  morality,  although  the  former  for  a  long  time  still  con- 
tinued to  be  represented,  especially  in  the  country  districts  ;  and  we  have  shown 
how  the  latter  gradually  became  modified,  by  admitting  among  its  allegorical 
impersonations,  characters  representative  of  persons,  and  ultimately  assumed  a 
form  which  could  not  fail  to  suggest  the  historical  drama.  Like  the  miracle  play,^ 
the  morality  kept  the  stage  for  long  after  its  legitimate  child  had  reached  its 
vigour,  one  of  the  last  and  worst  of  its  kind  being  The  Contention  betiveen 
Liberality  and  Prodigality  (1602),  which  was  acted  before  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Even  in  the  works  of  some  of  our  greatest  dramatists,  there  are  occasionally 
short  allegorical  episodes  ;  and  the  best  production  of  George  Peele,  David  and 
Bethsabe  (printed  in  the  following  pages),  may,  so  far  as  the  subject  and 
characters  are  concerned,  be  fairly  entitled  a  miracle  play. 


xxxii  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 

Before  concluding  this  Introduction,  by  noticing  some  of  the  earliest  regu- 
lar dramas,  Ave  must  go  back  in  point  of  time  and  mention  shortly  a  species 
of  dramatic  composition,  which  no  doubt  contributed  largely  to  suggest  the 
regular  comedy ;  indeed  it  might  itself  be  regarded  as  the  earliest  form  of 
comedy,  bearing  somewhat  of  a  resemblance  to  the  modern  farce.  The  kind  of 
dramatic  entertainment  to  which  we  refer  is  known  as  an  *  Interlude,'  and,  as  its 
name  indicates,  seems  to  have  been  intended  for  representation  during  the 
intervals  of  a  longer  and  more  serious  entertainment.  The  term  Interlude  was 
not  confined  to  plays  of  this  peculiar  kind,  but  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Edward 
IV.  Avas  applied  to  theatrical  productions  generally,  both  miracle  and  moral  plays 
being  sometimes  so  designated.  The  name,  however,  since  the  time  of  John 
Heywood,  has  been  applied  to  a  class  of  dramatical  productions  of  which,  Mr. 
Collier  thinks,  he  lias  a  claim  to  be  considered  the  inventor ;  Heywood,  at  all 
events,  is  the  earliest  known  author  of  interludes  proper,  those  written  by  him 
being  likewise  the  most  meritorious.  The  interlude  is  a  short  farcical  comedy, 
which  Avould  probably  occupy  not  above  half  an  hour  in  the  performance, 
founded  on  some  ludicrous  or  absurd  incident,  and  carried  on  generally  by  only 
three  or  four  characters.  How  the  idea  of  such  a  composition  Avas  suggested  to 
HeyAVOod  is  not  knoAvn,  although  there  Avas  often  such  a  mixture  of  comedy 
and  even  '  screaming  farce '  in  the  old  mysteries  and  morals,  that  it  is  not 
improbable  the  ludicrous  scenes  in  some  of  these  might  have  suggested  to  his 
merry  mind  the  notion  of  the  comic  interlude;  indeed,  his  earliest  knoAvn 
composition  of  this  kind  resembles  someAvhat  a  short  comical  miracle  play. 
The  date  of  John  HeyAvood's  birth  is  not  known,  but  early  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  he  is  found  attached  to  the  court  and  in  receipt  of  a  salary  as  a  '  player  on 
the  virginals ; '  in  this  capacity,  and  also  as  a  Avriter  of  plays  and  a  professed 
Avit,  he  continued  to  be  a  retainer  of  the  court  during  Henry's  reign  and  that 
of  his  daughter  Mary,  and,  though  a  zealous  Catholic,  Avas  patronized  even  by 
the  rigid  Elizabeth.  He  died  at  Mechlin  in  Brabant  in  1565.  Heywood  is 
perhaps  better  knoAvn  as  an  epigrammatist  than  a  writer  of  plays ;  he  also  wrote 
several  songs.  The  earliest  knoAvn  of  his  interludes  is  A  Merry  Play  bettveen  the 
Pardoner,  the  Friar,  the  Curate,  and  Neighbour  Pratte,  Avritten  before  1521.  The 
tricks  and  imposition  of  both  friars  and  pardoners  are  freely  exposed  and 
ridiculed  during  the  course  of  the  play. 

HeyAVOod's  best  interlude  is  undoubtedly  the  one  entitled  The  Four  P^s,  Avritten 
probably  about  1530.  The  play  turns  upon  a  dispute  betAveen  a  Pardoner,  a 
Palmer,  a  Poticary  (Apothecary),  and  a  Pedlar.  The  play  commences  by  each 
of  the  four  boasting  of  the  pre-eminence  of  his  own  profession,  doing  his  best 
to  cast  contempt  on  that  of  his  neighbours.  The  language  here,  as  throughout 
the  interlude,  while  sometimes  highly  ludicrous  and  full  of  Avit  and  humour,  is 
often  very  coarse  and  filthy ;  and  HeyAvood,  though  a  Catholic,  does  not  scruple 
to  expose  the  unclean  lives  and  Ioav  tricks  of  the  priesthood.  Tired  of  reviling 
each  other's  occupation,  they  resolve,  at  the  Pedlar's  suggestion,  to  decide  their 
dispute  for  pre-eminence  by  aAvarding  it  to  him  Avho  Avill  tell  the  greatest  lie  ; 
and  after  some  further  Avrangling,  they  agree  each  to  put  his  lie  in  the  form  of 
a  story.  The  Poticary  begins,  but  his  tale  is  so  full  of  dirt  and  obscenity,  that 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  give  even  an  abstract  of  it  in  these  pages.  The  Par- 
doner takes  his  turn  next,  and  commences  by  telling  them  that  a  female  friend 
of  his  having  died  suddenly,  he  resolved  to  find  out  '  in  what  estate  her  sould 
did  stand.'  For  this  purpose  he  Avent  to  Purgatory  —  he  apparently  never 
dreamt  of  commencing  higher  up — but  not  finding  her  there,  he  made  his  way 
to  hell. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


XXXIU 


'  And  first  to  the  devil  that  kept  the  gate 
I  came,  and  spalce  after  tliis  rate  : 
All  hail,  'Sir  Devil,  and  made  low  courtesy  : 
"Welcome,  quoth  he,  thus  smilingly. 
He  knew  me  well,  and  I  at  last 
Eemembered  him  since  long  time  past : 
For  as  good  hap  would  have  it  chance, 
This  devil  and  I  were  of  old  acquaintance  ; 
Tor  oft  in  the  play  of  Corpus  Christi, 
He  hath  played  the  devil  at  Coventry. 
By  his  acquaintance  and  my  behaviour. 
He  showed  to  me  right  friendly  favour  ; 

He  gets  liis  passport,  and  his  tale  proceeds 

*  This  devil  and  I  walked  arm  in  arm, 
So  far,  till  he  had  brought  me  thither, 
Where  all  the  devils  of  hell  together 
Stood  in  array,  in  such  apparel 
As  for  that  day  there  meetly  fell. 
Their  horns  well  gilt,  their  claws  full  clean, 
Their  tails  well  kempt,  and,  as  I  ween. 
With  sothery '  butter  their  bodies  anointed  ; 
I  never  saw  devils  so  well  appointed. 
The  master  devil  sat  in  his  jacket, 
And  all  the  souls  were  playing  at  racket. 
None  other  rackets  they  had  in  hand, 
Save  every  soul  a  good  firebrand  ; 
Wherewith  they  played  so  prettily, 
That  Lircifer  laughed  merrily  ; 
And  all  the  residue  of  the  fiends 
Did  laugh  thereat  full  well  like  friends. 


And  to  make  my  return  the  shorter, 
I  said  to  this  devil,  Good  master  porter, 
For  all  old  love,  if  it  lie  in  your  power. 
Help  me  to  speak  with  my  lord  and  your. 
Be  sure,  quoth  he,  no  tongue  can  tell. 
What  time  thou  couldst  have  come  so  well : 
For  as  on  this  day  Lucifer  fell. 
Which  is  our  festival  in  hell, 
Nothing  unreasonable  craved  this  day, 
That  shall  in  hell  have  any  nay. 
But  yet  beware  thou  come  not  in. 
Till  time  thou  may  thy  passport  win.* 

thus  : 

But  of  my  friend  I  saw  no  whit, 
Nor  durst  not  ask  for  her  as  yet. 
Anon  all  this  rout  was  brought  in  silence, 
And  1  by  an  usher  brought  in  presence 
Of  Lucifer  :  then  low,  as  well  I  could, 
I  kneeled,  which  he  so  well  allowed. 
That  thus  he  becked,  and  by  Saint  Anthony 
He  smiled  on  me  well  favouredly. 
Bending  his  brows  as  broad  as  barn-ddors. 
Shaking  his  ears  as  rugged  as  burrs  ; 
Rolling  his  eyes  as  round  as  two  bushels  ; 
Flashing  the  fire  out  of  his  nostrils  ; 
Gnashing  his  teeth  so  vaingloriously. 
That  methought  time  to  fall  to  flattery. 
Wherewith  I  told,  as  I  shall  tell. ' 


He  beseeches  Lucifer  to  tell  him  where 

her  name,  exclaims : 

*  Now,  by  our  honour,  said  Lucifer, 
No  devil  in  hell  shall  withhold  her  ; 
And  if  thou  wouldst  have  twenty  mo, 
Wer't  not  for  justice,  they  should  go. 
For  all  we  devils  within  this  den 
Have  more  to  do  with  two  women. 
Than  with  all  the  charge  we  have  beside  : 
Wherefore  if  thou  our  friend  will  be  tried. 
Apply  thy  pardons  to  women  so 
That  unto  us  there  come  no  mo. 
To  do  my  best  I  promised  by  oath  ; 
Which  I  have  kept,  for  as  the  faith  goeth 
At  this  day,  to  heaven  I  do  procure 
Ten  women  to  one  man,  be  sure. 
Then  of  Lircifer  my  leave  I  took. 
And  straight  unto  the  master-cook    ; 
I  was  had,  into  the  kitchen. 
For  Margery's  office  was  therein. 
All  things  handled  there  discreetly. 
For  eveiy  soul  beareth  office  meetly : 
Which  might  be  seen  to  see  her  sit 
So  basely  turning  of  the  spit. 


his  friend  is  ;  the  devil,  after  hearing 


For  many  a  spit  here  hath  she  turned. 
And  many  a  good  spit  hath  she  burned  : 
And  many  a  spit  full  hoth  liath  roasted  ; 
Before  the  meat  could  be  half  roasted, 
And  ere  the  meal  were  half  roasted  indeed, 
I  took  her  then  from  the  spit  with  speed. 
But  when  she  saw  this  brought  to  pass, 
To  tell  the  joy  wherein  she  was  ; 
And  of  all  the  devils  for  joy  how  they 
Did  roar  at  her  delivery, 
And  how  the  chains  in  hell  did  ring. 
And  how  all  the  souls  therein  did  sing  ; 
And  how  we  were  brought  to  the  gate, 
And  how  we  took  our  leave  thereat, 
Be  sure  lack  of  time  sutt'ereth  not 
To  rehearse  the  twenty  part  of  that. 
Wherefore  this  tale  to  conclude  briefly, 
This  woman  thanked  me  chiefly 
That  she  was  rid  of  this  endless  death. 
And  so  we  departed  on  Newmarket  Heath. 
And  if  that  any  man  do  mind  her. 
Who  list  to  seek  her,  there  shall  he  find  her. ' 


The  Palmer  allows  that  the  Pardoner's  tale  is  '  all  much  perilous,'  but  marvels 
how  the  devils  could  complain  '  that  women  put  them  to  such  pain.' 


'  Whereby  much  marvel  to  me  ensueth. 
That  women  in  hell  such  shrews  can  be, 
And  here  so  gentle  as  far  as  I  see. 
Yet  have  I  seen  many  a  mile. 
And  many  a  woman  in  the  while. 
Not  one  good  city,  town,  nor  borough, 
In  Christendom,  but  I  have  been  thorough  ; 


And  this  I  would  ye  should  understand, 
I  have  seen  women  five  hundred  thousand, 
And  oft  with  them  have  long  time  tarried. 
Yet  in  all  places  where  I  have  been, 
Of  all  the  women  that  I  have  seen, 
I  never  saw  nor  knew  in  my  conscience, 
Any  one  woman  out  of  patience. 


jottery— savoury. 


xxxiv  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 

Poticary.  By  the  mass,  there  is  a  great  lie.  Palmer.  Sir,  whether  that  I  lose  or  get, 

Pardoner.  I  never  heard  a  greater,  by  our  For  my  part  judgment  shall  be  prayed. 

Lady.  ,  Pardoner.  And  I  desire  as  he  hath  said. 

Pedlar.  A  greater  !  nay,  know  ye  any  so  Poticary.  Proceed,  and  ye  shall  be  obeyed. ' 


great 


The  Pedlar  then  proceeds  to  give  his  award,  and  of  course  decides  in  favour  of 
the  Palmer,  who  has  thus  unwittingly,  by  the  confession  of  all,  told  the  greatest 
lie: 

'  Thus  I  award  by  way  of  judgment : 
Of  all  the  lies  ye  all  have  spent. 
His  lie  to  be  most  excellent. ' 

Notwithstanding  the  rudeness  of  the  language  and  the  coarseness  of  the  fun  of 
this  unique  play,  it  is  full  of  humour,  sarcasm,  liveliness,  and  vigour  of  expres- 
sion, and  is,  on  the  whole,  not  an  unworthy  harbinger  of  the  regular  British 
comic  drama. 

Besides  the  two  above  spoken  of,  other  interludes  by  Hey  wood  are — A  play 
hetiveen  John  the  husband,  Tyh  his  wife,  and  Sir  John  the  priest ;  it  is  a 
*  merry  play,'  resembling  in  its  structure  and  composition  a  one-act  farce  ;  The 
Play  of  the  Weather,  written  to  enforce  and  illustrate  a  point  of  natural 
philosophy,  and  under'  the  name  of  Jupiter,  to  vindicate  Providence  in  the 
course  and  distribution  of  the  seasons.  Both  these  were  printed  in  1533,  but 
probably  written  much  earlier. 

The  last  interlude  we  shall  notice  is  one  of  some  importance,  in  so  far  as  it 
bears  the  same  relation  to  the  serious  di'ama  that  Heywood's  productions  do  to 
comedy.     It  was  published  about  1530,  and  bears  the  following  title  : 

*  A  new  comedy  in  English,  in  manner  of  an  interlude,  right  elegant  and  full  of  craft  of 
rhetoric,  wherein  is  showed  and  described,  as  well  the  beauty  and  good  properties  of  women, 
as  their  vices  and  evil  conditions,  with  a  moral  conclusion  and  exhortation  to  virtue. ' 

The  characters  are  the  hero  Calisto,  the  heroine  Melibea,  Danio  her  father, 
Sempronio,  a  parasite,  and  a  procuress  Celestina.  The  following  is  Mr.  Collier's 
account  of  the  plot : 

'  The  story  is  simply  this  :  Calisto,  a  gay  young  man,  is  in  love  with  Melibea,  the 
daughter  of  Danio,  but  she  dislikes  him.  By  the  advice  of  a  parasite,  called  Sempronio,  he 
engages  by  gifts  old  Celestina,  who  keeps  a  common  brothel,  on  his  side.  She  endeavours 
to  seduce  the  heroine  into  her  house  to  meet  Calisto,  but  failing,  pretends  that  he  has  a 
dreadful  fit  of  the  toothache,  which  cannot  be  cured  without  the  loan  of  the  relic-hallowed 
girdle  of  Melibea,  aided  by  the  maiden's  prayers.  Melibea,  thus  importuned,  consents  to 
lend  her  girdle  (which  seems  to  be  taken  figuratively  fo;-  a  much  less  innocent  concession), 
and  immediately  after  she  has  given  it,  she  repents  her  rashness,  confesses  her  fault  to  her 
father,  puts  up  prayers  to  Heaven  for  assistance  and  forgiveness,  and  the  performance  ends 
with  a  moralization  and  warning  to  old  and  young  by  Danio. '    ■ 

There  are  several  other  interludes  extant,  written  about  the  same  time  as 
these  just  mentioned,  but  we  have  not  space  to  go  further  into  the  subject ;  and 
indeed,  considering  the  aim  of  this  Introduction,  more  details  on  this  point  are 
unnecessary,  as  we  have  said  enough  to  show  that  early  in  the  sixteenth  century 
English  comedy  had  come  into  being,  though  in  a  sufficiently  crude  state.  It 
is  the  writer's  fault  if  the  reader  has  not  also  been  able  to  understand  clearly 
the  influences  which  were  at  work  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
tending  to  give  rise  to  a  kind  of  serious  drama,  whose  characters  would  be 
entirely  distinct  both  from  the  scriptural  and  saintly  personages  of  the  miracle 
play  and  the  tiresome  abstractions  of  the  morality.  Into  the  latter,  as  we  have 
seen,  were  gradually  introduced,  alongside  the  abstract  impersonations  peculiar 
to  the  moral,  characters  taken  both  from  everyday  life  and  from  history  ;  and 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.  xxxv 

to  us  it  seems  that  this  must  have  had  a  considerable  share  in  suggesting  the 
forms  of  the  regular  drama,  known  as  Tragedy  and  History.  There  may  have 
been  other  influences  at  work  which  we  have  now  no  means  of  ascertaining,  and 
previous  to  the  appearance  of  the  first  regular  tragedy,  there  may  have  existed 
moral  plays  much  more  nearly  resembling  it  in  their  characters  and  construc- 
tion than  any  now  extant.  Still,  we  think  that  the  mixed  moral  plays  which 
have  come  down  to  us,  containing,  as  some  of  them  do,  a  serious  or  tragical 
element, — combined  with  the  interludes  and  earlier  comedies,  which  in  their 
construction  approximate  closely  to  the  form  of  the  legitimate  drama, — would 
of  themselves  be  to  a  great  extent  suggestive  of  the  earliest  form  assumed  by 
the  regular  serious  drama.  No  doubt,  however,  the  greater  attention  given  to 
the  Greek  and  Koman  classics,  consequent  on  the  revival  of  learning,  during 
the  fifteenth  and  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  centuries,  had  its  share  in  giving 
birth  to  the  last  form  assumed  by  the  English  drama.  One  of  the  interludes, 
Thyestes^  took  its  title  from  a  Homeric  hero,  and  the  moral  Jack  Juggler  is 
founded  on  a  comedy  of  Plautus.  It  is  also  known  the  Andrea  of  Terence 
was  not  only  translated  but  acted  before  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century ; 
and  somewhat  later  a  drama  appeared  having  for  its  title  Julius  Ccesar. 
Later  still,  we  learn  from  Gosson's  School  of  Abuse,  published  in  1579,  there 
existed  dramas  bearing  such  titles  as  Ccesar  and  Fompey,  The  Fabii,  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  etc.  ;  and  Gosson  also  informs  us  that  '  comedies  in  Latin,  French, 
Italian,  and  Spanish,  have  been  thoroughly  ransacked  to  furnish  the  playhouses 
in  London.'  These  statements  show  that  someAvhere  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century  the  attention  of  British  play-writers  was  attracted  not  only 
to  the  dramatic  and  other  productions  of  Greece  and  Eome,  but  also  to  the 
theatrical  productions  of  the  continental  nations,  in  some  of  which  the  regular 
drama  had  begun  to  flourish.  While,  then,  the  British  drama  of  the  latter 
half  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  doubtless  the  legitimate  child  of  the  later  moral 
plays,  it  appears  highly  probable  that  the  influences  just  mentioned  had  some- 
thing to  do  in  helping  to  give  it  birth,  and  in  bestowing  upon  it  the  character 
which  ultimately  marked  it. 

The  English  drama,  it  is  well  known,  in  reference  to  subject,  is  divided  into 
ti'agedy,  comedy,  and  a  species  which  may  partake  of  the  nattire  of  either 
of  these,  known  as  history  or  chronicle-history.  The  use  of  the  terms  tragedy 
and  comedy  was  well  enough  defined  both  by  the  Greek  and  Eoman  dramatists  ; 
but  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  English  drama  they  appear  to  have  been  used  in- 
differently to  designate  any  kind  of  play,  and  were  sometimes  also  applied  to 
poetical  compositions  of  other  kinds.  The  play  of  Appius  and  Virginia  is  styled 
by  its  author  a  '  tragical  comedy ; '  and  Bale  calls  his  miracle  play,  God's  Promises, 
a  tragedy,  and  his  Christ's  Temptation  a  comedy.  Before  his  time,  '  tragedy '  was 
used  to  signify  any  serious  narrative  in  verse,  and  even  late  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth  the  term  was  applied  to  other  besides  dramatic  productions.  Dante, 
we  know,  calls  his  Inferno  a  commedia.  The  terms,  however,  with  the  rise  of 
the  regular  drama,  began  to  be  generally  confined  to  theatrical  productions ; 
and  although  we  have  already  attempted  to  define  them,  we  shall  here  take  the 
liberty  of  quoting  a  paragraph  from  the  work  of  Mr.  Collier,  in  which  he 
describes  the  terms  with  particular  reference  to  their  use  in  the  English  drama : 

*  By  tragedy  and  comedy,  I  mean  theatrical  productions,  the  characters  in  which  are 
either  drawn  from  life,  or  are  intended  to  represent  life,  whetlier  those  characters  be  actual 
or  imaginary  ;  the  terms  include  also  a  species  of  di'ama,  well  known  of  old  in  the  literature 
of  this  country,  called  "history,"  or  "chronicle-history,"  which  consisted  of  certain 
passages,  or  events  detailed  by  annalists,  put  into  a  dramatic  form,  often  without  regard  to 
the  course  in  which  they  happened  ;   the  author  sacrificing  chronology,  situation,  and 


xxxvi  ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 

circumstance  to  the  superior  object  of  prodiicing  an  attractive  play.  It  is  tlie  disregard  of 
the  trammels  of  the  unities  which  constitutes  our  "romantic  drama,"  whether  the  story  be 
real  or  iictitious  ;  and  from  the  earliest  period  to  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  there  is  not  a 
play  in  our  language  in  which  they  are  strictly  observed.  The  words  "romantic  drama" 
have  reference  to  form  and  construction  merely,  and  do  not  in  any  respect  relate  to  senti- 
ment or  language. ' 

In  order  to  connect  this  Introduction  with  the  body  of  the  work,  we  shall 
conclude  by  noticing  one  or  two  of  the  earhest  extant  regular  comedies  and 
tragedies.  As  we  shall  give  specimens  of  these,  our  remarks  here  will  be 
brief. 

Judging  from  the  remains  that  have  reached  our  time,  comedy  had  its  birth 
at  least  ten  years  before  tragedy.  The  earliest  extant  regular  English  comedy, 
discovered  not  many  years  ago,  is  entitled  Ralph  Roister  Doister;  it  was  certainly 
in  existence  in  1551,  though  probably  written  some  years  earlier.  Its  author 
was  Nicholas  Udall,  a  native  of  Hampshire,  who  was  born  in  1506,  matriculated 
at  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford,  in  1520,  and  died  about  1557,  after  having 
been  successively  Master  of  Eton  and  Westminster  Schools.  He  appears  to  have 
written  other  comedies,  but  this  is  the  only  one  which  has  come  down  to  us,  and 
in  the  prologue  the  author  calls  it  a  comedy  or  interlude.  From  this  prologue 
we  might  infer  that  the  comedies  of  Plautus  and  Terence  were  the  models  which 
he  endeavoured  to  imitate.  Before  the  discovery  of  Udall's  play,  the  palm  of 
precedence  in  point  of  time  was  given  to  Gammer  GurtorCs  Needle^  a  comedy  by 
Bisliop  Still,  written  not  much  earlier  than  1566,  and  much  inferior  both  in  plot, 
construction,  and  literary  merit  to  Ralph  Roister  Doister.  The  latter  is  regularly 
divided  into  five  acts  and  scenes  ;  and  whereas  Still's  play  depicts  the  manners  of 
coarse  rustic  life,  the  scene  of  Udall's  comedy  is  in  London,  and  it  possesses 
much  interest  as  representing  in  no  slight  degree  the  manners  of  more  polished 
society,  exhibiting  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  thinking  and  acting  in  the 
metropolis  at  the  period  when  it  Avas  written.  The  plot  is  interesting  and  well 
condu.cted,  the  language  on  the  whole  natural  and  vigorous,  the  characters 
marked  by  considerable  individuality.  As  we  shall  give  as  much  of  this  comedy 
as  will  enable  the  reader  to  judge  of  its  merits  for  himself,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
notice  it  more  minutely  ;  it  is  certainly  a  great  advance  on  the  meagre  interlude. 
It  is  written  in  rhyme,  but  it  Avas  not  till  the  time  of  Marlowe  that  the  stage  was 
fairly  freed  from  this  trammel,  and  even  Shakespeare  himself  sometimes  con- 
cludes his  speeches  Avith  a  jingle. 

There  Avas  an  interval  of  ten  years  before  the  next  regular  extant  drama 
made  its  appearance.  Not  that  during  this  time  no  other  theatrical  productions 
besides  morals  made  their  appearance, — the  probability  is  that  there  were ;  and 
Mr.  Collier  thinks  that  the  play  we  are  about  to  notice  was  preceded  by  a 
tragedy  upon  Luigi  da  Porto's  famous  novel  of  Romeo  and  Juliet;  and  it  is 
known  that  in  1559  and  1560  respectively,  appeared  translations  of  two  of 
Seneca's  tragedies.  The  Troas  and  Thyestes,  by  Jasper  HeyAvood,  son  of  the  author 
of  the  Interludes.  Between  1559  and  1566,  other  eight  translations  from  the 
same  author  appeared  by  various  hands.  HoAvever,  Ave  are  speaking  only  of 
those  dramas  that  have  reached  our  OAvn  time.  The  earliest  extant  drama 
Avhich  may  be  regarded  as  the  harbinger  of  the  regular  tragedy,  Avas  played 
before  the  queen  at  Whitehall,  by  the  members  of  the  Inner  Temple,  on  the 
18th  of  January  1561,  and  Avas  first  printed  in  1565  under  the  title  of  The 
Tragedy  of  Govhoduc,  although  in  the  second  edition  of  1571  it  is  entitled  The 
Tragedy  of  Ferrex  and  Porrex.  The  author  of  this  piece  Avas  Thomas  Sackville, 
afterwards  Lord  Buckhurst  and  Earl  of  Dorset,  who  appears  to  have  been 
assisted  by  Thomas  Norton,  although  it  is  probable  that  the  latter  had  a  very 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


small  share  in  its  composition.  Thomas  Sackville,  the  only  son  of  Sir  Richard 
Sackville,  was  born  at  Buckhnrst,  in  Sussex,  in  1536;  studied  at  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  where  he  acquired  a  high  reputation  as  a  poet,  both  in  Latin  and 
Enghsh  ;  and  afterwards  became  a  student  of  the  Inner  Temple.  It  was  while  a 
student  there  that  he  wrote  his  tragedy.  He  was  the  author  of  two  other  poems, 
— The  Induction^  a  noble  and  dignified  preface  to  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates^  and 
The  Complaint  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham.  After  travelling  in  France  and  Italy, 
he  returned  to  England,  and  entered  public  life,  and  soon  after  1566  was  created 
Lord  Buckhurst.  He  became  a  great  favourite  with  the  queen ;  and  after  the 
death  of  Burleigh,  succeeded  him  as  Lord  High  Treasurer.  In  1604  he  was 
created  Earl  of  Dorset  by  King  James,  died  in  1608,  and  was  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  The  play  of  Gorboduc  is  regularly  divided  into  five  acts  and 
scenes,  and  is  so  far  an  imitation  of  the  classical  drama  that  it  has  a  chorus  of 
'  four  ancient  and  sage  men  of  Britain,'  although  in  the  main  it  may  be  regarded 
as  an  early  example  of  the  romantic  drama.  Preceding  each  act  there  is  a 
dumb  show  intended  to  prefigure  what  is  to  occur,  although,  as  Warton  re- 
marks, 'it  is  not  always  typical  of  the  ensuing  incidents.'  In  that  which 
precedes  Act  V.,  the  impropriety  has  been  committed  of  introducing  a  troop  of 
soldiers,  600  years  before  Christ,  with  fire-arms,  which  are  discharged  to  indi- 
cate the  bloodshed  about  to  ensue.  Such  anachronisms  were  frequent  enough 
in  the  old  miracle  and  moral  plays,  and,  as  is  well  known,  Shakespeare  himself 
occasionally  '  nods '  in  this  respect.  '  Dumb  show '  was  not  entirely  disused 
even  in  the  more  advanced  days  of  the  stage.  The  subject  of  this  drama  is 
taken  from  the  early  legendary  history  of  Britain,  and  the  following  is  Hawkins' 
abstract  of  the  plot : 

'  Gorboduc,  a  king  of  Britain  about  600  years  before  Christ,  made  in  his  lifetime  a 
division  of  his  kingdom  to  his  sons  Fei-rex  and  Porrex.  The  two  young  princes  within  five 
years  quarrelled  for  universal  sovereignty.  A  civil  war  ensued,  and  Porrex  slew  his  elder 
brother  Ferrex.  Their  mother  Viden,  who  loved  Ferrex  best,  revenged  his  death  by  enter- 
ing Porrex's  chamber  in  the  night,  and  murdering  him  in  his  sleep.  The  people,  exaspe- 
rated at  the  cruelty  and  treachery  of  this  murder,  rose  in  rebellion  and  killed  both  Viden  and 
Gorboduc.  The  nobility  then  assembled,  collected  an  army,  and  destroyed  the  rebels.  An 
intestine  war  commenced  between  the  chief  lords  ;  the  succession  of  the  crown  became 
uncertain  and  arbitrary  for  want  of  the  lineal  royal  issue  ;  and  the  country,  destitute  of  a 
king,  and  wasted  by  domestic  slaughter,  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  the  most  misei-able 
desolation. ' 

The  tragedy  ought  properly  to  have  ended  with  the  fourth  act,  for  there  the 
catastrophe  is  complete ;  but  the  author  has  eked  out  the  play,  '  certainly  not 
very  amusingly,  by  various  harangues  and  narrations,  relative  to  the  civil  war 
which  followed  the  death  of  all  the  members  of  the  royal  family.'  Although 
no  doubt  vastly  superior  in  design  and  execution  to  most  of  the  preceding 
and  contemporary  theatrical  performances,  '  it  cannot,'  says  Mr.  Collier,  '  be 
disputed  that  the  story  proceeds  with  laborious  sluggishness,  and  that  the 
dialogue  is  generally  as  weighty  as  the  plot  it  developes.  The  speeches  are 
usually  of  most  tedious  extent,  and  the  thoughts  and  sentiments  more  than 
sufficiently  trite  and  commonplace.'  Still,  considering  the  circumstances  under 
which  this  drama  was  produced,,  taking  into  account  the  rubbish  which  had 
possession  of  the  stage  at  the  time,  the  wretched  examples  which  the  author 
had  before  him  for  imitation,  as  the  foundation  of  our  regular  tragic  drama, 
it  must  be  considered  on  the  whole  a  creditable  performance.  Notwith- 
standing its  inflated  language,  bad  taste,  and  want  of  individuality  in  the 
characters,  the  language  is  occasionally  vigorous,  and  often  sweet  and  musical. 
This  great  improvement  it  has  on  its  predecessors,  which,  however,  was  not 
generally  adopted  for  many  years  after,  viz.  its  want  of  rhyme ;  it  is  written  in 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


blank  verse.  As  we  have  seen  before,  Marlowe  was  the  first  to  introduce  this 
improvement  on  the  public  stage.  A  few  extracts  from  this  play  will  be  found 
at  the  end  of  this  Introduction. 

At  the  same  time  as  Gorboduc,  or  possibly  a  little  earlier,  was  written  a 
comedy  which  exists  in  manuscript  in  a  mutilated  state,  and  is  spoken  of  with 
approval  by  Mr.  CpUier.  It  is  entitled  Misogonus,  and  is  probably  founded  on 
an  Italian  novel. 

Another  dramatist,  who  wrote  about  the  same  time  as  Sackville,  was  Richard 
Edwardes,  born  1523,  died  1566;  he  was  a  native  of  Somersetshire,  and  was 
educated  at  Oxford.  Little  else  appears  to  be  known  about  him,  except  that  he 
was  the  author  of  several  plays,  the  names  of  only  two  of  which  have  come  down 
to  us,  Palemon  and  Arcite,  and  Damon  and  Pythias^  the  latter  alone  being  extant. 
It  was  acted  in  1564,  but  was  probably  written  somewhat  earlier.  It  is  a  tragi- 
comedy wi'itten  in  rhyme,  and  is  full  of  all  kinds  of  dramatic  improprieties  and 
absurdities,  but  contains  some  sweet  and  fanciful  though  conceited  poetry ;  alto- 
gether, it  is  a  fair  production  for  the  time,  and  may  be  regarded  as  one  step  in 
advance  towards  the  perfection  of  the  regular  drama. 

In  1566  appeared  Bishop  Still's  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  a  comedy  of  the 
same  class  as  Ralph  Roister  Doister,  though  much  inferior  to  that  production. 
The  plot  turns  on  the  loss  of  Gammer  Gurton's  needle,  which,  after  much  talk 
and  searching,  is  found  sticking  in  the  seat  of  her  servant  Hodge's  breeches. 
The  language  is  even  more  coarse  and  antiquated  than  in  its  predecessor,  which 
may  be  accounted  for  by  the  lower  class  of  characters  that  form  the  dramatis 
personcB.  It  contains  one  of  the  earliest  drinking  songs  in  the  language,  which, 
as  it  has  considerable  merit  and  a  jolly  ring  about  it.  we  shall  make  bold  to 
quote  here : 


'  Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  : 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  cannot  eat,  but  little  meat, 

My  stomach  is  not  good; 
But  sure  1  think,  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothing  a  cold; 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  etc. 

I  love  no  roast,  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire  ; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead. 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow. 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold, 


I  am  so  wrapt,  and  throughly  lapt 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  etc. 

And  Tyb  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  ye  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek; 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl. 

Even  as  a  malt  worm  should; 
And  saith,  sweet  heart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drink,  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do. 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to : 
And  all  poor  souls,  that  have  scom-ed  bowls. 

Or  have  them  lustily  trold, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  etc. ' 


In  the  same  year  as  Bishop  Still's  play  appeared,  there  were  represented  at 
Gray's  Inn  two  plays  by  George  Gascoigne  (born  1536,  died  1577) ;  the  one 
entitled  The  Supposes,  being  a  translation  from  Gli  Suppositi  of  Ariosto,  and  the 
other  Jocasta,  adapted  from  the  Phainissce  of  Euripides  by  Gascoigne  and  a 
poet  named  Francis  Kinwelmarsh.  The  former  is  mainly  a  close  translation 
from  the  original,  and  is  remarkable  chiefly  as  being  the  earliest  extant  specimen 
of  an  English  play  written  in  prose.  The  Sv2)poses,  which  is  more  of  an  adapta- 
tion than  a  translation,  is,  like  Gorboduc,  written  in  blank  verse,  and  contains 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


XXXIX 


many  passages  of  spirit,  force,  and  harmony.      We  quote  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  the  fight  between  Eteocles  and  Polynices  (Act  V.) : 


'  Oh  blind  imbridled  search  of  sovereignty, 
Oh  tickle  train  of  evil  attained  state  ! 
Oh  fond  desire  of  princely  dignity ! 
Who  climbs  too  soon,  he  oft  repents  too  late. 
The  golden  mean  the  happy  doth  suffice  ; 
They  lead  the  poasting  day  in  rare  delight. 
They  fill  (not  feed)  their  uncontented  eyes, 
They  reap  such   rest  as    doth   beguile  the 
nisht : 


They  not  envy  the  pomp  of  haughty  train, 
Nor  dread  the  dint  of  proud  usurping  swords ; 
But  plast  alow  more  sugred  joys  attain, 
Tlian  sway  of  lofty  sceptre  can  aiford. 
Cease  to  aspire,  then  ^  cease  to  soar  so  high. 
And  shun  the  plague  that  pierceth  noble 

breasts. 
To  glittering  courts  what  fondness  is  to  fly 
When  better  state  in  baser  towers  rests  ! ' 


We  cannot  afford  to  notice  more  in  detail  the  productions  which  appeared 
previous  to  the  time  when  the  '  great  race'  of  Elizabethan  dramatists,  commenc- 
ing with  Lilly,  began  to  pour  forth  their  unequalled  productions ;  indeed  there 
are  few  pieces  extant,  produced  dviring  that  time,  of  any  great  merit  in  them- 
selves, and  we  have  noticed  those  above  mentioned  chiefly  to  show  the  reader 
when  and  how  the  regular  di'ama  came  into  being.  Enough  has  been  said  to 
prove  that  shortly  after  3  560  it  was  fairly  afloat  on  the  sea  of  literature;  and 
as  a  proof  that  the  morality  was  being  rapidly  superseded  by  its  more  vigorous 
and  life-like  successor,  as  well  as  of  the  immense  productiveness  of  the  period 
between  1560  and  1580,  we  may  mention  that  while,  during  that  time,  only 
six  moralities  were  represented  at  court,  there  Avere  enacted  forty-six  regular 
tragedies  and  comedies,  none  of  which  are  now  extant. 

As  we  are  mainly  concerned  here  with  the  drama  as  a  form  of  literature,  we 
have  not  thought  it  necessary,  and,  indeed,  we  have  not  space,  to  give  any 
details  concerning  it  in  its  theatrical  aspect.  With  regard  to  theatres,  it 
must  suffice  to  say  that  long  after  the  commencement  of  the  regular  drama, 
moralities  and  even  regular  plays  were  played  in  public  on  stages  erected  in 
the  open  air,  very  often  in  inn  yards.  The  Bell&  Savage  in  London  was  a 
favourite  locality  for  such  performances.  It  would  appear,  however,  that 
latterly  it  was  customary  to  represent  plays  in  private  in  such  places  as  the 
Inns  of  Court,  and  the  residences  of  the  sovereign  and  the  nobility.  The 
first  regularly  licensed  theatre  was  opened  at  Blackfriars  in  1576;  and  in  a 
very  short  time  it  had  about  half  a  dozen  rivals,  as  The  Theatre  in  Shoreditch, 
The  Curtain  near  Belle  Savage,  Paris  Garden,  Whitefriars,  and  others.  The 
Glohe  theatre,  with  which  Shakespeare  was  connected,  was  erected  on  the 
Bankside  in  Southwark  about  1593,  where  also  were  erected  Tlte  Rose,  The 
Hope,  and  The  Sivan  theatres.  In  the  time  of  Shakespeare  there  would  appear 
to  have  been  at  least  a  dozen  of  these  buildings.  '  The  theatres  were  con- 
structed of  wood,  of  a  circular  form,  open  to  the  weather,  excepting  over  the 
stage,  Avhich  was  covered  with  a  thatched  roof.  Outside,  on  the  roof,  a  flag  was 
hoisted  during  the  time  of  the  performance,  which  commenced  at  three  o'clock, 
at  the  sounding  or  flourish  of  trumpets.  The  cavaliers  and  fair  dames  of  the 
court  of  Elizabeth  sat  in  boxes  below  the  gallery,  or  were  accommodated  with 
stools  on  the  stage,  where  some  of  the  young  gallants  also  threw  themselves  at 
length  on  the  rush-strewn  floors,  while  their  pages  handed  them  pipes  and 
tobacco,  then  a  fashionable  and  highly-prized  luxury.  The  middle  classes  were 
crowded  in  the  pit  or  yard,  Avhich  was  not  furnished  with  seats.  Moveable 
sceneiy  was  first  introduced  by  Davenant  after  the  Eestoration,  but  rude  imita- 
tions of  towers,  woods,  animals,  or  furniture,  served  to  illustrate  the  scene.  To 
point  out  the  place  of  action,  a  board  containing  the  name,  painted  or  written 
in  large  letters,  was  hung  out  during  the  performance.'  Actresses  were  not 
seen  on  the  stage  till  after  the  Eestoration,  the  female  parts  being  taken  by  boys 


xl 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


or  effeminate-looking  young  men.  It  was  customary  for  the  king  or  queen 
and  some  of  the  nobles  to  retain  companies  of  actors  in  their  service  for  their 
own  entertainment,  although  they  were  also  allowed  to  act  in  public ;  hence 
the  phrases  attached  to  the  titles  of  many  old  plays,  '  Acted  by  the  Queen's 
Majesty's  Servants,'  '  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  Servants,'  etc.  As  will  be  seen  in 
the  following  pages,  many  of  the  dramatists  were  actors  as  well. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EARLY  ENGLISH  DRAMAS. 


In  order  to  illustrate  the  preceding  remarks,  and  enable  the  reader  to  judge 
for  himself  of  the  nature  and  progress  of  the  early  English  drama,  we  shall  here 
give  specimens  of  a  miracle  play,  and  of  an  early  comedy  and  tragedy.  We 
have  not  space  to  introduce  a  morality ;  but  as,  with  the  exception  of  the 
characters,  it  differed  but  little  from  a  miracle  play,  an  example  of  a  morality 
can  be  dispensed  with,  especially  as  we  have  given  an  abstract  of  one  or  two  in 
the  Introduction,  which  we  have  also  done  in  the  case  of  one  of  the  best 
Interludes. 

The  miracle  play  we  have  selected  is  the  one  entitled  NoaJi's  Flood,  from  the 
Chester  series  ;  it  was  played  by  the  '  Water  Leaders  and  the  Drawers  of  the 
Dee.'  The  whole  series  appears  to  have  been  played  at  one  time,  and  to  have 
occupied  a  number  of  days.  Previous  to  the  commencement  of  their  exhibi- 
tion, were  read  the  Banes  or  proclamation,  which  gives  an  account  of  the  sup- 
posed origin  of  the  plays,  and  assigns  to  each  of  the  trade-companies  the  part  it 
is  to  take  in  the  performance.  Noah's  Flood  was  the  third  in  the  order  of 
performance,  being  preceded  by  The  Fall  of  Lucifer,  and  The  Creation  and  the 
Fall. 

The  first  speaker  is  God,  who  laments  the  universal  wickedness  of  the  world, 
declaring  his  determination  to  exterminate  '  man,  beast,  worm,  and  fowl.'  He 
then  gives  Noah  the  details  of  the  construction  of  the  ark,  and  the  play  pro- 
ceeds as  follows : — 


'  NOAIT. 

'  0  Lord,  I  thank  tbee  loud  and  still, 
That  to  me  art  in  such  will, 
And  spares  me  and  my  household  to  spill, 
As  I  now  soothly  find. 
Thy  bidding.  Lord,  I  shall  fulfil, 
And  never  more  tbee  grieve  nor  grill,' 
That  such  grace  hatb  sent  me  till 
Amongst  all  mankind. 
Have  done,  you  men  and  women  all, 
Hie  you,  lest  this  water  fall. 
To  work  this  ship,  chamber  and  hall, 
As  God  hatb  bidden  us  do. 

Shesi. 
Father,  I  am  all  ready  bowne  ;* 
An  axe  I  have,  by  my  crown ! 
As  sharp  as  any  in  all  this  town, 
For  to  go  thereto. 

Ham. 

I  have  a  hatchet  wondrous  keen, 
To  bite  well,  as  may  be  seen, 
A  better  groixnd  one,  as  I  ween, 
Is  not  in  all  this  town. 


Japheth. 

And  I  can  make  well  a  pin, 
And  with  this  hammer  knock  it  in ; 
Go  we  work  but  din  * 
And  I  am  ready  bound. 

Noah's  Wife. 

And  we  shall  bring  timber  too, 
For  we  must  nothing  else  do ; 
Women  be  weak  to  undergo 
Any  great  travail. 

S hem's  Wife. 

Here  is  a  good  hackiag  stock, 
On  this  you  may  hew  and  knock 
Shall  none  be  idle  in  this  flock; 
Nay,  now  may  no  man  fail. 

Ham's  Wife. 

And  I  will  go  gather  slyche,'' 
The  ship  for  to  caulk  and  pitch, 
Anointed  it  must  be  with  stick, 
Board,  tree,  and  pine. 


1  grill — provoke. 

*  but  rfira— without  din,  i.e.  without  any  more  noise  or  talk. 


2  bowne— xc&Ay. 

*  slyche— sVime,  mud,  or  lime. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA.                                        xli 

Japheth's  Wife. 

Wife,  we  shall  in  this  vessel  be  kept, 

My  children  and  thou  I  would  ye  in  leapt. 

And  I  will  gather  chips  here 

To  make  a  fire  for  you  in  fere.' 

Noah's  Wife. 

And  for  to  dight-  your  dinner, 

Against  your  coming  in. 

In  faith,  Noah,  I  would  as  lief  thou  slept ! 

For  all  thy  frynish*  fare, 

Tlien    Noah  beginneth  to  build  the  ark,  and 

I  will  not  do  after  thy  rede.* 

speaketh  Noah : 

Noah. 

Noah. 

Now  in  the  name  of  God,  I  begin 

Good  wife,  do  now  as  I  thee  bid.    • 

To  make  the  ship  that  we  shall  in. 

Noah's  Wife. 

That  we  may  be  ready  for  to  swim 

At  the  coming  of  the  flood : 

By  Christ !  not  or  I  see  more  need. 

These  boards  here  I  pin  together. 

Though  thou  stand  all  day  and  stare. 

To  bear  us  safe  from  the  weather, 

That  we  may  row  hither  and  thither, 

Noah. 

And  safe  be  from  the  flood. 

Of  this  tree  will  I  make  the  mast, 

Lord,  that  women  be  crabbed  aye. 

Tied  with  cables  that  will  last. 

And  none  are  meek  I  dare  well  say ; 

With  a  sail  yard  for  each  blast. 

That  is  well  seen  by  me  to-day, 

And  each  thing  in  their  kind : 

In  witness  of  you  each  one. 

With  topcastle  and  bowsprit. 

Good  wife,  let  be  all  this  beare. 

Both  cords  and  ropes  I  have  all  mette,' 

That  thou  makest  in  this  place  here  ; 

To  sail  forth  at  the  next  wet. 

For  all  they  ween  that  thou  art  master. 

This  ship  is  at  an  end. 

And  so  thou  art,  by  Saint  John  ! ' 

God  then  gives  Noah  a  list  of  all  the  animals  he  is  to  take  with  him  into  the 

ark,  concluding  by  declaring  that  he  shall  cause  rain  to  fall  for  forty  days  and 

nights  in  order  that  men  may  be  destro)' 

ed  for  their  '  itnrights.' 

'  Noah. 

They  shall  not  drown,  by  Saint  John  ' 

'  Lord,  to  thy  bidding  I  am  beane,* 
Seeing  no  other  grace  will  gain. 
It  will  I  fulfil  fain,  ^ 
For  gracious  1  thee  find  ; 
A  hundred  winter  and  twenty 

An  I  may  save  their  life. 
They  loved  me  full  well,  by  Christ ! 
But  "thou  let  them  into  thy  chest, 
Else  row  now  where  thou  list, 
And  get  thee  a  new  wife. 

This  ship  making  tarried  have  I : 

Noah. 

If  through  amendment  thy  mercy 
Would  fall  to  mankind. 

Shem,  son,  lo !  thy  mother  is  wroth ; 

By  God,  such  another  I  do  not  know ! 

Then  Noah  shall  go  into  the  ark  with  all  his 

Shem. 

family,  his  wife  excepted,  and  the  ark  must 

be  boarded  round  about,  and  on  the  boards 

Father,  I  shall  fetch  her  in,  I  trow. 

all  the  beasts  and  fowls  painted. 

Withouten  any  fail. — 

Motker,  my  father  after  thee  sends, 

Shem. 

And  bids  thee  into  yonder  ship  wend. 

Sir,  here  are  lions,  leopards  in, 

Look  up  and  see  the  wind, 

Horses,  mares,  oxen,  and  swine ; 

For  we  be  ready  to  sail. 

Goat  and  calf,  sheep  and  kine ; 

Here  sitting  thou  may  see. 

Noah's  Wife. 

Ham. 

Shem,  go  again  to  him,  I  say; 

I  will  not  come  therein  to-day. 

Camels,  asses,  man  may  find, 

Buck  and  doe,  hart  and  hind. 

Noah. 

And  beasts  of  all  manner  kind, 

Come  in,  wife,  in  twenty  devils'  way ! 

Here  be,  as  thinketh  me. 

Or  else  stand  there  all  day. 

Noah. 

Ham. 

Wife,  come  in  :  why  stand  thoii  there  ? 

Shall  we  all  fetch  her  in? 

Thou  art  ever  froward,  I  dare  well  swear; 

Noah. 

Come  in,  in  God's  name !  half  time  it  were, 

For  fear  lest  we  drown. 

Tea,  sons,  in  Christ's  blessing  and  mine ! 

I  would  you  hied  you  betime, 

Noah's  Wife. 

For  of  this  flood  I  am  in  doubt. 

Tea,  sir,  set  up  your  sail, 

The  Good  Gossip's  Song. 

And  row  forth  with  evil  hail. 

For  withouten  fail 

The  flood  comes  flitting  in  full  fast, 

I  will  not  out  of  this  town  ; 

On  every  side  that  spreads  full  far ; 

But  I  have  my  gossips  every  one, 

For  fear  of  drowning  I  am  aghast; 

One  foot  further  I  will  not  go : 

Good  gossips,  let  us  draw  near. 

1  tn/er«— in  company.                          '^  dight 

—prepare.                           ^  me«e— measured. 

*  /rynUh— nice.                                     *  rede- 

-advice.                              *  heane— obedient. 

xlii 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


And  let  us  drink  or  we  depart, 

For  ofttinies  we  have  done  so ; 

For  at  a  draught  thou  drinks  a  quart, 

And  so  will  I  do  or  I  go. 

Here  is  a  pottle  full  of  Malmser  good  and 

strong; 
It  will  rejoice  both  heart  and  tongue  ; 
Though  Noah  think  us  never  so  long, 
Here  we  will  drink  alike. 

Japheth. 

Mother,  we  pi'ay  you  all  together. 
For  we  are  here,  your  own  children. 
Come  into  the  ship  for  fear  of  the  weather. 
For  his  love  that  you  bought ! 

Noah's  Wife. 

That  will  I  not,  for  all  your  call, 
Eut'  I  have  my  gossips  all. 

Shem. 

In  faith,  mother,  yet  you  shall, 
"Whether  thou  wilt  or  not. 

NOAII. 

Welcome,  wife,  into  this  boat. 

Noah's  Wife. 
Have  thou  that  for  thy  note!- 

NOAII. 

Ha,  ha!  many,  this  is  hot! 

[It]  is  good  for  to  be  still. 

Ha  !  children,  methinks  my  boat  removes, 

Our  tarrying  here  highly  me  grieves, 

Over  the  land  the  water  spreads  ; 

God  do  as  he  will. 

Ah !  great  God,  thou  art  so  good. 

That  works  not  thy  will  is  wood,^ 

Now  all  this  world  is  one  flood, 

As  I  see  well  in  sight. 


This  window  I  will  shut  anon, 
And  into  my  chamber  I  will  go, 
Till  this  water  so  great  mone  * 
Be  slacked  through  thy  might. 

Then  shall  Noah  shut  the  window  of  the  ark, 
and  for  a  little  space  be  silent,  and  afterwards 
looking  round  about  shall  say : 

Noah. 

Lord  God,  in  majesty, 

That  such  grace  hath  granted  me, 

Where  all  was  born  false  to  be, 

Therefore  now  I  am  bound,- 

My  wife,  my  children,  and  my  meanye,* 

With  sacrifice  to  honour  thee. 

Of  beasts,  fowls,  as  thou  may'st  see 

And  full  devotion. 

God. 

Noah,  to  me  thou  art  full  able,* 
And  to  my  sacrifice  acceptable. 
For  I  have  found  thee  true  and  stable ; 
On  thee  now  must  I  mind  ; ' 
Warray  *  earth  I  will  no  more. 
For  man's  sins  that  grieves  me  sore. 
You  shall  now  grow  and  multiply, 
On  earth  again  to  edify ; 

My  bow  between  you  and  me 

In  the  firmament  shall  be. 

By  every  token  that  you  shall  see. 

That  such  vengeance  shall  cease. 

Man  shall  never  more 

Be  wasted  with  water,   as  be  hath    been 

before ; 
But  for  sin  that  grieveth  me  sore, 
Therefore  this  vengeance  was. 

My  blessing,  Noah,  I  give  thee  here, 
To  thee,  Noah,  my  servant  dear ; 
For  vengeance  shall  no  more  appear, 
And  now  farewell,  my  darling  dear. 


We  shall  next  present  to  the  reader  so  much  of  the  earliest  extant  English 
comedy  (Ralph  Roister  Doister)  as  will  enable  him  to  form  a  notion  of  its  merits 
as  a  drama. 


^rsmatis  ^trsojta. 


Men. 

Ealph  Koister  Doister. 
Matthew  Mekrygreeice. 
Gavin  Goodlucive. 
Sym  Suresbt. 
Tristram  Trusty. 
Dobinet  Doughtle. 
Truepenny. 


Harpax. 

A  Scrivener. 

Women. 

Christian  Custance. 
Madge  Mumblecrust. 
Tibet  Talkapace. 
Annot  Alyface. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

Matthew  Mekrygreeke  (entereth  singing). 

As  long  liveth  the  merry  man  (they  say), 
As  doth  the  sorry  man,  and  longer  by  a  day. 


Aft€r  a  few  more  lines  in  this  strain,  he  says: 


'  £!;<— -without,  unless. 

3  wood—ma.i. 

«  able— fit,  proper. 


2  note—di)  head  or  nose.    She  evidently  makes  him  feel  the  -weight  of  her 
*  mone — may.  *  meanye — menage,  household. 

^  mind — think.  *  Warray — -wax  with,  curse. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


xliii 


Enow  ye,  that  for  all  this  merry  note  of  mine, 
He  might  pose  me  now  that  should  ask  where  I 

dine. 
My  Uving  lieth  here  and  there,  of  God's  grace: 
Sometime  with  this  good  man,  sometime  in  that 

place ; 

But  this  day  on  Ealph  Eoister  Bolster's,  by  his 

leave. 
For  truly  of  all  men  he  is  my  chief  banker. 
Both  for  meat  and  money,  and  my  chief  sheet- 
anchor. 
For  sooth  Koister  Bolster  in  that  he  doth  say. 
And  require  what  ye  will,  ye  shall  have  no  nay. 
But  now  of  Eoister  Doister  somewhat  to  express. 
That  ye  may  esteem  him  after  his  worthiness, 
In  these  twenty  towns,  and  seek  them  through- 
out, 
Is  not  the  like  stock  whereon  to  graft  a  lout. 
All  the  day  long  is  he  facing  and  craking ' 
Of  his  great  acts  in  fighting  and  fraymaking  ; 
But  when  Eoister  Doister  is  put  to  his  proof. 
To   keep   the  queen's    peace   is  more  for   his 

behoof. 
If  any  woman  smile  or  cast  on  him  an  eye, 
Up  is  he  to  the  hard  ears  in  love  by  and  by. 
And  in  all  the  hot  haste  must  she  be  his  wife. 
Else  farewell  his  good  days,  and  farewell  his 

life: 
Master  Ealph  Eoister  Doister  is  but  dead  and 

gone. 
Except  she  on  him  take  some  compassion. 

I  will  seek  him  out.    But,  lo,  he  cometh  this  way. 

I  have  yonder  espied  him  sadly  coming, 

And  in  love  for  twenty  pouud  by  his  glooming. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 
Ealph  Eoister  Doister  ;  Matthew  Merry- 

GREEKE. 

R.  Roister.  Come,  death,  when  thou  wilt:  I 
am  weary  of  my  life. 

M.  Merry.  What  is  it  then  ? 
Are  ye  in  danger  of  debt  to  any  man  ? 
If  ye  be,  take  no  thought,  nor  be  not  afraid  : 
Let  them  hardly  take  thought  how  they  shall 
be  paid. 
R.  Roister.  Tut,  I  owe  nought. 
31.  Merry.  What  then?  fear  ye  imprisonment? 
R.  Roister.  No. 

M.  Merry.  No,  I  wist,  ye  offend  not  so  to  be 
shent.^ 
But  if  he  had,  the  Tower  could  not  you  so  hold. 
But  to  break  out  at  all  times  ye  would  be  bold. 
What  is  it?  hath  any  man  thi-eatened  you  to 
beat? 
R.  Roister.  What  is  he  that  durst  have  put  me 
in  that  heat  ? 
He  that  beateth  me,  by  his  arms,  shall  well  find, 
That  I  will  not  be  far  from  him,  nor  run  behind. 
M.  Merry.  That  thing  know  all  men,  ever 
since  ye  overthrew 
The  fellow  of  the  lion  which  Hercules  slew. 
But  what  is  it  then  ? 
R.  Roister.  Of  love  I  make  my  moan. 
M.  Merry.  Ah,  this  foolish  love!  wil't  ne'er 
let  us  alone  ? 
But  because  ye  were  refused  the  last  day. 
Ye  said  ye  would  ne'er  more  be  entangled  that 

way. 
I  would  meddle  no  more,  since  I  find  all  so 
unkind. 


^  craking — boasting. 


-  shent — disgraced. 


R.  Roister.  Yea,  but  I  cannot  so  put  love  out 
of  my  mind. 

M.  Merry.  What  is  her  name  ? 
R.  Roister.  Her  yonder. 
M.  Mei~ry.  Who  ? 
R.  Roister.  Mistress  ah — 
M.  Merry.  Fie,  fie  for  shame ! 
Love  ye  and  know  not  whom  ?  but  her  yonder, 

a  woman  ? 
We  shall  then  get  you  a  wife,  I  cannot  tell 
when. 
R.  Roister.  The  fair  woman,  that  supped  with 
us  yesternight ; 
And  I  heard  her  name  twice  or  thrice,  and  had 
it  right. 
M.  Merry.  Yea,  ye  may  see  ye  ne'er  take  me 
to  good  cheer  with  you ; 
If  ye  had,  I  could  have  told  you  her  name  now. 
R.  Roister.  I  was   to  blame   indeed,  but   tho 
next  time  perchance. 
And  she  dwelleth  iu  this  house. 

M.  Merry.  What,  Christian  Custance  ? 

R.  Roister.  Except  I  have  her  to  my  wife,  I 

shall  run  mad. 
M.  Merry.  Nay,  unwise,  perhaps,  but  I  war- 
rant you  for  mad. 
R.  Roister.  I  am  utterly  dead  unless  I  have 

my  desire. 
M.  Merry.  Where  be  the  bellows  that  blew 

this  sudden  fire  ? 
R.  Roister.  I  hear  she  is  worth  a  thousand 

pound  and  more. 
M.  Merry.  Yea,  but  learn  this  one  lesson  of 
me  afore : 
An  hundred  pound  of  marriage  money  doubtless. 
Is  ever  thirty  pound  sterling,  or  somewhat  less ; 
So  that  her  thousand  pound,  if  she  be  thrifty. 
Is  much  near  about  two  hundred  and  fifty. 
Howbeit,  wooers  and  widows  are  never  poor. 
R.  Roister.  Is  she  a  widow  ?    I  love  her  better 

therefore. 
M.  Merry.  But  I  hear  she  hath  made  promise 

to  another. 
R.  Roister.  He  shall  go  without  hei",  and  he 

were  my  brother. 
31.  3Ierry.  I  have  heard  say,  I  am  right  well 
advised. 
That  she  hath  to  Gavin  Goodlucke  promised. 
R.  Roister.  What  is  that  Gavin  Goodlucke  ? 
3f.  Merry.  A  merchant  man. 
Yet  a  fitter  wife  for  your  ma'ship '  might  be 
found. 

R.   Roister.    I  am   sorry   God    made  me   so 

comely,  doubtless. 
For  that  maketh    me  each   where   so  highly 

favoured, 
And  all  women  on  me  so  enamoured. 

M.  31erry.  Enamoured,  quoth  you  ?  have  ye 

spied  out  that  ? 
Ah,  sir,  many  now  I  see  you  know  what  is  what. 
Enamoured,  ka  ?  2  Marry,  sir,  say  that  again ; 
But  I  thought  not  ye  had  marked  it  so  plain. 
R.  Roister.  Yes,   each  where  they  gaze  all 

upon  mo  and  stare. 
31.  Merry.  Yea,   Malkyn,   I  warrant  you  as 

much  as  they  dare. 
And  ye  will  not  believe  what  they  say  in  the 

street, 
When  your  ma'ship  passeth  by  all  such  as  I 

meet. 
That  sometimes  I  can  scai-ce  find  what  answer 

to  make. 


'  ma'i/jjp— mastership. 


2  ka — quoth'a. 


xliv 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


Matthew  then  tells  Ealph  what  great  heroes  the  women  mistake  him  for,  and 
proceeds  thus : 


0  Lord !  (say  some)  that  the  sight  of  his  face 

we  lack. 
It  is  enough  for  you  (say  I)  to  see  his  back. 
His  face  is  for  ladies  of  high  and  noble  parages, 
With  whom  he  hardly  'soapeth  great  marriages. 
With  much  more  than  this,  and  much  otherwise. 
R.  Roister.  I  can  thee  thank  that  thou  canst 
such  answers  devise : 
But  I  perceive  thou  dost  me  throughly  know. 
M.  Merry.  I  mark  your  manners  for  mine  own 
learning,  I  trow ; 
But  such  is  your  beauty,  and  such  are  your  acts. 
Such  is  your  personage,  and  such  are  your  facts, 
That  all  women,  fair  and  foul,  more  and  less, 
They  eye  you,  they  love  you,  they  talk  of  you 

doubtless. 
Your  pleasant  look  maketh  them  all  merry, 
Ye  pass  not  by,  but  they  laugh  till  they  be 

weary ; 
Yea  and  money  could  I  have,  the  truth  to  tell. 
Of  many  to  bring  you   that  way  where  they 
dwell. 
R.  Roister.  Merrygreeke,  for  this  thy  report- 
ing well  of  me — 
M.  Merry.  What  should  I  else,  sir  ?  it  is  my 

duty,  pardee. 
R.  Roister.   I  promise  thou  shaft  not  lack, 

while  I  have  a  groat. 
M.  Merry.  Faith,  sir,  and  I  ne'er  had  more 

need  of  a  new  coat. 
R.  Roister.  Thou  shalt  have  one  to-morrow, 

and  gold  for  to  spend. 
M.  Merry.  Then  I  trust  to  bring  the  day  to  a 
good  end. 

M.  Merry.  What  if  Christian  Custance  will 

not  have  you,  what  ? 
R.  Roister.    Have  me  ?    yes  I  warrant  you, 

never  doubt  of  that. 

1  know  she  loveth  me,  but  she  dare  not  speak. 

Sh  e  looked  on  me  twenty  times  yesternight. 
An  d  laughed  so. 

M.  Merry.  In  the  meantime,  sir,  if  you  please, 

I  will  home. 
And  call  your  musicians  ;  for  in  this  your  case. 
It  would  set  you  forth,  and  all  your  wooing 

grace : 
Ye  may  not  lack  your  instruments  to  play  and 

sing. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 

Madge  Mumelecrust  spinning  on  the  distaff; 
Tibet  Talicapace  sewing ;  Annot  Alyface 
knitting;  E.  Koisteu. 

TAfter  some  sharp  practice  between  Madge, 
Tibet,  and  Ealph,  the  latter  and  Madge  are  left 
alone.] 

R.  Roister.  Ah,  good  sweet  nurse. 

M.  Mumhl.  Ah,  good  sweet  gentleman. 

R.  Roister.  What  ? 

M.  Mumbl.  Nay,  I  cannot  tell,  sir ;  but  what 
thing  would  you  ? 

R.  Roister.  How  doth  sweet  Custance,  my 
heart  of  gold,  tell  me  how  ? 

M.  Mumbl.  She  doth  very  well,  sir,  and  com- 
mand me  to  you. 

R.  Roister.  To  me .' 

M.  Mumbl.  Yea,  to  you,  sir. 


7?.  Roister.  To  me  ?     Nurse,  tell  me  plain, 
To  me  ^ 
M.  Mumhl.  Yea. 
R.  Roister.  That  word  maketh  me  alive  again. 

I  promise  thee,  nurse,  I  favour  her. 
M.  Mumhl.  E'en  so,  sir. 
R.  Roister.  Bid  her  sue  to  me  for  marriage. 
M.  Mumhl.  E'en  so,  sir. 
R.  Roister.  And  surely  for  thy  sake  she  shall 

speed. 
M.  Mumhl.  E'en  so,  sir. 
R.  Roister.  1  shall  be  contented  to  take  her. 
M.  Mumhl.  E'en  so,  sir. 
R.  Roister.  But  at  thy  request,  and  for  thy 

sake. 
M.  Mumhl.  E'en  so,  sir. 
R.  Roister.  And  come,  hark  in  thine  ear  what 

to  say. 
M.  Mumhl.  E'en  so,  sir. 

[Here  let  him  tell  her  a  great  long  tale  in 
her  ear. 

ACT  I.— SCENE  IV. 

Matthew  Merrygreeke  ;  Dobinet  Doughtie  ; 
Ealph  Eoister  ;  Madge  Mumblecrust; 
Harpax. 

31.  Meri-y.  Come  on,  sirs,  apace,  and  quit  your- 
selves like  men. 
Your  pains  shall  be  rewarded. 

But  with  whom  is  he  now  so  sadly  rounding  i 
yond .' 
B.  Dough.  With  Nohs  Nicehecetur  Miserere 

fond. 
M.  3Ierry.  God  be  at  your  wedding:   be  yo 
sped  already  ? 
I  did  not  suppose  that  your  love  was  so  greedy. 
I  perceive  now  ye  have  choice  of  devotion, 
And  joy  have  ye,  lady,  of  your  promotion.! 
R.  Roister.    Tush,   fool,    thou  art  deceived : 

this  is  not  she. 
M.  Merry.  Well,  make  much  of  her,  and  keep 
her  well,  I  advise  ye. 
I   will  take  no   charge   of   such   a  fair  piece 
keeping. 
M.   Mumhl.    What  aileth    this    fellow?    he 

driveth  me  to  weeping. 
M.  Merry.  What,  weep  on  the  wedding  day  ? 
be  merry,  -woman : 
Though  I  say  it,  ye  have  chosen  a  good  gentle- 
man. 
R.  Roister.   What  meanest  thou  man?    tut, 

a  whistle. 
M.  Merry.  Ah  sir,  be  good  to  her,  she  is  but 
a  gristle. 
Ah,  sweet  lamb  and  coney. 

R.  Roister.  Tut,  thou  art  deceived. 
M.  Merry.  Weep  no  more,  lady,  ye  shall  bo 
well  received. 
Up  with  some  merry  noise,  sirs,  to  bring  home 
the  bride. 
R.  Roister.  Gogs  arms  !  knave,  art  thou  mad  ? 
I  tell  thee,  thou  art  wide. 

R.  Roister.  This  same  is  the  fair  widow's  nurse, 

of  whom  ye  wot. 
M.  Merry.  Is  she  but  a  nurse  of  a  house  ? 


'  Now  so  seriously  whispering  yonder. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


xlv 


R.  Roister.  This  is  our  best  friend,  man. 
M.  3Ierry.  Then  teach  her  what  to  say. 
M.  Mumhl.  I  am  taught  already. 

M.  Mumhl.    And  what  shall  I   show  your 

mastership's  name  is  ? 
R.  Roister.  Nay,  she  shall  make  suit,  ere  she 

shall  know  that,  ywis. 
AT.  Mumhl.  Yet,  let  me  somewhat  Icnow. 
M.  Merry.  This  is  he,  iinderstand, 
That  killed  the  blue  spider  in  Blanchepouder 

land. 
M.  Mumhl.  Tea,  Jesus,  William,  zee  law !  did 

he  zo  law  ? 
31.  Merry.  Yea,  and  the  last  elephant  that 

ever  he  saw, 
As  the  beast  passed  by,  he  start  out  of  a  buske,^ 
And  e'en  with  pure  strength  of  arms  pluck'd  out 

his  great  tusk. 
M.   Mumhl.    Jesus,   Nomine  Patris,   what   a 

thing  was  that ! 
R.  Roister.  Yea,  but  Merrygreeke,  one  thing 

thou  hast  forgot. 
M.  MeiTy.  What  ? 
R.  Roister.  Of  the  other  elephant. 
M.  Merry.  Oil,  him  that  fled  away  ? 
R.  Roister.  Yea. 
M.  Merry.  Yea,  he  knew  that  his  match  was 

in  place  that  day. 

3f.  Mumhl.  Oh  Lord!  my  heart  quaketh  for 

fear,  he  is  so  sore. 
R.  Roister.  Thou  makest  her  too  much  afraid, 

Merrygreeke ;  no  more. 
This  tale  would  fear  my  sweetheart  Custance 

right  evil. 


R.  Roister.  Now,  nurse,  take  this  same  letter 

here  to  thy  mistress ; 
And  as  my  trust  is  in  thee,  ply  my  business. 
3f.  Mumhl.  It  shall  be  done. 
M.  Merry.  Who  made  it  ? 
R.  Roister.  I  wrote  it  each  whit. 
M.  3Terry.  Then  needs  it  no  mending. 
R.  Roister.  No,  no. 
3f.  Mei~ry.  No,  I  know  your  wit. 
R.  Roister.  I  warrant  it  well. 
31.  3Iumbl.  It  shall  be  delivered  ; 
But,  if  ye  speed,  shall  I  be  considered.' 

M.  Merry.  Whough!  dost  thou  doubt  of  that? 

3{.  3lumhl.  What  shall  I  have  ? 

3t.  Merry.  An  hundred  times  more  than  thou 

canst  devise  to  crave. 
31.  3Iumhl.  Shall  I  have  some  new  gear  ?  for 

my  dole  is  all  spent. 
3T.  Merry.  The  worst  kitchen  wench  shall  go 

in  ladies'  raiment. 
31.  3Iumbl.  Yea  ? 
31.  3Ierry.  And  the  worst  drudge  in  the  house 

shall  go  better 
Thau  your  mistress  doth  now. 
31.  Mumhl.  Then  I  trudge  with  your  letter. 
R.  Roister.  Now  may  I  repose  me:  Custance 

is  mine  own. 
Let  us  sing  and  play  homeward,  that  it  may  be 

known. 
3f.  3Ierry.  But,  are  you  sure  that  your  letter 

is  well  enough  ? 
R.  Roister.  I  wrote  it  myself. 
31.  3ferry.  Then  sing  we  to  dinner. 

[//ere  they  sing,  and  go  out  singing. 


The  letter  is  delivered  to  Christian  Custance,  who  refuses  to  open  it 
ACT  IL-SCENE  L 

DOBINET  DOUGHTIE. 


D.  Dough.  Where  is  the  house  I  go  to,  before 
or  behind  ? 

I  know  not  where,  nor  when,  nor  how  I  shall 
it  find. 

If  I  had  ten  men's  bodies,  and  legs,  and  strength, 

This  trotting  that  I  have  must  needs  lame  me 
at  length. 

And  now  that  my  master  is  new  set  on  woo- 
ing, 

I  trust  there  shall  none  of  us  find  lack  of 
doing : 

Two  pair  of  shoes  a  day  will  now  be  too  little 

To  serve  me,  I  must  trot  to  and  fro  so  mickle. 

' Go,  bear  me  this  token ;  carry  me  this  letter; ' 

Dobinet  then  meets  with  Truepenny,  Tibet,  and  Annot,  and  persuades  them  to 
convey  Ealph's  token  to  their  mistress,  who  rewards  them  with  a  sound  scolding. 


Now  this  is  the  best  way;   now  that  way  is 

better. 
'  Up  before  day,  sirs,  I  charge  you,  an  hour  or 

twain  ; 
Trudge,  do  me  this  message,  and  bring  word 

quick  again.' 

And  now  am  I  sent  to  Dame  Christian  Cus- 
tance ; 

But  I  fear  it  will  end  with  a  mock  for  pastance.* 

I  bring  her  a  ring,  with  a  token  in  a  clout ; 

And,  by  all  guess,  this  same  is  her  house  out  of 
doubt. 

I  know  it  now  perfect,  I  am  in  my  right  way ; 

And  lo !  yonder  the  old  nurse,  that  was  with  us 
last  day. 


C.  Custance.  Well,  ye  naughty  girls,  if  ever  I 
perceive 
That  henceforth  ye  do  letters  or  tokens  receive. 
To  bring  unto  me,  from  any  person  or  place. 
Except  ye  first  show  me  the  party  face  to  face. 
Either  thou  or  thou,  full  truly  abide  thou  shalt. 
Tih.   Talk.  Pardon  this,  and  the  next  time 

powder  me  in  salt. 
C.   Custance.  I  shall  make  all  gii'ls,  by  you 

twain,  to  beware. 
Tih.   Talk.  If  I  ever  offend  again,  do  not  me 
spare. 


But,  if  ever  I  see  that  false  boy  any  more, 
By  your  mistresship's  licence,  I  tell  you  afore, 
I  will  I'ather  havemy  coat  twenty  times  swinged, 
Than  on  the  naughty  wag  not  to  be  avenged. 
C.  Custance.  Good  wenches  would  not  so  ramp 

abroad,  idly, 
But  keep  within   doors,   and  ply   their    work 

earnestly. 
If  one  would  speak  with  me,  that  is  a  man 

likely, 
Ye  shall  have  right  good   thank  to  bring  me 

word  quickly ; 


'  iusJce — buah. 


*  jjastowce— pastime. 


xlvl 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


But,  otherwise,  wifh.  messag.es  to  come  in  post, 
From  henceforth,  I  promise  you,  shall  be  to 

your  cost. 
Get  you  in  to  your  work. 

Tib.  and  Annot.  Yes,  forsooth. 

C.  Custance.  Now  will  I  in  too,  for  I  think,  so 
God  me  mend, 
This  will  prove  some  foolish  matter  in  the  end. 

[^Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 

Tibet;  M.  Mereygreeke;  Christian 

Custance. 

Tib.  Talk.  Ah!  that  I  might  but  once  in  my 

life  have  a  sight 
Of  him  who  made  us  all  so  ill  shent ;  by  this 

light. 
He  should  never  escape,  if  I  had  him  by  the 

ear, 
But,  even  from  his  head,  I  would  it  bite  or  tear. 
Tea,  and  if  one  of  tbem  were  not  enough, 
I  would  bite  them  both  off,  I  make  God  a  vow. 

C.  Custance.  In  at  dooi's ! 

Tib.  Talk.  I  am  gone.  VExit. 

M.  Merry.  Dame  Custance,  God  ye  save. 

C.   Custance.  Welcome,  friend  Merrygreeke: 

and,  what  thing  would  ye  have  ? 
M.  Merry.  I  am  come  to  you,  a  little  matter 

to  break. 

C.  Custance.  No  creature  hath  my  faith  and 
troth  but  one. 
That  is  Gavin  Goodlucke :  and  if  it  be  not  he, 
He  hath  no  title  this  way,  whatever  he  be. 
For  I  know  none  to  whom  I  have  such  word 
spoken. 
M.  Merry.  Ye  know  him  not  you,  by  his  letter 

and  token  ? 
C.  Custance.  Indeed  true  it  is,  that  a  letter  I 
have, 
But  I  never  read  it  yet,  as  God  me  save. 
M.  Merry.  Ye  a  woman,  and  your  letter  so 

long  unread ! 
C.    Ctistance.    Ye  may  thereby  know   what 
haste  I  have  to  wed. 


But  now,  who  is  it  for  my  hand,  I  know  by 
guess. 
M.  Merry.  Ah  !  well,  I  say. 
C.  Custance.  It  is  Eoister  Doister,  doubtless. 
M.  Merry.  Will  ye  never  leave  this  dissimu- 
lation ? 
Ye  know  him  not  ? 

C.  Custance.  But  by  imagination; 
For,  no  man  there  is,  but  a  very  dolt  and  lout, 
That  to  woo  a  widow  would  so  go  about. 
He  shall  never  have  me  his  wife  while  he  do 
live. 
M.  Merry.  Then  will  he  have  you  if  he  may, 
so  might  I  thrive ; 
And  he  biddeth  you  send  him  word  by  me, 
That  ye  humbly  beseech  him  ye  may  his  wife 

be. 
And   that  there  shall  be  no  let   in  you,  nor 

mistrust. 
But  to  be  wedded  on  Sunday  next  if  he  list ; 
And  biddeth  you  to  look  for  him. 
C.  Custance.  Doth  he  bid  so  ? 
M.  Merry.  When  he  Cometh,  ask  him  whether 

he  did  or  no. 
C.  Custance.  Go  say,  that  I  bid  him  keep  him 
warm  at  home, 
For,  if  he  come  abroad,  he  shall  cough  me  a 

mome.i 
My  mind  was  vexed,  I  'shrew  his  head,  sottish 
dolt. 
M.  Merry.  He  hath  in  his  head — 
C.  Custance.  As  much  brain  as  a  burbolt.^ 
31.  Merry.  Well,  Dame  Custance,  if  he  hear 

you  thus  play  choplogic. 
C.  Custance.  What  will  he  ? 
M.  Merry.  Play  the  devil  in  the  horologe.^ 
C.  Custance.  I  defy  him,  lout. 
M.  Merry.  Shall  1  tell  him  what  ye  say  ? 
C.  Custance.  Yea,  and  add  whatsoever  thou 
canst,  1  thee  pray. 
And  I  will  avouch  it  whatsoever  it  be. 
M.  Merry.  Then  let  me  alone  ;  we  will  laugh 
well,  ye  shall  see : 
It  will  not  be  long  ere  he  will  hither  resort. 
C.  Custance.  Let  him  come  when  him  list,  I 
wish  no  better  sport- 
Fare  ye  well,   I  will  in,  and  read  my  great 

letter : 
I  shall  to  my  wooer  make  answer  the  better. 

\_Exeunt. 


Matthew  goes  and  gives  Ralph  an  exaggerated  version  of  Custance's  answer, 
taking  the  opportunity  of  letting  his  silly  friend  know  his  own  real  opinion  of 
his  character.     Under  cover  of  Christian's  answer,  Ealph  is  called 


The  veriest  dolt  that  ever  was  horn ; 

And  veriest  lubber,  sloven,  and  beast. 

Living  in  this  world,  from  the  west  to  the  east ; 

Yet,  of  himself  hath  he  such  opinion. 

That  in  all  the  world  is  not  the  like  minion. 

He  thinketh  each  woman  to  be  brought  in 
dotage. 

With  the  only  sight  of  his  goodly  personage : 

Yet,  none  that  will  have  him :  we  do  him  lout 
and  flock. 

And  make  him  among  us,  our  common  sporting- 
stock  ; 

And  so  would  I  now  (quo'  she),  save  only  be- 
cause,— 

'  Better  nay,'  (quo'  I) — '  I  list  not  meddle  with 
daws.' 


'  Ye  are  happy  (quo'  I)  that  ye  are  a  woman, 
This  would  cost  you  your  life  in  case  ye  were  a 
man.' 

R.  Roister.  I  will  go  home  and  die. 

M.  Merry.  Then  shall  I  bid  toll  the  bell  ? 

R.  Roister.  No. 

M.  Merry.  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul :  ah, 
good  gentleman, 
That  e'er  you  should  thus  die  for  an  unkind 

woman ! 
Will  you  drink  once  ere  you  go  ? 

R.  Roister.  No,  no,  I  will  none. 

M.  Merry.  How  feel  your  soul  to  God  ? 

R.  Roister.  I  am  uigh  gone. 

M.  Merry.  And  shall  we  hence  straight  ? 


1  A  mome  is  another  word  for  a  fool,  and  the  phrase  '  cough  me  a  fool '  is  common  in  old  plays. 

2  A  iiurboU  is  a  bird-bolt,  or  arrow  with  which  boys  knocked  down  birds ;  it  had  a  nob  at  the  end. 

*  'To  play  the  devil  in  the  horologue,'  or  in  the  clock,  is  an  expression  to  indicate  the  making  of  confusion. 
'The  divell  is  in  th'  orloge,  the  houres  to  trye : 
Searche  houres  by  the  sun,  the  devyll's  dyal  will  lie.' 

J.  Heywood's  Proverbs,  1562. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


xlvii 


R.  Roister.  Yea. 

M.  Merry.  Placebo  dilexi.  \ut  infra} 

Master  Eoister  Doister  will  straight  go  home 
and  die. 
R.   Roister.    Hech  how,   alas!   the  pangs  of 

death  my  heart  do  break. 
3f.  Merry.  Hold  your  peace,  for  shame,  sir! 
a  dead  man  may  not  speak. 
Nequando:  What  mourners  and  what  torches 
shall  we  have  ? 
R.  Roister.  None. 

M.  Merry.  Dirige.    He  will  go  darkling  to 
his  grave, — 
Neque  lux,  neque  crux,  neque  mourners,  neque 

clink. 
He  will  steal  to  heaven,  unknowing  to  God,  I 

think, 
A  porta  inferi.    "Who  shall  your  goods  possess  ? 


R.  Roister.  Thou  shalt  be  my  sectour,^  and 

have  all,  more  and  less. 
M.    Merry.     Requiem  xternam.      Now   God 
reward  your  mastership. 
And  I  will  cry  halfpenny  dole  for  your  worship. 


.  .  .  All  men  take  heed  by  this  one  gentleman, 
How  you  set  your  love  upon  an  unkind  woman : 
For  these  women  be  all  such  mad,  peevish  elves. 
They  will  not  be  won,  except  it  please  them- 
selves. 
But,  in  faith,  Custance,  if  ever  ye  come  in  hell, 
Master  Koister  Doister  shall  serve  you  as  well. 
And  will  ye  needs  go  from  us  thus  in  very 
deed? 
R.  Roister.  Yea,  in  good  sadness. 


Ealph  is  however  persuaded  to  live,  and  by  Matthew's  advice  resolves  to  try  what 
a  personal  interview  with  Christian  will  do.     Matthew  tells  him  not  to 


.   .   .   Speak  with  a  faint  heart  to  Custance, 
But  with  a  lusty  breast  and  countenance, 
That  she  may  know  she  hath  to  answer  to  a 
man. 

Ye  must  have  a  portly  brag  after  your  estate. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV. 
Custance  ;  Mekrygeeeke  ;  Eoister  Doistek. 

C.  Custance.  Get  ye  home,  idle  folks. 
M.  Merry.  Why  may  not  we  be  here  ? 
'Nay  and  ye  will  haze,  haze  ; '  otherwise,  I  tell 

you  plain, 
And  ye  will  not  haze,  then  give  us  our  gear 
again. 
C.  Custance.  Indeed  I  have  of  yours  much  gay 

things,  God  save  all. 
R.  Roister.  Speak  gently  unto  her,  and  let  her 

take  all. 
M.  Meii-y.  Ye  are  too  tender-hearted :  shall 
she  make  us  daws  ? 
Nay  dame,  I  wiU  be  plain  with  you  in  my  friend's 
cause. 
R.  Roister.  Let  all  this  pass,  sweetheart,  and 

accept  my  service. 
C.  Custance.  I  vdll  not  be  served  with  a  fool 
in  no  wise. 
When  I  choose  a  husband,  I  hope  to  take  a  man. 


M.  Merry.  Ye  know  not  whei-e  your  prefer- 
ment lieth,  I  see. 
He  sendeth  you  such  a  token,  ring,  and  letter. 
C.  Custance.  Marry,  here  it  is,  ye  never  saw  a 

better. 
M.  Merry.  Let  us  see  your  letter. 
C.  Custance.  Hold,  read  it  if  ye  can, 
And  see  what  letter  it  is  to  win  a  woman, 
M.  Merry.  '  To  mine  own  dear  coney  bird, 
sweetheart,  and  pigsny. 
Good  Mistress  Custance,  present  these  by  and  by.' 
Of  this  superscription  do  ye  blame  the  style  ? 
C.  Custance.  With  the  rest,  as  good  stuff  as  ye 

read  a  great  while. 
M.  Merry.  '  Sweet  Mistress,  whereas  I  love 
you  nothing  at  all, 
Kegardiug  your  substance  and  riches  chief  of 

all; 
Eor  your  personage,  beauty,  demeanour,  and  wit, 
I  commend  me  unto  you  never  a  whit. 
Sorry  to  hear  report  of  your  good  welfare, 
For  (as  I  hear  say)  such  your  conditions  are, 
That  ye  be  woi-thy  favour  of  no  living  man, 
To  be  abhon-ed  of  every  honest  man. 
To  be  taken  for  a  woman  inclined  to  vice. 
Nothing  at  all  to  virtue  giving  her  due  price. 
Wherefore  concerning  marriage,  ye  are  thought 
Such  a  fine  paragon,  as  ne'er  honest  man  bought. 
And  now  by  these  presents  I  do  you  advertise 
That  I  am  minded  to  marry  you  in  nowise. 
For  your  goods  and  substance,  I  could  be  content 
To  take  you  as  ye  are.     If  ye  mind  to  be  my 
wife.'  .  .  . 


The  letter  goes  on  thus  to  some  length,  it  being  capable  of  affording  two  very 
different  senses,  according  to  the  punctuation. 


C.  Custance.  Might  not  a  woman  be  proud  of 

such  a  husband  ? 
31.  Merry.  Ah,  that  ye  would  in  a  letter  show 

such  despite. 
R.  Roister.  Oh,  I  would  I  had  him  here,  the 

which  did  it  indite ! 
M.  Merry.  Why,  ye  made  it  yourself,  ye  told 

me,  by  this  light. 
R.  Roister.  Yea,  I  meant  I  wrote  it  mine  own 

self  yesternight. 
C.  Custance.  Yes,  sir,  I  would  not  have  sent 

you  such  a  mock. 


R.  Roister.  Ye  may  so  take  it,  but  I  meant  it 

not  so,  by  cock. 
M.  Merry.  Who  can  blame  this  woman  to 

fume,  and  fret,  and  rage  ? 

C.  Custance.  God  be  with  you  both,  and  seek 

no  more  to  me.  \^Exeat. 

R.  Roister.  Wough !  she  is  gone  for  ever,  I 

shall  her  no  more  see  ! 
M.  Merry.  What  weep  ?  fie  for  shame !  and 
blubber  ?  for  manhood's  sake 
Never  let  your  foe  so  much  pleasure  of  you  take. 
Kather  play  the  man's  part,  and  do  love  refrain : 
If  she  despise  you,  e'en  despise  ye  her  again. 


1  Meaning  at  the  end  of  the  play,  where  '  the  Psalmodie '  is  inserted,  which  is  supposed  to  be  sung  below. 
*  i.e.  executor.  ^  jjaze  means  'ha'  us,'  or  '  have  us.' 


xlviii 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


R.  Roister.  By  gosse,  and  for  thy  sake  I  defy 

her  indeed. 
31.  Merry.  Yea,  and  perchance  that  way  ye 
shall  much  sooner  speed. 
For  one  mad  property  these  women  have,  in 

faith. 
When  ye  will,  they  will  not ;  will  not  ye,  then 
will  they. 

R.  Roister.  Thou  dost  the  truth  tell. 
M.  Merry.  Well,  I  lament. 
R.  Roister.  So  do  I. 
M.  Merry.  Wherefore  ? 
R.  Roister.  For  this  tliicg; 
Because  she  is  gone. 

31.  Merry.  I  mourn  for  another  thing. 
R.  Roister.  What  is  it,  Merrygreeke,  whore- 
fore  dost  thou  grief  take  ? 
3L  3Ierry.  That  I  am  not  a  woman  myself  for 
your  sake. 

For  though  I  say  it,  a  goodly  person  ye  he. 
R.  Roister.  No,  no. 

31.  3ferry.  Yes,  a  goodly  man  as  e'er  I  did  see. 
JR.  Roister.  No,  I  am  a  poor  homely  man,  as 

God  made  me. 
M.  3Ierry.  By  the  faith  that  I  owe  to  God, 

sir,  but  ye  be. 
Would  I  might,  for  your  sake,  spend  a  thousand 

pound  land. 
R.  Roister.  I  daresay  thou  wouldst  have  me 

to  thy  husband. 


3f.  3Ierry.  Yea;  and  I  were  the  fairest  lady 
in  the  shire. 
And  knew  you  as  I  know  you,  and  see  you  now 

her'e. 
Well,  I  say  no  more. 
R.  Roister.  Gramercies,  with  all  my  heart. 
M.  3ferry.  But  since  that  cannot  be,  will  ye 

play  a  wise  part  ? 
R.  Roister.  How  should  I  ? 
3f.   3Ierry.    Kefrain  from    Custance    awhile 

DOW, 

And  I  warrant  her  soon  right  glad  to  seek  to 

you: 
Tou  shall  see  her  anon  come  on  her  knees 

creeping, 
And  pray  you  to  be   good  to  her,   salt  tears 
weeping. 
R.  Roister.  But  what  and  she  come  not  ? 
M.  3terry.  In  faith,  then  farewell  she  ; 
Or  else,  if  ye  be  wroth,  ye  may  avenged  be. 

R.  Roister.  But  I  would  be  avenged  in  the 
mean  space. 
On  that  vile  scribbler,   that   did  my  wooing 
disgrace. 
31.  Merry.  Scribbler  (quo'  you)  ?  Indeed,  he  is 
worthy  no  less. 
I  will  call  him  to  you,  and  ye  bid  me,  doubtless. 

R.  Roister.  He  shall  never  'scape  death  on  my 
sword's  point. 
Though  I  should    be  torn  therefor  joint  by 
joint. 


They  then  have  an  interview  with  the  Scrivener,  whom  Ralph  tries  to  bully, 
but  is  made  to  eat  humble-pie.  The  Scrivener  reads  the  letter,  pointing  it  so 
as  to  bring  out  a  sense  different  from  Ealph's  copy.  Matthew  and  Ealph  then 
resolve  to  have  another  interview  with  Christian,  and  put  her  right  as  to  the 
letter. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 
Sym  Suresby. 

Sym  Suresby.  My  master,  Gavin  Goodlucke, 

after  me  a  day, 
Because  of  the  weather,  thought  best  his  ship 

to  stay ; 
And  now  that  I  have  the  rough  surges  so  well 

past, 
God  grant  I  may  find  all  things  safe  here  at 

last; 
Then  will  I  think  all  my  travel  well  spent. 
Now,  the  first  point  wherefore  my  master  hath 

me  sent 
Is  to  salute  Dame  Chi-istian  Custance,  his  wife 
Espoused  ;  whom  he  tendereth  no  less  than  his 

life. 

But  lo,  forth  Cometh  herself  happily  indeed. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 
Chkistiak  Custance;   Sym  Suresby-. 
C.  Custance.  I  come  to  see  if  any  more  stirring 
be  here. 
But  what  stranger  is  this,  which  doth  to  me 
appear  ? 
Sy7n  Sure.  1  will  speak  to  her.  —  Dame,  the 

Lord  you  save  and  see. 
C.    Custance.    What,   friend   Sym    Suresby? 
Forsooth,  right  welcome  ye  be. 
How  doth  mine  own  Gavin  Goodlucke  ?  I  pray 
thee  tell. 
Sym  Sure.  AVhen  he  knoweth  of  yoiir  health 
he  will  be  perfect  well. 


C.  Custance.  If  he  have  perfect  health,  I  am 
as  I  would  be. 

Sym  Sure.  Such  news  will  please  him  well, 
this  is  as  it  should  be. 

C.  Custance.  I  think  now  long  for  him. 

Sym  Swe.  And  he  as  long  for  you. 

C.  Custance.  When  will  he  be  at  home  ? 

Sym  Sure.  His  heart  is  here  e'en  now ; 
His  body  cometh  after. 

C.  Custance.  I  would  see  that  fain. 

Sym  Sure.  As  fast  as  Avind  and  sail  can  carry 
it  amain. 
But  what  two  men  are  yonder,  coming  hither- 
ward  .'' 

C.  Custance.  Now,  I  shrew  their  best  Christmas 
cheeks  both  toaetherward ! 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 

Christian  Custance;  Sym  Suresby;  Kalph 
KoisTER  Doister  ;  Matthew  Merrygreeke; 
Truepenny. 

C.  Custance.  What  mean  these  lewd  fellows 
thus  to  trouble  me  still  ? 

Sym  Suresby  here  perchance  shall  thereof  deem 
some  ill. 

And  shall  suspect  me  in  some  point  of  naughti- 
ness, 

An  they  come  hitherward. 

R.  Roister.  Well  found,  sweet  wife  (I  trust), 

for  all  this  your  soiir  look. 
C.  Custance.   Wife !  why  call  ye  me  wife  ? 
Sym  Sure.  Wife !     This  gear  goeth  a-crook. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


xlfx 


M.  Merry.  Nay,  Mistress  Custance,  I  warrant 
you,  our  letter 
Is  not  as  we  read  e'en  now,  but  much  better. 

C.  Custance.  I   did  not  refuse  him  for  the 

letter's  sake. 
E.  Roister.  Then  ye  are  content  me  for  your 

husband  to  take. 
C.  Custance.  You  for  my  husband  to  take? 

Nothing  less  truly. 

But  what  prate  I  with  fools?   have  I  nought 

else  to  do  ? 
Come  in  with  me,  Sym  Suresby,  to  take  some 
repast. 
Spn  Sure.  I  must,  e'er  I  drink,  by  your  leave, 
go  in  all  haste 
To  a  place  or  two  with  earnest  letters  of  his. 
C.  Custance.  Then  come  drink  here  with  me. 
Sum  Su7-e.  I  thank  you. 
C.  distance.  Do  not  miss. 
You  shall  have  a  token  to  your  master  with  you. 
Si/m  Sure.  No  tokens  this  time,   gramercies. 
God  be  with  you.  \_Exeat. 

C.  Custance.  I  will  be  even  Avitli  thee,  thou 

beast,  thou  may  be  bold. 
R.  Roister.  Will  ye  have  us,  then  ? 
C.  Custance.  I  will  never  have  thee. 
R.  Roister.  Then  will  I  have  you? 
C.  Custance.  No,  the  devil  shall  have  thee. 
I  have  got  this  hour  more  shame  and  harm  by 

thee. 
Than  all  thy  life  days  thou  canst  do  me  honesty. 

Faith,  rather  than  to  marry  with  such  a  doltish 

lout, 
I  would  match  myseK  with  a  beggar  out  of 

doubt. 


R.  Roister.  Yes,  dame,  I  will  have  you  whether 
ye  will  or  no. 
I  command  you  to  love  me,  wherefore  should 

ye  not  ? 
Is  not  my  love  to  yoii  chafing  and  burning  hot  ? 
M.  Merry.  To  her,  that  is  well  said. 
R.  Roister.  Shall  I  so  break  my  brain 
To  dote  upon  you,  and  ye  not  love  us  again  ? 
M.  Merry.  Well  said  yet. 
C.  Custance.  Go  to,  thou  goose. 
R.  Roister.  I  say,  Kit  Custance, 
In  case  ye  will  not  haze,  well,  better  yes  per- 
chance. 
C.  Custance.  Avaimt,  lozell,  pick  thee  heuce. 
M.  Merry.  Well,  sir,  ye  perceive, 
For  all  your  kind  offer,  she  will  not  you  receive. 
R.  Roister.  Then  a  straw  for  her,  and  a  straw 
for  her  again. 
She  shall  not  be  my  wife,  would  she  never  so 

fain. 
No,  and  though  she  would  be  at  ten  thousand 
pound  cost. 
M.  Merry.  Lo,    dame,   ye  may  see  what  a 

husband  ye  have  lost. 
C.   Custance.   Yea,   no  force;    a  jewel  much 

better  lost  than  found. 
M.  Merry.  Ah,  ye  will  not  believe  how  this 
doth  my  heart  wound. 
How  should  a  marriage  between  you  be  toward. 
If   both  parties    draw  back,    and    become    s-o 
froward  ? 
R.  Roister.  Nay,  dame,  I  will  fire  thee  out  of 
thy  house,  and  destroy 
Thee  and  all  thine,  and  that  by  and  by. 
31.  Merry.  Nay,  for  the  passion  of  God,  sir, 

do  not  so. 
R.  Roister.  Yes,  except  she  will  say  yea  to 
that  she  said  no. 


Christian  then  sends  for  Tristram  Trusty,  and  she  and  her  maids  resolve  that 
if  Ralph  makes  his  appearance  again  they  will  give  him  a  warm  reception. 
Trusty  meantime  endeavours  to  console  her ;  Merry greeke  joins  them,  and 
assures  Christian  that  he  takes  part  in  Ralph's  wooing  merely  for  sport  and 
pastime. 


C.  distance.  I'll  ache  your  heads  both !  I  was 
never  wearier. 
Nor  never  more  vexed  since  the  first  day  I  was 
born. 

M.  Merry.  Hither  will  he  repair  with  a  sheep's 
look  full  grim. 
By  plain  force   and  violence  to  drive  you  to 
yield. 
C.  Custance.  If  ye  two  bid  me,  we  will  with 
him  pitch  afield, 
And  my  maids  together. 

M.  Merry.  Let  us  see ;  be  bold. 
C.  Custance.  Ye  shall  see  women's  war. 
T.  Trusty.  That  fight  will  I  behold. 
M.  Merry.  If  occasion  serve,  taking  his  part 
full  brim, 
I  will  strike  at  you,  but  the  rap  shall  light  on 
When  we  first  appear —  [him. 

C.  Custance.  Then  will  I  run  away, 
As  though  I  were  afraid. 

M,  Merry.  A  stomach,  quoth  you :  he  that  will 

that  deny, 
I  know,  was  never  at  dinner  in  your  company. 
R.  Roister.  Nay,  the  stomach  of  a  man  it  is 

that  I  mean. 


M.  Merry.  Nay,  the  stomach  of  a  horse  or  a 

dog,  I  wean. 
R.  Roister.    Nay,   a  man's   stomach   with   a 

weapon  mean  I. 
M.  Merry.  Ten  men  can  scarce  match  you 

with  a  spoon  in  a  pie. 
R.  Roister.  Nay,  the  stomach  of  a  man  to  try 

in  strife. 
M.  Merry.  1  never  saw  your  stomach  cloyed 

yet  in  my  life. 
R.  Roister.  Tush,  I  mean  in  strife  or  fighting 

to  try. 
M.  Merry.  We  shall  see  how  ye  will  strike 

now  being  angry. 

R.  Roister.    Nay,  as    for   they,    shall  every 

mother's  child  die. 
And  in  this  my  fume  a  little  thing  might  make 

me 
To  beat  down  house  and  all,  and  else  the  devil 

take  me. 

M.  Merry.  Be  not  at  one  with  her  upon  any 
amends.' 


1  That  is,  be  not  reconciled  with  her  upon  any  amends 


1 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


R.  Roister.  No,  though,  she  make  to  me  never 
so  many  friends ; 
Not  if  all  the  world  for  her  would  undertake : 
No,  not  God  himself  neither,  shall  not  her  peace 

make. 
On,  therefore!    march  forward!     Soft,   stay  a 
while  yet. 
M.  Merry.  On. 
R.  Roister.  Tarry. 
M.  Merry.  On. 
R.  Roister.  Soft.     Now  forward  set. 

C.  Custance.  What  business  have  we  here? 
Out,  alas,  alas! 

R.  Roister.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,'  ha ! 
Didst  thou  see  that,  Merrygreeke,  how  afraid 

she  was  ? 
Didst  thou  see  how  she  fled  apace  out  of  my 

sight  ? 
Ah,  good  sweet  Custance!  I  pity  her,  by  this 
light. 
M.  Merry.  That  tender  heart  of  yours  will 
mar  altogether ; 
"  Thus  will  ye   be  turned  with  wagging  of  a 
feather. 
R.  Roister.  On,  sirs,  keep  your  ray. 
M.  Merry.  On  forth,  while  this  gear  is  hot. 
R.  Roister.  Soft,  tho  Arms  of  Calais,  I  have 

one  thing  forgot. 
M.  Merry.  What  lack  we  now  ? 
R.  Roister.  Eetire,  or  else  ■vve  be  all  slain. 
M.  Merry.   Back,   for  the   passion  of   God! 
back,  sirs,  back  again  ! 
What  is  the  great  matter  ? 

R.  Roister.  This  hasty  forthgoing 
Had  almost  brought  us  all  to  utter  undoing : 
It  made  me  forget  a  thing  most  necessar3^ 
M.  Merry.  Well  remembered  of  a  captain,  by 

Saint  Mary. 
R.  Roister.  It  is  a  thing  must  be  had. 
M.  Merry.  Let  us  have  it  then. 
R.  Roister.  But  I  wot  not  ■v^rhere,  nor  how. 
M.  Merry.  Then  wot  not  I  when. 
But  what  is  it? 
R.  Roister.  Of  a  chief  thing  I  am  to  seek. 
M.  Merry.  Tut  so  will  ye  be,  when  ye  have 
studied  a  week. 
But  tell  me  what  it  is. 
R.  Roister.  I  lack  yet  an  headpiece. 
31.  Merry.  The  kitchen  coUocavit,i  the  best 
hens  to  grace. 
Run,  fetch  it,  Dobinet,  and  come  at  once  withal, 
And  bring  with  thee  my  potgun,  hanging  by 

the  wall. 
I  have  seen  your  head  with  it,  full  many  a  time. 
Covered  as  safe  as  it  had  been  with  a  screen ; 
And  I  warrant  it  save  your  head  from  any 

stroke. 
Except  perchance  to  be  amazed  with  the  smoke. 
I  warrant  your  head  therewith,  except  for  the 

mist. 
As  safe  as  if  it  were  locked  up  in  a  chest. 
And  lo,  here  our  Dobinet  cometh  with  it  now. 

D.  Dough.  It  will  cover  me  to  the  shoulders 
well  enough. 

M.  Merry.  Let  me  see  it  on. 

R.  Roister.  In  faith,  it  doth  metely  well. 

M.  Merry.  There  can  be  no  fitter  thing.  Now 

ye  must  us  tell 
What  to  do. 
R.  Roister.  Now  forth  in  array,  sirs,  and  stop 

no  more. 
M.  Merry.  Now,  Saint  George  to  borrow !  - 

Drum,  dubbe  a  dubbe  afore. 

•  It  is  not  at  all  clear  what  kitchen  utensil  is  here 
meant— pcrliaps  a  culendcr. 
2  To  borrow  is  to  protect  or  guard.     Thus  in  Every 


T.  Trusty.  What  mean  you  to  do,  sir  ?    Com- 
mit manslaughter  ? 
R.  Roister.  To  kill  forty  such  is  a  matter  of 

laughter. 
T.  Trusty.  And  who  is  it,  sir,  whom  ye  intend 

thus  to  spill  ? 
R.  Roister.  Foolish  Custance  here  forceth  me 

against  my  will. 
T.  Trusty.  And  is  there  no  means  your  ex- 
treme wrath  to  slake  ? 
She  shall  some  amends  unto  your  good  ma'shij) 
make. 
R.  Roister.  I  will  none  amends. 
T.  Trusty.  Is  her  offence  so  sore  ? 
M.  Merry.  And   he  were   a  lout  she  could 
have  done  do  more. 
She  hath  called  him  fool,  and  dressed  him  like 

a  fool, 
Mocked  him  like  a  fool,  used  him  Uke  a  fool. 
7'.  Tritsty.  Well  yet  the  sheriff,  the  justice,  or 
constable, 
Her  misdemeanour  to  punish  might  be  able. 
R.  Roister.  No,  sir,  I  mine  own  self  will  in 
this  present  cause 
Be  sheriff,  and  justice,  and  whole  judge  of  the 

laws. 
This  matter  to  amend,  all  oflacers  be  I  shall, 
Constable,  bailiff,  sergeant. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  VIII. 

M.  Merrygreeke  ;  0.  Custance  ;  E.  Eoister; 
Tibet  Talk.  ;  An.  Alyface  ;  M.  Mubible- 
CRUST;  Truepenny;  Dobinet  Douqhtib; 
Harpax. 

Two  drums  with  their  Ensigns. 

C.    Custance.    What  caitiffs    are   those   that 

shake  my  house  wall  ? 
M.  Merry.   Ah,  sirrah,  now  Custance,   if  ye 

had  so  much  wit, 
I  would  see  you  ask  pardon,  and  yourselves 

submit. 
C.   Custance.   Have   I  still  this  ado  with  a 

couple  of  fools  ? 
M.  Merry.  Here  ye  what  she  saith  ? 
C.  Custance.  Maidens,  come  forth  with  your 

tools 
In  array. 
M.  Merry.  Dubbadub,  sirrah. 
R.  Roister.  In  array ! 
They  come  suddenly  on  us. 
M.  Merry.  Dubbadub. 
R.  Roister.  In  array ! 
That  ever  I  was  born !  we  are  taken  tardy. 
M.  Merry.  Now,  sirs,  quit  ourselves  like  taU 

men  aud  hardy. 
C.  Custance.  On  afore.  Truepenny,  hold  thine 

own,  Annot, 
On  toward  them,  Tibet,  for  escape  us  they  can- 
not. 
Come  forth,  Madge  Mumblecrust :  so,  stand  fast 

together. 
M.  Merry.  God  send  us  a  fair  day. 
R.  Roister.  See,  they  march  on  hither. 
Tib.  Talk.  But  mistress — 
C.  Custance.  What  sayst  you  ? 
Tih.  Talk.  Shall  I  go  fetch  our  goose  ? 
C.  Custance.  What  to  do  ? 
Tih.  Talk.  To  yonder  captain  I  will  turn  her 

loose. 

Man,  '  Fro  payne  it  wyll  you  borouie.'  Shakespeare  in 
Richard  ii.  has  the  exclamation,  '  Saint  George  to  thrive,' 
which  has  much  the  same  meaning. 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


li 


And  sho  gape  and  hiss  at  liim,  as  she  doth  at 

me, 
I  durst  jeopard  my  hand,  she  will  make  him  flee. 

C.  distance.  On,  forward. 

R.  Roister.  They  come. 

M.  Merry.  Stand. 

R.  Roister.  Hold. 

M.  Merry.  Keep. 

R.  Roister.  There. 

M.  Merry.  Strike. 

R.  Roister.  Take  heed.  " 

C.  Custance.  Well  said,  Truepenny. 

Truepenny.  Ah,  whoresons! 

C.  Custwtwe.  Well  done,  indeed. 

31.  Merry.  Hold  thine  own,  Harpax :   down 
with  them,  Dobinet. 

C.  Custance.  Now  Madge,  there  Annot ;  now 
stick  them,  Tibet. 

Tih.  Talk.  All  my  chief  quarrel  is  to  this  same 
little  knave. 
That  beguiled  me  last  day :  nothing  shall  him 
save. 

D.  Dough.  Down  with  this  little  quean,  that 
hath  at  me  such  spite : 

Save  you  from  her,  master,  it  is  a  very  sprite. 
C.  Custance.   I  myself   will  mounsire  grand 

captain  *  undertake. 
R.  Roister.  They  win  ground. 
M.  Merry.  Save  yourself,  sir,  for  God's  sake ! 
R.  Roister.  Out,  alas,  I  am  slain !  help ! 
2r.  Merry.  Save  yourself ! 
R.  Roister.  Alas ! 

M.  Merry.  Nay  then,  have  at  you,  mistress. 
R.  Roister.  Thou  hittest  me,  alas. 
M.  Merry.  I  will  strike  at  Custance  here. 
R.  Roister.  Thou  hittest  me. 
M.  Merry.  So  I  will. 
Nay,  Mistress  Custance. 

R.  Roister.  Alas,  thou  hittest  me  still. 
Hold! 

3/.  3ferry.  Save  yourself,  sir! 
R.  Roister.  Help !     Out  alas,  I  am  slain. 
31.  3Ieri-y.  Truce,  hold  your  hands  ! 
How,  how  say  you,  Custance,  for  saving  of  your 

life, 
Will  ye  yield  and  grant  to  be  this  gentleman's 
wife  ? 
C.  Custance.  He  told  me  he  loved  me :  call  ye 

this  love  ? 
M.  31erry.   He  loved  a  while,   even   like    a 

turtle-dove. 
C.  Custance.  Gay  love,  God  save  it,  so  soon 

hot,  so  soon  cold. 
M.  Merry.  I  am  sorry  for  you :  he  could  love 

you  yet,  so  he  could. 
R.  Roister.  Nay,  she  shall  be  none  of  mine. 
31.  Merry.  Why  so  ? 

R.  Roister.  Come  away,  by  the  mass,  she  is 
mankine." 
I  durst  adventure  the  loss  of  my  right  hand. 
If  she  did  not  slay  her  other  husband. 
And  see  if  she  prepare  not  again  to  fight. 

3f.  3Ierry.   What  then  ?      Saint   George  to 

borrow,  our  lady's  knight. 
R.  Roister.  Slay  else  whom  she  will,  by  Gog, 

she  shall  not  slay  me. 
M.  3Ierry.  How  then  ? 

R.  Roister.  Kather  than  to  be  slain,  I  will  flee. 
C.  Custance.   To  it  again,  my  knightnesses : 

down  with  them  all ! 
R.  Roister.  Away,  away,  away  !  she  will  else 
kill  us  all. 


1  That  is,  Monsieur  grand  Capitaine. 

-  '  She  is  mankine,'  or  of  the  male  species.  So  Sicinius, 
in  Coriolanus,  Act  iv.  scene  2,  asks  Volumnia,  '  Are  you 
mankind  ? ' — See  the  notes  upon  this  passage. 


31.  31erry.  Nay,  stick  to  it,  like  an  hardy  man 

and  a  tall. 
R.  Roister.  Oh,  bones !  thou  hittest  me.  Away, 

or  else  die  we  shall. 
31.  3Ierry.  Away,  for  the  passion  of  our  sweet 

Lord  Jesus  Christ. 
C.  Custance.  Away,  lout  and  lubber,  or  I  shall 

be  thy  priest. 
So,  this  field  is  ours,  we  have  driven  them  all 

away. 

Now  Roister  Bolster  will  no  more  wooing  begin. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 
0.  Custance;  Gavin  Goodlxjcke;  Stm 

SURESBY. 

C.  Custance.  I  come  forth  to  see  and  hearken 
for  news  good ; 

For  about  this  hour  is  the  time,  of  likelihood. 

That    Gavin   Goodlucke,    by    the    sayings    of 
Suresby, 

Would  be  at  home ;  and  lo !  yonder  I  see  him  I. 

What,  Gavin  Goodlucke !  the  only  hope  of  my 
life. 

Welcome  home,  and  kiss  me,  your  true  espoused 
wife. 
G.  Good.  Nay,  soft.  Dame  Custance;    I  must 
first,  by  your  licence. 

See  whether  all  things  be  clear  in  your  con- 
science. 

I  hear  of  your  doings  to  me  very  strange. 

C.    Custance.    What!    fear  ye  that  my  faith 

towards  you  should  change  ? 
G.  Good.  I  must  needs   mistrust  ye  be  else- 
where entangled. 

For  I  hear  that  certain  men  with  you   have 
wrangled 

About  the  promise  of  marriage  by  you  to  them 
made. 

Sym  Sure.  If  ye  be  honest,  my  words  can 
hurt  you  nothing ; 
But  what  I  heard  and  saw,  I  might  not  but 
report. 

C.  Custance.  Why,  Tristram  Trusty,  sir,  your 

true  and  faithful  friend. 
Was  privy  both  to  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
Let  him  be  the  judge,  and  for  me  testify. 

G.  Good.  I  will  the  more  credit  that  he  shall 

verify : 
And,  because  I  will  the  truth  know,  e'en  as  it  is, 
I  will  to  him  myself,  and  know  all,  without 

miss. 
Come  on,  Sym  Suresby,  that  before  my  friend 

thou  may 
Avouch  thee  the  same  words,  which  thou  didst 

to  me  say.  [Exeunt. 


.      ACT  v.— SCENE  IV. 

Gavin  Goodlucke  ;  Teistkam  Trusty  ;  0. 
Custance  ;  Sym  Suresby. 

G.  Good.  And  was  it  none  other  than  ye  to 

me  report  ? 
T.  Trusty.  No ;  and  here  were  ye  wished,  to 

have  seen  the  sport. 
G.  Good.  Would  I  had,  rather  than  half  of 

that  in  my  purse. 
Sym  Sure.  And  I  do  much  rejoice  the  matter 

was  no  worse ; 


Hi 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OP 


And  like  as  to  open  it  I  was  to  you  faithful, 
So  of  Dame  Custance  honest  truth  I  am  joyful. 
For,  God  forfend  that  I  should  hurt  her  by  false 
report. 
G.  Good.  Well,  I  will  no  longer  hold  her  in 

discomfoi't. 
C.  Custance.  Now  come  they  hitherward:  I 
trust  all  shall  be  well. 


G.  Good.  Sweet  Custance,  neither  heart  cau 
think,  nor  tongue  tell. 
How  much  I  joy  in  your  constant  fidelitj'. 
Come  now,  kiss  mo,  the  pearl  of  perfect  honesty. 
C.  Custance.  God  let  me  no  longer  to  continue 
in  life. 
Than  I  shall  towards  you  continue  a  true  wife. 


In  the  last  scene  Ralph  is  badgered,  and  at  last  pardoned,  and  allowed  to  take 
part  in  the  general  merrymaking. 

Our  last  example  of  the  early  regular  English  drama,  is  Thomas  Sackville's 
(Lord  Buckhurst)  Ferrex  and  Porrex,  the  oldest  extant  tragedy. 


GoRBODUC,  King  o/"  Great  Britain. 
ViDENA,  Queen,  and  Wife  to  King  GoR- 

BODUC. 

Ferrex,  J^lder  Son  to  King  Goeboduc. 
Porrex,  Younger  Son  to  King  Gorboduc. 
Clotyn,  Duke  q/"  Cornwall. 
Fergus,  Duke  o/ Albany. 
Mandud,  Duke  q/Loegris. 
GwENARD,  Duke  o/"  Cumberland. 
EuBULUS,  Secretary/  to  the  King. 
Arostus,  a  Counsellor  to  the  King. 
DoRDAN,  a  Counsellor  asslffned  by  the  King 
to  his  Eldest  Son  Ferkkx. 


Philander,    a    Counsellor   assigned  hy  the 

King  to  his  Youngest  Son  Porrex. 
Both  being  of  the  old  King's  Council  before. 
Hermon,  a  Parasite  remaining  with  Ferrex. 
Tyndar,  a  Parasite  remaining  with  Porrex. 
NuNTius,  a  Messenger  of  the  Elder  Brother's 

Death.  _ 
NuNTius,  a  Messenger  of  Duke  Fergus  rising 

in  arms. 
Marcei.la,   a  Lady  of  the    Queens    Privy 

C/unnber. 
Chorus,  four    ancient    and   sage    men    of 

Britain. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 
Videna ;  Ferrex. 

Vid.  The  silent  night  that  brings  the  quiet 
pause. 
From  painful  travails  of  the  weary  day. 
Prolongs  my  careful  thoughts,  and  makes  me 

blame 
The  slow  Aurore,  that  so  for  love  or  shame 
Doth  long  delay  to  show  her  blushing  face  ; 
And  now  the  day  renews  my  grieful  plaint. 

Fer.  My  gracious  lady,  and  my  mother  dear, 
Pardon  my  grief  for  your  so  grieved  mind 
To  ask  what  cause  tormenteth  so  j'our  heart. 

Vid.  So  great  a  wrong,  and  so  unjust  despite. 
Without  all  cause  against  all  course  of  kind  !  i 
Fer.    Such  causeless  wrong,   and  so  unjust 
despite. 
May  have  redress,  or,  at  the  least,  revenge. 
Vid.  Neither,  my  son;   such  is  the  froward 
will. 
The  person  such,  such  my  mishap  and  thine. 
Fer.  Miue !  know  I  none,  but  grief  for  your 

distress. 
Vid.  Yes ;  mine  for  thine,  my  son.    A  father.' 
No: 
In  kind  a  father,  not  in  kindliness. 

Fer.  My  father  ?  why,  I  know  nothing  at  all. 
Wherein  I  have  misdone  unto  his  grace. 

Vid.  Therefore,  the  more  unkind  to  thee  and 
me. 
For,  knowing  well,  my  son,  the  tender  love 
That  I  have  ever  borne,  and  bear  to  thee. 
He,  grieved  thereat,  is  not  content  alone 
To  spoil  thee  of  my  sight,  my  chiefest  joy. 
But  thee,  of  thy  birthright  and  heritage. 
Causeless,  unkindly,  and  in  wrongful  wise. 
Against  all  law  and  right,  he  will  bereave  : 
Half  of  his  kingdom  he  will  give  away. 
Fer.  To  whom  ? 


*  kind— natme. 


Vid.  Even  to  Porrex,  his  younger  son ; 
Whose  growing  pride  I  do  so  sore  suspect, 
That,  being  rais'd  to  equal  rule  with  thee, 
Methinks  1  see  his  envious  heart  to  swell, 
Fill'd  with  disdain  and  with  ambitious  hope. 
Fer.  Madam,   leave  care  and  careful  plaint 

for  me. 
Just  hath  my  father  been  to  every  wight : 
His  first  injustice  he  will  not  extend 
To  me,  I  trust,  that  give  no  cause  thereof ; 
My  brother's  pride  shall  hurt  himself,  not  me. 
Vid.  So  grant  the  gods  !     But  yet,  thy  father 

so 
Hath  firmly  fixed  his  unmoved  mind, 
That  plaints  and  prayers  can  no  whit  avail ; 
For  those  have  I  essay'd  ;  but  even  this  day 
He  will  endeavour  to  pi-ocure  assent 
Of  all  his  council  to  his  fond  devise. 
Fer.  Their  ancestors  from  race  to  race  have 

borne 
True  faith  to  my  forefathers  and  their  seed  : 
I  trust  they  eke  will  bear  the  like  to  me. 

Vid.    There  resteth  all.      But  if  they    fail 

thereof, 
And  if  the  end  bring  forth  an  ill  success. 
On  them  and  theirs  the  mischief  shall  befall, 
And  so  I  pray  the  gods  requite  it  them ; 
And  so  they  will,  for  so  is  wont  to  be. 
When  lords  and  trusted  rulers  under  kings. 
To  please  the  present  fancy  of  the  prince. 
With  wrong  transpose    the  course  of  gover- 
nance. 
Murders,  mischief,  or  civil  sword  at  length, 
Or  mutual  treason,  or  a  just  revenge. 
When  right  Succeeding  line  returns  again. 
By  Jove's  just  judgment  and  deserved  wrath, 
Brings  them  to  cruel  and  reproachful  death. 
And  roots  their  names  and  kindreds  from  the 

earth. 
Fer.  Mother,  content  you,  you  shall  see  the 

end. 
Vid.  The  end !  thy  end  I  fear:  Jove  end  me 

first! 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


liii 


The  second  act  is  occupied  with  long  speeches  from  Gorboduc,  Arostus, 
Philander,  and  Eubulus,  concerning  the  king's  proposed  division  of  the  king- 
dom between  his  two  sons.     Gorboduc  concludes  thus  : 


Gor.  I  take  your  faithful  hearts  in  thankful 

part : 
But  since  I  see  no  cause  to  draw  my  mind, 
To  fear  the  nature  of  my  loving  sons, 
Or  to  misdeem  that  envy  or  disdain 
Can  there  work  hate,  where  nature  planteth 

love; 
In  one  self  purpose  do  I  still  abide. 
My  love  extendeth  equally  to  both, 
My  land  sufficeth  for  them  both  also. 
Humber  shall  part  the  marches  of  their  realms : 
The  southern  part  the  elder  shall  possess, 
The  northern  shall  Porrex,  the  younger,  rule. 
In  quiet  I  will  pass  mine  aged  days. 
Free  from  the  travail,  and  the  painful  cares, 
That  hasten  age  upon  the  worthiest  kings. 
But  lest  the  fraud,  that  ye  do  seem  to  fear, 
Of  flattering  tongues,  corrupt  their  tender  youth, 
And  writhe  them  to  the  ways  of  youthful  lust, 
To  climbing  pride,  or  to  revenging  hate, 
Or  to  neglecting  of  their  careful  charge, 
Lewdly  to  live  in  wanton  recklessness, 
Or  to  oppressing  of  the  rightful  cause, 
Or  not  to  wreak  the  wrongs  done  to  the  poor. 
To  tread  down  truth,  or  favour  false  deceit ; 
I  mean  to  join  to  either  of  my  sons 
Some  one  of  those,  whose  long  approved  faith 
And  wisdom  tried,  may  well  assure  my  heai't, 
That  mining  fraud  shall  find  no  way  to  creep 
Into  their  fencekd  ears  with  grave  advice. 
This  is  the  end;  and  so  I  pray  you  all 
To  bear  my  sons  the  love  and  loj'alty 
That  I  have  found  within  your  faithful  breasts. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 
Ferrex  ;  Hermon  ;  Dordan. 

Fer.  I  marvel  much  what  reason  led  the  king. 
My  father,  thus,  without  all  my  desert, 
To  reave '  me  half  the  kingdom,  which  by  course 
Of  law  and  nature  should  remain  to  me. 

Her.  If  you  with  stubborn  and  untamed  pride 
Had  stood  against  him  in  rebelling  wise  ; 
Or  if,  with  grudging  mind,  you  had  envied 
So  slow  a  sliding  of  his  aged  years ; 
Or  sought  before  your  time  to  haste  the  course 
Of  fatal  death  upon  his  royal  head ; 
Or  stain'd  your  stock  with  murder  of  your  kin ; 
Some  face  of  reason  might  perhaps  have  seem'd 
To  yield  some  likely  cause  to  spoil  ye  thus. 

Dor.    Ne  yet    your  father,    0    most    noble 
prince. 
Did  ever  think  so  foul  a  thing  of  you ! 
Eor  he,  with  more  than  father's  tender  love, 
While  yet  the  fates  do  lend  liim  life  to  rule 
(Who  long  might  live  to  see  your  ruling  well), 


To  you,  my  lord,  and  to  his  other  son, 
Lo,  he  resigns  his  realm  and  royalty ; 
Which  never  would  so  wise  a  prince  have  done, 
If  he  had  once  misdeem'd  that  in  your  heart 
There  ever  lodged  so  unkind  a  thought. 
But  tender  love,  my  lord,  and  settled  trust 
Of  your  good  nature,  and  your  noble  mind, 
Made  him  to  place  you  thus  iu  roj'al  throne, 
And  now  to  give  you  half  his  realm  to  guide ; 
Yea,  and  that  half  which,  in  abounding  store 
Of  things  that  serve  to  make  a  wealthy  realm, 
In  stately  cities,  and  in  fruitful  soil. 
In  temperate  breathing  of  the  milder  heaven. 
In  things  of  needful  use,  which  friendly  sea 
Transports  by  traffic  from  the  foreign  parts, 
In  flowing  wealth,  in  honour,  and  in  force, 
Doth  pass  the  double  value  of  the  pai't 
That  Porrex  hath  allotted  to  his  reign. 
Such  is  your  case,  such  is  your  father's  love. 
Fer.  Ah  love,  my  friends !     Love  wrongs  not 

whom  he  loves. 
Dor.  Ne  yet  ho  wrongeth  you,  that  giveth 

you 
So  large  a  reign,  ere  that  the  course  of  time 
Bring  you  to  kingdom  by  descended  right. 
Which  time    perhaps  might    end    your    time 

before. 
Fer.  Is   this  no  wrong,   say  you,  to  reave 

from  me 
My  native  right  of  half  so  great  a  realm, 
And  thus  to  match  his  younger  son  with  me 
In  equal  pow'r,  and  in  as  great  degree .' 
Yea,  and  what  son  ?     The  son  whose  swelling 

pride 
Would  never  yield  one  point  of  reverence, 
When  I,  the  elder,  and  apparent  heir, 
Stood  in  the  likelihood  to  possess  the  whole  ; 
Yea,  and  that  son  which  from  his  childish  age 
Envieth  mine  honour,  and  doth  hate  my  life, 
What  will  he  now  do,  when  his  pride,  his  rage, 
The  mindful  malice  of  his  grudging  heart 
Is  arm'd  with  force,  with  wealth,  and  kingly 

state  ? 

Dor.  Alas,  my  lord,   what   grieful   thing   ia 

this, 
That  of  your  brother  you  can  think  so  ill  ? 
I  never  saw  him  utter  likely  sign, 
Whereby  a  man  might  see  or  once  misdeem 
Such  hate  of  you,  nor  such  unyielding  pride. 
Ill  is  their  counsel,  shameful  be  their  end. 
That  raising  such  mistrustful  fear  in  you, 
Sowing  the  seed  of  such  unkindly  hate, 
Travail  by  reason  to  destroy  you  both. 
Wise  is  your  brother,  and  of  noble  hope, 
Worthy  to  wield  a  large  and  mighty  realm. 
So  much  a  stronger  friend  have  you  thereby. 
Whose  strength  is  your  strength  if  you  'gree  in 

one. 


Hermon,  in  a  long  insidious  speech,  advises  Ferrex  to 


Attempt  redress  by  arms,  and  wreak  yourself 
Upon  his  life  that  gaineth  by  your  loss, 
Who  now  to  shame  of  you,  and  grief  of  us, 
In  your  own  kingdom  triumphs  over  you. 

But  if  you  like  not  yet  so  hot  device, 


1  reavt — tereave  of. 


Ne  list  to  take  such  vantage  of  the  time, 
But,  though  with  peril  of  your  own  estate, 
You  will  not  be  the  first  that  shall  invade ; 
Assemble  yet  your  force  for  your  defence. 
And  for  your  safety  stand  upon  your  guard. 
Dor.    0   heaven!    was  there  ever  heard   or 
known 
So  wicked  counsel  to  a  noble  prince  ? 
Let  me,  my  lord,  disclose  unto  your  grace 


liv 


ORIGIN  AND  EARLY  HISTORY  OF 


This  heinous  tale,  what  mischief  it  contains; 
Your  father's  death,  your  brother's,  and  your 

own, 
Your  present  murder,  and  eternal  shame. 
Hear  me,  0  king,  and  suffer  not  to  sink 
So  high  a  treason  in  j^our  princely  breast. 
Fer.  The  mighty  gods  forbid  that  ever  I 
Should   once  conceive    such  mischief    in  my 
heart. 

The  gods  forbid,  I  say  : 

Cease  you  to  speak  so  any  more  to  me ; 

Nor  you,  my  friend,  with  answer  once  repeat 

So  foul  a  tale :  in  silence  let  it  die. 

But,  since  I  fear  my  younger  brother's  rage, 
And  since,  perhaps,  some  other  man  may  give 
Some  like  advice,  to  move  his  grudging  head 
At  mine  estate ;  which  counsel  may  perchance 
Take   greater  force  with  him,  than  this  with 

me; 
I  will  in  secret  so  prepare  myself, 
As,  if  his  malice  or  his  lust  to  reign 
Break  forth  in  arms  or  sudden  violence, 
I  may  withstand  his  rage  and  keep  mine  own. 

\Extunt. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 
PoKEEX;  Tyndar;  Philander. 

For.  And  is  it  thus .'  and  doth  he  so  prepare 
Against  his  brother  as  his  mortal  foe? 
And  now,  while  yet  his  aged  father  lives, 
Neither  regards  he  him,  nor  fears  he  me  ? 
War  would  he  have  ?  and  he  shall  have  it  so. 

Tyn.  I  saw  myself  the  great  prepared  store 
Of  horse,  of  armour,  and  of  weapons  there. 

The  rascal  numbers  of  unskilful  sort 

Are  filled  with  monstrous   tales   of    you  and 

yours. 
In  secret,  I  was  counsell'd  by  my  friends 
To  haste  me  thence,  and  brought  you,  as  you 

know. 
Letters  from  those  that  both  can  truly  tell. 
And  would  not  write  unless  they  knew  it  well. 
Fhil.  My  lord,  yet  ere  you  move  unkindly 

war. 
Send  to  your  brother,  to  demand  the  cause. 
Perhaps  some  traitorous  tales  have  filled  his 

ears 
With  false  reports  against  your  noble  grace ; 
Which,   once  disclos'd,  shall  end  the  gi'owing 

strife. 
That   else,   not  stay'd  with  wise  foresight  in 

time. 
Shall   hazard  both  your  kingdoms  and  your 

lives. 
Send  to  your  father  eke,  he  shall  appease 
Your  kindled  minds,  and  rid  you  of  this  fear. 
For.  Rid  me  of  fear!  I  fear  him  not  at  all; 
Nor  will  to  him,  nor  to  my  father  send. 
If  danger  were  for  one  to  tarry  there, 


Think  ye  it  safety  to  return  again  ? 

In  mischiefs,  such  as  Ferrex  now  intends. 

The  wonted  courteous  laws  to  messengers 

Are  not  observ'd,  which  in  just  war  they  use. 

Sball  I  so  hazard  any  one  of  mine.' 

Shall  I  betray  my  trusty  friends  to  him. 

That  have  disclosed  his  treason  unto  me? 

Let  him  entreat  that  fears ;  I  fear  him  not. 

Or  shall  I  to  the  king,  my  father,  send  ? 

Yea,  and  send  now,  while  such  a  mother  lives, 

That  loves  my  brother,  and  that  hateth  me  ? 

Shall  I  give  leisure,  by  my  fond  delays. 

To  Ferrex  to  oppress  me  all  unaware  ? 

I  will  not ;  but  I  will  invade  his  realm, 

And  seek  the  traitor  prince  within  his  court. 

Mischief  for  mischief  is  a  due  reward. 

His  wretched  head  shall  pay  the  worthy  price 

Of  this  his  treason  and  his  hate  to  me. 

Shall  I  abide,  and  treat,  and  send,  and  pray. 

And  hold  my  yieldiug  throat  to  traitor's  kuife, 

While  I,    with  valiant  mind  and  conquering 

force, 
]\Iight  rid  myself  of  foes,  and  win  a  realm  ? 
Yet  rather,  when  I  have  the  wretch's  head. 
Then  to  the  king,  my  father,  will  I  send. 
The  bootless  case  may  yet  appease  his  wrath : 
If  not,  I  will  defend  me  as  I  may. 

\Exeunt  Poreex  and  Titndar. 
Phil.  Lo,  here  the  end  of  these  two  youthful 

kings ! 
The  father's  death !  the  ruin  of  their  realms ! 

But  I  will  to  the  king,  their  father,  haste, 
Ere  this  mischief  come  to  the  likely  end. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  L 

Gor.BODUC;  Eubulus;  Akostus. 

Gor.  0  cruel  fates,  0  mindful  wrath  of  gods, 
Whose    vengeance     neither     Simois'    stained 

streams 
Flowing  with  blood  of  Trojan  princes  slain, 
Nor  Phrygian  fields  made  rank  with  corpses 

dead 
Of  Asian  kings  and  lords,  can  yet  appease; 
Nor  slaughter  of  unhappy  Priam's  race, 
Nor  llion's  fall,  made  level  with  the  soil, 
Can  yet  suffice :  but  still  continued  rage 
Pursues  our  lives,  and  from  the  farthest  seas 
Doth  chase  the  issues  of  destroyed  Troy. 
'  Oh,  no  man  happy  till  his  end  be  seen.' 
If  any  flowing  wealth  and  seeming  joy 
In  present  years  might  make  a  happy  wight, 
Happy  was  Hecuba,  the  wofull'st  wretch 
That  ever  lived  to  make  a  miiTor  of; 
And  happy  Priam,  with  his  noble  sons ; 
And  happy  I,  till  now,  alas  !  I  see 
And  feel  my  most  unhappy  wretchedness. 
Behold,  my  lords,  read  ye  this  letter  here; 
Lo,  it  contains  the  ruin  of  our  realm. 
If  timely  speed  provide  not  hasty  help. 


A  letter  is  read  from  Eubulus  making  known  the  resolution  taken  by  Ferrex, 
immediately  after  which.  Philander  enters  and  announces  that  Porrex 

In  haste  prepareth  to  invade 
His  brother's  land,  and  with  unkindly  war 
Threatens  the  murder  of  your  eldest  son. 


After  some  tedious  speechifying,  a  messenger  enters  and  tells  the  king, 


THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


Iv 


Porrex,  your  younger  son, 
With  sudden  force  invaded  hatli  the  land 
That  you  to  Ferres  did  allot  to  rule ; 
And  with  his  own  most  bloody  hand  he  hath 
His  brother  slain,  and  doth  possess  his  realm. 
Gor.   O  heavens,  send  down  the  flames  of 
your  revenge ! 
Destroy,  I  say,  with  flash  of  wreakful  fire 
The  traitor  son,  and  then  the  wretched  sire ! 
But  let  us  go,  that  yet  perhaps  I  may 
Die  with  revenge,  and  'pease  t^e  hateful  gods. 

\Ex&imi. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

ViDENA  sola. 

Why  should  I  live,  and  linger  forth  my  time 
In  longer  life  to  double  .my  distress.' 

But  whereunto  waste  I  this  ruthf  ul  speech. 

To  thee  that  hast  thy  brother's  blood    thus 

shed? 
Shall  I  still  think  that  from  this  womb  thou 

sprung  ? 
That  I  thee  bare  ?  or  take  thee  for  my  son  ? 
No,  traitor,  no  ;  I  thee  refuse  for  mine : 
Murderer,  I  thee  renounce  ;  thou  art  not  mine. 
Never,  0  wretch,  this  womb  conceived  thee ; 
Nor  never  bode  I  painful  throes  for  thee. 
Changeling  to  me  thou  art,  and  not  my  child. 
Nor  to  no  wight  that  spark  of  pity  knew. 
Euthless,  unkiud,  monster  of  nature's  worlc. 
Thou  never  suck'd  the  milk  of  woman's  breast; 
.But,  from  thy  birth,  the  cruel  tiger's  teats 
Have  nursed  thee  ;  nor  yet  of  flesh  and  blood 
Form'd  is  thy  heart,  but  of  hard  iron  wrought ; 
And  wild  and  desert  woods  breed  thee  to  life. 
But  canst  thou  hope  to  'scape  my  just  revenge  ? 
Or  that  these  hands  will  not  be  wroke '  on  thee .' 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  Ferrex'  m.other  lives. 
That  loved  him  more  dearly  than  herself  ? 
And  doth  she  live,  and  is  not  'venged  on  thee  ? 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  11. 

GoKBODUc;  Akostus. 

Gor.  We  marvel  much,  whereto  this  ling'ring 
stay 
Falls  out  so  long.  .  .  . 
Aros.  Lo,  where  he  comes,  and  Eubulus  with 
him. 

E^iie,'  IVbulus  and  Porrex. 

E'uh.  According  to  your  highness's  best  to  me, 
Here  have  I  Porrex  brought,  even  in  such  sort 
As  from  his  wearied  horse  he  did  alight. 
For  that  your  grace  did  will  such  haste  therein. 
Gor.  We  like  and  praise  this  speedy  will  in 

you. 
To   work  the  thing  that  to  your  charge  we 

gave. 
Porrex,  if  we  so  far  should  swerve  from  kind, 
And  from  those  bounds  which  law  of  nature 

sets. 
As  thou  hast  done  by  vile  and  wretched  deed, 
In  cruel  murder  of  thy  brother's  life; 
Our  present  hand  could  stay  no  longer  time. 
But  straight  should  bathe  this  blade  in  blood 

of  thee. 
As  just  revenge  of  thy  detested  crime. 
No ;  we  should  not  offend  the  law  of  kind, 
If  now  this  sword  of  ours  did  slay  thee  here : 
For  thou  hast  murder'd  him,   whose  heinous 

death 
Even  nature's  force  doth  move  us  to  revenge 
By  blood  again  ;  and  justice  forceth  us 
To  measure  death  for  death,  thy  due  desert. 
Yet  since  thou  art  our  child,  and  since  as  yet 
In  this  hard  case  what  word  thou  canst  allege 
For  thy  defence,  by  us  hath  not  been  heard, 
We  are  content  to  stay  our  will  for  that 
Which  justice  bids  us  presently  to  work. 
And  give  thee  leave  to  use  thy  speech  at  full, 
If  ought  thou  have  to  lay  for  thine  excuse. 


Porrex  then,  in  a  long  speech,  endeavours  to  exculpate  himself  by  urging 
that  what  he  had  done  was  purely  in  self-defence. 


Gor.  Oh  cruel  wight,  should  any  cause  prevail 
To  make  thee  stain  thy  hands  with  brother's 

blood.? 
But  what  of  thee  we  will  resolve  to  do 
Shall  yet  remain  unknown.     Thou  in  the  mean 
Shalt  from  our  royal  presence  banish'd  be. 
Until  our  piincely  pleasure  further  shall 
To  thee  be  show'd.     Depart  therefore  our  sight. 
Accursed  child !    '[£'a;ii!  Porrex. J     What  cruel 

destiny. 
What  froward  fate  hath  sorted  "  us  this  chance. 
That  even  in  those,  where  we  should  comfort 

find. 
Where  our  delight  now  in  our  aged  days 
Should  rest  and  be,  even  there  our  only  grief 
And  deepest  sorrows  to  abridge  our  life. 
Most  pining  cares  and  deadly  thoughts  do  grow. 
Aros.  Your  grace  shall  now,  in  these  grave 

years  of  yours, 
HaVe  found  ere  this  the  pi-ice  of  mortal  joys ; 
How  short  they  be,  how  fading  here  in  earth, 
How  full  of  change,  how  brittle  our  estate, 
Of  nothing  sure,  save  only  of  the  death. 
To  whom  both  man  and  all  the  world  doth  owe 
Their  end  at  last ;  neither  shall  nature's  power 
In  other  sort  against  your  heart  prevail, 


Than  as  the  naked  hand  whose  stroke  essays 
The  armed  breast  where  force  doth  light  in  vain. 
Gor.  Many  can  yield  right  sage  and  grave 

advice 
Of  patient  spirit  to  others  wrapp'd  in  woe. 
And  can  in  speech  both  rule  and  conquer  kind ; 
Who,  if  by  proof  they  might  feel  ntlture's  force. 
Would  show  themselves  men  as  they  are  indeed. 
Which  now  will  needs  be  gods.     But  what  doth 

mean 
The  sorry  cheer  of  her  that  here  doth  come  ? 

Enter  Marcella. 

Mar.  Oh  where  is  ruth  ?  or  where  is  pity  now  ? 
Whither  is  gentle  heart  and  mercy  fled  "i 
Are  they  exil'd  out  of  our  stony  breasts, 
Never  to  make  return .?  is  all  the  world 
Drowned  in  blood,  and  sunk  in  cruelty? 
If  not  in  women  mercy  may  be  found. 
If  not,  alas,  within  the  mother's  breast. 
To  her  own  child,  to  her  own  flesh  and  blood; 
If  ruth  be  banish'd  thence,  if  pity  there 
May  have  no  place,  if  there  no  gentle  heart 
Do  live  and  dwell,  where  should  we  seek  it  then  ? 

Gor.  Madam,  alas,  what  means  yoiu-  woful 
tale  ? 


1  wroke — wreak'd,  revenged. 


-  sorted — allotted. 


VI 


ORIGIN  AND  HISTORY  OF  THE  BRITISH  DRAMA. 


Mar.  0  silly  woman  I !  why  to  this  hour 
Have  kind  and  fortune  thus  deferr'd  my  breath, 
That  I  should  live  to  see  this  doleful  day  ? 
Will  ever  wight  believe  that  such  hard  heart 
Could  rest  within  the  cruel  mother's  breast, 
"With  her  own  hand  to  slay  her  only  son  ? 
But  out,  alas  !  these  eyes  beheld  the  same : 
They  saw  the  dreary  sight,  and  are  become 
Most  ruthful  records  of  the  bloody  fact. 
Porrex,  alas,  is  by  his  mother  slain, 
And  with  her  hand,  a  woful  thing  to  tell. 
While  slumbering  on  his  careful  bed  he  rests. 
His  heart  stabb'd  in  with  knife  is  I'eft  of  life. 

Gor.  O  Eubulus,  oh  draw  this  sword  of  ours. 
And  pierce  this  heart  with  speed !    0  hateful 

light, 
0  loathsome  life,  0  sweet  and  welcome  death ! 
Dear  Eubulus,  work  this  we  thee  beseech! 

Euh.  Patience,  your  grace  ;  perhaps  he  liveth 

yet, 

With  wound  receiv'd,  but  not  of  certain  death. 
.    Gor.  Oh  let  us  then  repair  unto  the  place, 
And  see  if  Porrex  live,  or  thus  be  slain. 

\_Exexint  Gorboduc  and  Eubulus. 

Mar.  Alas,  he  liveth  not !  it  is  too  true. 
That  with  these  eyes,  of  him  a  peerless  prince. 
Son  to  a  king,  and  in  the  flower  of  youth. 
Even  with  a  twink  a  senseless  stock  I  saw. 

Aros.  Oh  damned  deed! 

Mar.  But  hear  this  ruthful  end : 
The  noble  prince,  pierc'd  with  the  sudden  wound. 
Out  of  his  wretched  slumber  hastily  start, 
Whose  strength  now  failing  straight  he  over- 
threw, 
When  in  the  fall  his  eyes,  e'en  new  unclos'd. 
Beheld  the  queen,  and  cried  to  her  for  help. 
We  then,  alas,  the  ladies  which  that  time 
Did  there  attend,  seeing  that  heinous  deed. 
And  hearing  him  oft  call  the  wretched  name 
Of  mother,  and  to  cry  to  her  for  aid. 
Whose  direful  hand  gave  him  the  mortal  wound. 
Pitying,  alas  (for  nought  else  could  we  do), 
His  ruthful  end,  ran  to  the  woful  bed, 
Dispoiled  straight  his  breast,  and  all  we  might 
Wiped  in  vain,  witli  napkins  next  at  hand. 
The  sudden  streams  of  blood  that  flushed  fast 
Out  of  the  gaping  wound.     Oh  what  a  look ! 
Oh  what  a  ruthful  steadfast  eye  methought 
He  fixed  upon  my  face,  which  to  my  death 
Will  never  part  from  me,  when  with  a  braid  ' 
A  deep-fetched  sigh  he  gave,  and  therewithal 
Clasping  his  hands,  to  heaven  he  cast  his  sight, 


And  straight  pale  death  pressing  within  his  face, 
The  flying  ghost  his  mortal  corpse  forsook ! 

Aros.  Never  did  age  bring  forth  so  vile  a  fact. 

Mar.    Oh   hard    and    cruel  hap,    that    thus 
assigned 
Unto  so  worthy  a  wight  so  wretched  end  ; 
But  most  hard  cruel  heart,  that  could  consent 
To  lend  the  hateful  destinies  that  hand, 
By  which,  alas,  so  heinous  crime  was  wrought. 
0  queen  of  adamant,  0  marble  breast, 
If  not  the  favour  of  his  comely  face. 
If  not  his  princely  cheer^  and  countenance, 
His  valiant  active  arms,  his  manly  breast, 
If  not  his  fair  and  seemly  personage, 
His  noble  limbs  in  such  proportion  cast 
As  would  have  wrapt  a  silly  woman's  thought ; 
If  this  might  not  have  moved  thy  bloody  heart, 
And  that  most  cruel  hand  the  wretched  weapon 
Even  to  let  fall,  and  kissed  him  in  the  face. 
With  tears  for  ruth  to  reave  such  one  by  death; 
Should  nature  yet  consent  to  slay  her  son? 
Oh  mother,  thou  to  murder  thus  thy  child !  .  .  . 
Ah,  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I  beheld 
Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  steed, 
Shining  in  armour  bright  before  the  tilt. 
And  with  thy  mistress'  sleeve  tied  on'  thy  helm, 
And  charge  thy  staff  to  please  thy  lady's  eye. 
That  bowed  the  headpiece  of  thy  friendly  foe ! 
How  oft  in  arms  on  horse  to  bend  the  mace, 
How  oft  in  arms  on  foot  to  break  the  sword. 
Which  never  now  these  eyes  may  see  again ! 

Aros.  Madam,  alas,  in  vain  these  plaints  are 
shed; 
Kather  with  me  depart,  and  help  to  swage 
The  thoughtful  griefs  that  in  the  aged  king 
Must  needs  by  nature  grow  by  death  of  this 
His  only  son,  whom  he  did  hold  so  dear. 

Mar.  What  wight  is  that  which  saw  that  I 
did  see. 
And  could  refrain    to   wail   with    plaint    and 

tears  ? 
Not  I,  alas,  that  heart  is  not  in  me : 
But  let  us  go,  for  I  am  grieved  anew. 
To  call  to  mind  the  wretched  father's  woe. 

{Exeunt. 
Chorus. 
Oh  happy  wight,  that  suffers  not  the  snare 
Of  murderous  mind  to  tangle  him  in  blood ! 
And  happy  he  that  can  in  time  beware 
By  other's  harms,  and  turn  it  to  his  good. 
But  woe  to  him  that,  fearing  not  to  offend, 
Doth  serve  his  lust,  and  will  not  see  the  end. 


The  fifth  act  concludes  with  the  following  couplet,  Tennysonian  in  style  and 
sentiment : 

For  right  will  always  live,  and  rise  at  length, 
But  wrong  can  never  take  deep  root  to  last. 


'  a  braid — a  stai-t. 


*  cheei — appearance,  face. 


JOHN    LILLY. 


[John  Lilly  or  Ltly,  probably  the  earliest  regular  dramatist  after  Lord  Buckliurst,  was 
born  in  Kent  about  1553.  He  became  a  student  of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  in  1569  ; 
took  liis  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  in  1573,  and  his  Master's  degree  in  1575.  According 
to  Anthony  a  Wood,  he  appears  not  to  have  been  a  very  hard  student,  '  but  alwaj'S  averse  to 
the  crabbed  studies  of  logic  and  philosophy. '  There  is  extant  among  the  Lansdowne  manu- 
scripts a  letter,  in  very  good  Latin,  dated  1574,  written  by  Lilly  to  Lord  Burghley,  desiring 
his  Lordship's  patronage  and  assistance  ;  with  what  result  is  not  kno^vn.  Burghley,  how- 
ever, seems  afterwards  to  have  conferred  upon  him  some  office  connected  with  his  own  house- 
hold. From  two  letters  extant,  written  by  LUly  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  it  is  inferred  that  he 
was  a  candidate  for  the  office  of  Master  of  the  Eevels,  probably  with  no  success.  After 
leaving  college,  he  appears  to  have  spent  most  of  his  time  in  London,  supporting  himself  by 
his  pen.  "When  he  died  is  unknown,  probably  somewhere  about  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Mr.  Fairholt,  editor  of  Lilly's  dramatic  works,  infers  from  certain 
allusions  in  a  work  of  Nash's,  that  our  author  '  was  a  little  man,  was  married,  and  fond  of 
tobacco. '  The  works  by  which  Lilly  is  now  best  known  are  his  two  prose  works,  entitled 
Euphues ;  or,  the  Anatomy  of  Wit,  and  Euphues  and  his  England,  which  gave  rise  to  the 
term  and  the  affected  style  of  writing  known  as  Eiqjhuism.  However  tedious  and  trifling 
these  works  may  appear  to  modern  readers,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Lilly's  contem- 
poraries admired  and  imitated  them  to  an  incredible  extent.  Euphuism  became  the  rage, 
even  Shakspeare  being  smitten  by  the  fever.  Blount,  the  editor  of  an  edition  of  his  plays 
published  in  1632,  says  'that  beauty  in  court  which  could  not  parley  Euphuisme,  was  as 
little  regarded  as  she  which  now  there  speaks  not  French  ; '  and  Anthony  a  Wood  tells  us 
that  '  in  these  books  of  Euphues,  'tis  said  that  our  nation  is  indebted  for  a  new  English  in 
them,  which  the  flower  of  the  youth  thereof  learned. '  By  most  of  his  contemporaries  he 
seems  to  have  been  held  in  great  estimation.  *  The  chief  characteristic  of  his  style, '  says 
Mr.  Collier,  'besides  its  smoothness,  is  the  emplojrment  of  a  species  of  fabulous  or  un- 
natm-al  natural  philosophy,  in  which  the  existence  of  certain  animals,  vegetables,  and 
minerals  with  peculiar  properties  is  presumed,  in  order  to  afford  similes  and  illustrations. ' 
As  far  as  the  dramatic  style  allows,  Lilly's  dramas  are  to  a  great  extent  disfigured  by  this 
painfully  unnatural  fine  writing,  although  there  is  comparatively  little  of  it  in  the  work  we 
have  selected.  Campaspe,  or  Alexander  and  Campaspe,  as  it  is  sometimes  entitled,  has 
some  claim  to  be  considered  a  historical  play,  in  that  the  dramatis  personce  are  mostly  his- 
torical characters.  The  incident  on  which  the  play  is  founded  is  mentioned  by  Pliny ;  and 
the  plot,  though  slight,  is,  on  the  whole,  well  wrought  out  by  the  author.  Although  the 
scene  is  laid  in  Athens,  in  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great,  the  persons  of  the  drama  are, 
in  character  and  manners.  Englishmen  of  Lilly's  own  time.  It  is  one  of  the  best  and  most 
interesting  of  the  author's  plays,  some  of  the  characters,  such  as  Diogenes  and  his  servant 
Manes,  being  drawn  with  considerable  force  and  distinctness ;  and  the  wit  is  sometimes 
clever,  amusing,  and  original.  Hazlitt  says  of  it :  '  This  play  is  a  very  pleasing  transcript 
of  old  manners  and  sentiment.  It  is  full  of  sweetness,  and  point,  of  Attic  salt  and  the 
honey  of  Hymettus.'  Although,  when  compared  with  many  of  his  contemporaries,  Lilly 
cannot  be  ranked  very  high  as  a  dramatist,  still  he  affords  a  not  unpalatable  foretaste  of 

the  rich  feast  of  wit  and  wisdom  which  immediately  followed.     As  we  learn  from  the  pro- 

4L 


42 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


logueS  and'  ejiilp^ues,  this  play  was  written  in  haste,  for  representation  at  court,  after  which 
it  made  its'  appearance  at  Blackfriars  theatre. 

.  Eesiiosi  Gampaspe,  first  printed  in  1584,  Lilly  wrote  the  following  dramas  : — Sapho  and 
'Fh'co  '(1584)  ■  '-Mdywhri  (1591)  ;  Galathea  (1592) ;  Midas  (1592) ;  Mother  Bombie  (1594) ; 
The  Maid's  Metamorphosis  (1600) ;  Lovers  Metamorphosis  (1601).  It  is  doubtful  whether 
Lilly  was  the  author 4)f  the  last  two.] 


CAMPASPE 


PLAtED  BEFORE  THE  QUEEN'S  MAJESTY  ON"  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY,  AT  NIGHT, 
BY  HER  MAJESTY'S  CHILDREN,  AND  THE  CHILDREN  OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 

Imprinted  at  London  for  Thomas  Cadman,  1584. 


.  THE  PROLOGUE  AT  THE  BLACK- 
FRIARS. 
They  that  fear  the  stinging  of  wasps  make  fans 
of  peacocks'  tails,  whose  spots  are  like  eyes ;  and 
Lepidus,  which  could  not  sleep  for  the  chattering 
of  birds,  set  up  a  beast,  whose  head  was  like  a 
dragon ;  and  we,  which  stand  in  awe  of  report, 
are  compelled  to  set  before  our  owl  Pallas's 
shield,  thinking  by  her  virtue  to  cover  the 
other's  deformity.  It  was  a  sign  of  famine  to 
Egypt  when  Nylus  flowed  less  than  twelve 
cubits,  or  more  than  eighteen ;  and  it  may 
threaten  despair  unto  us,  if  we  be  less  courteous 
than  you  look  for,  or  more  cumbersome.  But 
as  Theseus,  being  promised  to  be  brought  to  an 
eagle's'  nest,  and  travelling  all  the  day,  found 
but  a  wi-en  in  a  hedge,  yet  said,  This  is  a  bird ; 
so  we  hope,  if  the  shower  of  our  swelling  moun- 
tain seem  to  bring  forth  some  elephant,  perform 
but  a  mouse,  you  will  gently  say.  This  is  a 
beast!  Basil  softly  touched  yieldeth  a  sweet 
scent,  but  chafed  in  the  hand,  a  rank  savour. 
We  fear,  even  so,  that  our  labours,  slily^  glanced 
on,  will  breed  some  content,  but  examined  to  the 
proof,  small  commendation.  The  haste  in  per- 
forming shall  be  our  excuse."  There  went  two 
nights  to  the  begetting  of  Hercules.  Feathers 
appear  not  on  the  Phcenis  under  seven  months, 
and  the  mulberry  is  twelve  in  budding ;  but  our 
travails^  are  like  the  hare's,  who  at  one  time 
bringeth  forth,  nourisheth,  and  engendereth 
again;  or  like  the  brood  of  Trochilus,  whose 
eggs  in  the  same  moment  that  they  are  laid  be- 
come birds.  But  howsoever  we  finish  our  work, 
we  crave  pardon  if  we  offend  in  matter,  and 
patience  if  we  transgress  in  manners.  We  have 
mixed  mirth  with  counsel,  and  discipline  with 

1  SWy  glanced  on — react  superficially. 
-  It  was,  as  we  have  said,  written  in  haste  for  per- 
formance at  court. 


delight,  thinking  it  not  amiss  in  the  same  garden 
to  sow  pot-herbs  that  we  set  flowers.  But  we 
hope,  as  harts  that  cast  their  horns,  snakes  their 
skins,  eagles  their  bills,  become  more  fi-esh  for 
any  other  labour;  so  our  charge  being  shaken 
off,  we  shall  be  fit  for  greater  matters.  But  lest, 
like  the  Myndians,  we  make  our  gates  greater 
than  our  towns,  and  that  our  play  runs  out  at 
the  preface,  we  here  conclude,  wishing  that 
although  there  be  in  your  precise  judgments  an 
universal  mislike,  yet  we  may  enjoy  by  your 
wonted  cointesies  a  general  silence. 


THE  PROLOGUE  AT  THE  COURT. 

We  are  ashamed  that  our  bird,  which  fluttereth 
by  twilight,  seeming  a  swan,  should  be  proved 
a  bat  set  against  the  sun.  But  as  Jupiter  placed 
Silenus's  ass  among  the  stars,  and  Alcibiades 
covered  his  pictures,  being  owls  and  apes,  with 
a  curtain  embroidered  with  lions  and  eagles,  so 
are  we  enforced  upon  a  rough  discourse  to  di-aw 
on  a  smooth  excuse,  resembling  lapidaries,  who 
think  to  hide  the  crack  in  a  stone  by  setting  it 
deep  in  gold.  The  gods  supped  once  with  poor 
Baucis,  the  Persian  kings  soniitiraes  shaved 
sticks:  our  hope  is  yoiu-  Highness  will  at  this 
time  lend  an  ear  to  an  idle  pastime.  Appion, 
raising  Homer  from  hell,  demanded  only  who 
was  his  father ;  and  we,  calling  Alexander  from 
his  grave,  seek  only  who  was  his  love.  What- 
soever we  present,  we  wish  it  may  be  thought 
the  dancing  of  Agrippa  his  shadows,  who,  in  the 
moment,  they  were  seen,  were  of  any  shape  one 
would  conceive ;  or  Lynccs,  who  having  a  quick 
sight  to  discern,  have  a  short  memory  to  forget. 
With  us  it  "is  like  to  fare  as  with  these  torches 
which,  giving  light  to  others,  consume  them- 
selves ;  and  we,  showing  dehght  to  others,  shamo 
ourselves. 


JOHN  LILLY. 


^ramatis  p^rsouaj. 


Warriors. 


Alexander,  King  of  Macedon. 
Hephestion,  Aw  General. 
Olytus,      "i 
Parmenio, 

MiLECTUS, 

Phrygius,  ) 

Melippus,  Chamberlain  to  Alexander. 

Aristotle, 

Diogenes, 

Crisippus, 

Crates,  )■  Philosophers. 

Cleanthes, 

Anaxarchus, 

Ckysus, 


Apelles,  a  Painter. 

Solinus,!   ^.,.  ,   ,,, 

Sylvius,!  ^'*'~'"'  "-f  '^^^'^''^^ 

Perim,     i 

MiLO,       [  Sons  to  Sylvius. 

Trico,     S 

Granichus,  Servant  to  Plato. 

Manes,  Servant  to  Diogenes. 

PsYLLUS,  Seri'atit  to  Apelles. 

Page  to  Alexander. 

Citizens  of  Athens. 

CaBBPASPE,)    ^7   ,        r-     ,■ 

TmocLEA,)-  ^^'^^"'^  Captives. 
Lais,  a  Courtezan. 


Scene — Athens. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 


Clytus,  Parsienio,  Timoclea,  Campaspe, 
Alexander,  Hephestion. 

Clytus.  Parmenio,  I  cannot  tell  whether  I 
Bliould  more  commend  in  Alexander's  victories 
courage  or  courtesy ;  in  the  one  being  a  resolu- 
tion without  feai%  in  the  other  a  liberality  above 
custom  :  Thebes  is  razed,  the  people  not  i-acked, 
towers  thrown  down,  bodies  not  thrust  aside,  a 
conquest  without  conflict,  and  a  cruel  war  in  a 
mild  peace. 

Par.  Clytus,  it  becometh  the  son  of  Philip  to 
be  none  other  than  Alexander  is  ;  therefore  see- 
ing in  the  father  a  full  perfection,  who  could 
have  doubted  in  the  son  an  excellency  ?  For  as 
the  moon  can  borrow  nothing  else  of  the  sun 
but  light ;  so  of  a  sire,  in  whom  nothing  but 
virtue  was,  ^vhat  could  the  child  receive  but 
singular  ^^  It  is  for  turkies^  to  stain  each  other, 
not  for  diamonds  ;  in  the  one  to  be  made  a  dif- 
ference in  goodness,  in  the  other  no  comparison. 

Clytus.  You  mistake  me,  Parmenio,  if,  whilst 
I  commend  Alexander,  you  imagine  I  call  Philip 
into  question ;  unless  happily^  you  conjectm-e 
(which  none  of  judgment  will  conceive)  that, 
because  I  like  the  fruit,  therefore  I  heave  at  the 
tree ;  or  coveting  to  kiss  the  child,  I  therefore 
go  alDout  to  poison  the  teat. 

Par.  Ay,  but  Clytus,  I  perceive  you  are  born 
in  the  east,  and  never  laugh  but  at  the  sun  rising ; 
which  argueth  though  a  duty  where  you  ought, 
yet  no  great  devotion  where  you  might. 

Clytus.  AVe  will  make  no  conti'oversy  of  that  of 
which  there  ought  to  be  no  question  ;  only  this 
shall  be  the  opinion  of  us  both,  that  none  was 
worthy  to  be  the  father  of  Alexander  but  Philip, 
nor  any  meet  to  be  the  son  of  Philip  but  Alex- 
ander. 

Par.  Soft,  Clytus,  behold  the  spoils  and  pri- 
soners ! — a  pleasant  sight  to  us,  because  profit  is 
joined  with  honour ;  not  much  painful  to  them, 
because  their  captivity  is  eased  by  mercy. 

Timo.  Fortune,  thou  didst  never  yet  deceive 
virtue,  because  virtue  never  yet  did  trust  fortune. 
Sword  and  fire  will  never  get  spoil,  whei-e  wis- 
dom and  fortitude  bear  sway.  0  Thebes,  thy 
walls  were  raised  by  the  sweetness  of  the  harp, 
but  razed  by  the  shrillness  of  the  trumpet.  Alex- 
ander had  never  come  so  near  the  walls,  had 


1  singular — what  is  singular,  rare,  or  excellent. 

*  Turquoises. 

3  happily — haply,  perhaps ;  from  ftap— chance. 


Epaminondas'  walked  about  the  walls;  and  yet 
might  the  Thebans  have  been  merry  in  their 
streets,  if  he  had  been  to  watch  their  towers. 
But  destiny  is  seldom  foreseen,  never  prevented. 
We  are  here  now  captives,  Avhose  necks  are 
yoked  by  force,  but  whose  hearts  cannot  yield 
by  death.  Come,  Campaspe  and  the  rest,  let  us 
not  be  ashamed  to  cast  our  eyes  on  him,  on 
whom  we  feared  not  to  cast  our  darts. 

Par.  Madam,  you  need  not  doubt ;  it  is  Alex- 
ander that  is  the  conqueror. 

Timo.  Alexander  hath  overcome,  not  con- 
quered. 

Par.  To  bring  all  under  his  subjection  is  to 
conquer. 

Timo.  He  cannot  subdue  that  which  is  divine. 

Par.  Thebes  was  not. 

Timo.  Virtue  is. 

Clytus.  Alexander,  as  he  tendreth  -  virtue,  so 
he  will  you  ;  he  drinketh  not  blood,  but  thirsteth 
after  honour  ;  he  is  greedy  of  victory,  but  never 
satisfied  with  mercy ;  in  fight  terrible,  as  be- 
cometh a  captain ;  in  conquest  mild,  as  beseemeth 
a  king.  In  all  things,  than  which  nothing  can 
be  greater,  he  is  Alexander. 

Camp.  Then,  if  it  be  such  a  thing  to  be  Alex- 
ander, I  hope  it  shall  be  no  miserable  thing  to 
be  a  virgin ;  for  if  he  save  our  honours,  it  is 
more  than  to  restore  our  goods.  And  rather  do 
I  wish  he  preserve  our  fame  than  our  lives ; 
which,  if  he  do,  we  will  confess  there  can  be  no 
greater  thing  than  to  be  Alexandei'. 

Alex.  Clytus,  are  these  prisoners  ?  of  whence 
these  spoils  ? 

Clytus.  Like^  your  Majesty,  they  are  prisoners, 
and  of  Thebes. 

Alex.  Of  what  calling  or  reputation  ?* 

Clytus.  I  know  not,  but  they  seem  to  be  ladies 
of  honour. 

Alex.  I  will  know. — Madam,  of  whence  you 
are  I  knov.r^  but  who,  I  cannot  tell. 

Timo.  Alexander,  I  am  the  sister  of  Theagines, 
who  fought  a  battle  with  thy  father  before  the 
city  of  Chieronte,  where  he  died,  I  say,  which 
none  can  gainsay,  valiantly. 

Alex.  Lady,  there  seem  in  your  words  sparks 
of  your  brother's  deeds,  but  worser  fortune  in 
your  life  than  his  death.  But  fear  not,  for  you 
shall  live  without  violence,  enemies,  or  necessity.* 


1  One  of  the  greatest  Greeks.  He  raised  Thebes  to 
the  supremacy  of  Greece,  which  she  lost  almost  as 
soon  as  he  died,  B.C.  362. 

-  tendreth — has  a  tender  regard  for,  loveth. 

3  Like  your  Majesn/— may  it  please  your  Majesty. 

*  reputation — repute  or  rank.  ^  want  or  poverty. 


44 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


— But  what  are  you,  fair  lady — another  sister  to 
Theagines  ? 

Camp.  No  sister  to  Theagines,  but  an  humble 
handmaid  to  Alexander,  born  of  a  mean  parent- 
age, but  to  exti-eme  fortune. 

Alex.  Well,  ladies  (for  so  your  virtues  show 
you),  whatsoever  your  births  be,  you  shall  be 
honourably  entreated. •  Athens  shall  be  your 
Thebes,  and  you  shall  not  be  as  abjects2  of  war, 
but  as  subjects  to  Alexander.  Parmenio,  con- 
duct these  honourable  ladies  into  the  city,  chai'ge 
the  soldiers  not  so  much  as  in  words  to  offer 
them  any  offence,  and "^ let  all  wants  be  supplied 
60  far  forth  as  shall  be  necessary  for  such  persons 
and  my  prisoners.  \_Extunt  Parmenio  and  cap- 
tives.'] Hephestion,  it  resteth  now  that  we  have 
as  great  care  to  govern  in  peace  as  conquer  in 
war ;  that,  whilst  arms  cease,  arts  may  flourish, 
and,  joining  letters  with  lances,  we  endeavour  to 
bo  as  good  philosophers  as  soldiers,  knowing  it 
no  less  praise  to  be  wise  than  commendable  to 
be  valiant. 

Hep.  Your  Majesty  therein  showeth  that  you 
have  as  great  desire  to  rule  as  to  subdue ;  and 
needs  must  that  commonwealth  be  fortunate 
whose  captain  is  a  philosopher,  and  whose  phi- 
losopher a  captain.     \_Exeunt.~\ 


ACT  I.— SCENE  11. 
Mamies,  Granichus,  Psyllus. 

Manes.  I  serve  instead  of  a  master,^  a  mouse, 
whose  house  is  a  tub,  whose  dinner  is  a  crust,  and 
whose  bed  is  a  board. 

Psyllus.  Then  art  thou  in  a  state  of  life  which 
philosophers  commend.  A  crumb  for  thy  supper, 
an  hand  for  thy  cup,  and  thy  clothes  for  thy 
sheets.     For  natura  paucis  contenia.*^ 

Gran.  Manes,  it  is  pity  so  proper  a  man  should  be 
cast  away  upon  a  philosopher :  but  that  Diogenes, 
that  dog,  should  have  Manes,  that  dog-bolt,'  it 
grieveth  nature  and  spiteth  art :  the  one  having 
found  thee  so  dissolute,  absolute,  I  would  say, 
in  body,  the  other  so  single,  singular  in  mind. 

Manes.  Are  you  merry .'  It  is  a  sign  by  the  trip 
of  your  tongue,  and  the  toss  of  your  head,  that 
you  have  done  that  to-day  which  I  have  not  done 
these  three  days. 

Psyllus.  What's  that? 

Manes.  Dined. 

Gran.  I  think  Diogenes  keeps  but  cold  cheer. 

Manes.  I  would  it  were  so,  but  he  keepeth 
neither  hot  nor  cold. 

Gran.  What  then,  lukewarm  ?  That^  made 
Manes  run  from  his  master  the  last  day. 

Psyllus.  Manes  had  reason ;  for  his  name  fore- 
told as  much. 

Manes.  My  name  ?  how  so,  sir  boy  ? 

Psyllus.  You  know  that  it  is  called  Mons  a 
Movendo,''  because  it  stands  still. 

Manes.  Good. 


1  entreated — treated.  *  captives  or  slaves. 

3  It  is  a  curious  inconsistency  that  Diogenes,  the 
cynic  and  despiser  of  luxury,  should  here  be  made  to 
teep  a  servant  in  his  tub. 

^  '  Nature  is  content  with  a  few  things.' 

5  dog-bolt — evidently  a  terni  of  reproach,  nearly  syno- 
nymous with  dog,  only  perhaps  more  contemptuous. 
Butler  uses  it  as  an  adj.,  in  the  sense  of  base. — Nares. 

"  Dodsley  reads  tohat  here. 

7  '  Mountain  from  moving,'  on  the  lucus  a  non  lucendo 
principle.  Lilly  here,  in  jest  or  earnest,  makes  Psyllus 
derive  mons  (mountain)  from  Lat.  moveo,  to  move. 
Following  out  the  principle,  Psyllus  tries  to  make  a 
wretched  joke,  and  raise  the  laugh  against  Manes,  by 
deriving  his  name  from  Lat.  maneo,  to  remain. 


Psyllus.  And  thou  art  named  Manes,  a  Manen- 
do,  because  thou  runnest  away. 

Manes.  Passing*  reasons !  I  did  not  run  away, 
but  retire. 

Psyllus.  To  a  prison,  because  thou  wouldst  have 
leisure  to  contemplate. 

Manes.  I  will  prove  that  my  body  was  immor- 
tal, because  it  was  in  prison. 

Gran.  As  how  ? 

Manes.  Did  your  masters  never  teach  you  that 
the  soul  is  immortal  ? 

Gran.  Yes. 

Manes.  And  the  body  is  the  prison  of  the  soul  ? 

Gran.  True. 

Manes.  Why  then,  thus  to  make  my  body  im- 
mortal, I  put  it  in  prison. 

Gran.  Oh  bad ! 

Psyllus.  Excellent  ill ! 

Manes.  You  may  see  how  duU  a  fasting  wit 
is ;  therefore,  Psyllus,  let  us  go  to  supper  with 
Granichus :  Plato  is  the  best  fellow  of  all  philo- 
sophers. Give  me  him  that  reads  in  the  morning 
in  the  school,  and  at  noon  in  the  kitchen. 

Psyllus.  And  me. 

Gran.  Ah !  sirs,  my  master  is  a  king  in  his 
parlour  for  the  body,  and  a  god  in  his  study  for 
the  soul.  Among  all  his  men,  he  commendeth 
one  that  is  an  excellent  musician ;  then  stand  I 
by,  and  clap  another  on  the  shoulder,  and  say, 
this  is  a  passing  good  cook. 

Manes.  It  is  well  done,  Granichus ;  for,  give  me 
pleasure  that  goes  in  at  the  mouth,  not  the  ear; 
I  had  rather  fill  my  guts  than  my  brains. 

Psyllus.  I  serve  Apelles,  who  feedeth  me,  as 
Diogenes  doth  Manes;  for  at  dinner,  the  one 
preacheth  abstinence,  the  other  commendeth 
counterfeiting.^  When  I  would  eat  meat,  he 
paints  a  spit ;  and  when  I  thirst,  '  Oh,'  saith  he, 
'  is  not  this  a  fair  pot .''  and  points  to  a  table  which 
contains  the  banquet  of  the  gods,  where  are 
many  dishes  to  feed  the  eye,  but  not  to  fill  the 
gut 

Gran.  What  doest  thou  then  ? 

Psyllus.  This  doth  he  then,  bring  in  many 
examples  that  some  have  lived  by  savours,  and 
proveth  that  much  easier  it  is  to  fat  by  colours, 
and  tells  of  birds  that  have  been  fatted  by  painted 
grapes  in  winter;  and  how  many  have  so  fed 
their  eyes  with  their  mistress's  piicture,  that  they 
never  desired  to  take  food,  being  glutted  with 
the  delight  in  their  favours.'  Then  doth  he  show 
me  counterfeits,*  such  as  have  surfeited  with  their 
filthy  and  loathsome  vomits,  and  with  the  riotous 
bacchanals  of  the  god  Bacchus,  and  his  disorderly 
crew,  which  are  painted  all  to  the  life  in  his  shop. 
To  conclude,  I  fare  hardly,  though  I  go  richly, 
which  maketh  me,  when  I  should  begin  to  sha- 
dow* a  lady's  face,  to  draw  a  lamb's  head,  and 
sometime  to  set  to  the  body  of  a  maid  a  shoulder 
of  mutton;  for  semper  animus  meus  est  in  pa- 
tinis.^ 

Manes.  Thou  art  a  god  to  me ;  for,  could  I  see 
but  a  cook's  shop  painted,  I  would  make  mine 
eyes  fat  as  butter.  For  I  have  nought  but  sen- 
tences to  fill  mj''  maw  :  as,  plures  occidit  crapula 
quam  gladius ;''  musa  jejunantibus  arnica;^  re- 
pletion killeth   delicately ;   a;nd  an  old  saw  of 

1  Passing  reasons— fine  reasoning  indeed. 

2  counterfeiting — painting. 

3  f avows — graces ;  beauties. 

*  Counterfeits — pictures  or  portraits. 
'  Shadoio — outline. 

^  'My  mind  is  always  among  the  stew-pans,'  or  'my 
belly  is  always  crying  cupboard.' — From  Terence. 

'  'Surfeit  (or  intemperance)  slayeth  more  than  the 
sword.' 

*  '  The  Muse  is  a  friend  to  the  fasting.' 


JOHN  LILLY. 


45 


abstinence  by  Socrates,  The  telly  is  the  head's 
grave.  Thus  with  sayings,  not  with  meat,  ho 
maketh  a  galliniafray.' 

Gran.  But  how  dost  thou  then  live  ? 

Manes.  With  fine  jests,  sweet  air,  and  the  dogs' 
alms. 

Gran.  Well,  for  this  time  I  will  stanch  thy 
gut,  and,  among  pots  and  platters,  thou  shalt  see 
what  it  is  to  serve  Plato. 

Psyllus.  For  joy  of  it,  Granichus,  let's  sing. 

Manes.  My  voice  is  as  clear  in  the  evening  as 
in  the  morning. 

Gran.  Another  commodity-  of  emptiness. 

SoxG. 

Gran.  0  for  a  bowl  of  fat  canary, 
Rich  Palermo,  sparkling  sherry. 
Some  nectar  else,  from  Juno's  dairy, 
O  these  draughts  would  make  us  merry. 

Psyllus.  0  for  a  wench  (I  deal  in  faces, 
And  in  other  daintier  things) ; 
Tickled  am  I  with  her  embraces, 
Fmo  dancing  in  such  fairy  rings. 

Manes.  0  for  a  plump  fat  leg  of  mutton. 
Veal,  lamb,  capon,  pig,  and  coney  ;^ 
None  is  happy  but  a  glutton, 
None  an  ass  but  who  wants  money. 

Clior.  Wines  (indeed)  and  girls  are  good, 
But  brave  victuals  feast  the  blood ; 
For  wenches,  wine,  and  lusty  cheer, 
Jove  would  leap  down  to  surfeit  here. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 

Melipi'US,  Plato,  Aristotle,  Crisippus,  Crates, 
Cleanthes,  Anaxarchus,  Alexander,  He- 

PHESTION,  PARMENIO,  ClYTUS,  DiOGENES. 

Melip.  I  had  never  such  ado  to  warn  scholars 
to  come  before  a  king.  First,  I  came  to  Crisippus, 
a  taU,  lean,  old  mad  man,  willing  ^  him  presently 
to  appear  before  Alexander.  He  stood  staring 
on  my  face,  neither  moving  his  eyes  nor  his 
body.  I  urging  him  to  give  some  answer,  ho 
took  up  a  book,  sat  down,  and  said  nothing. 
Melissa,  his  maid,  told  me  it  was  his  manner,  and 
that  oftentimes  she  was  fain  to  thrust  meat  into 
his  mouth,  for  that  he  would  rather  starve  than 
cease  study.  Well,  thought  I,  seeing  bookish 
men  are  so  blockish,  and  great  clerks  such  simple 
courtiers,  I  will  neither  be  partaker  of  their 
commons  nor  their  commendations.  From  thence 
I  came  to  Plato  and  to  Aristotle,  and  to  divers 
other ;  none  refusing  to  come,  saving  an  old  ob- 
scure fellow,  who,  sitting  in  a  tub  turned  towards 
the  sun,  read  Greek  to  a  young  boy.  Him,  when 
1  willed  to  appear  before  Alexandei',  he  answered, 
'  If  Alexander  would  fain  see  me,  let  him  come  to 
me ;  if  learn  of  me,  let  him  come  to  me ;  what- 
soever it  be,  let  him  come  to  me.'  '  Why,'  said  I, 
he  is  a  king.'  He  answered,  '  Why,  I  am  a  philo- 
sopher.' '  Why,  but  he  is  Alexander.'  '  Ay,  but 
I  am  Diogenes.'  I  was  half  angry  to  see  one  so 
crooked  in  his  shape,  to  be  so  crabbed  in  his 
sayings.  So,  going  my  way,  I  said,  '  Thou  shalt 
repent  it,  if  thou  comest  not  to  Alexander.'  '  Nay,' 
smiling,  answered  he,  '  Alexander  may  repent  it 
if  he  come  not  to  Diogenes :  virtue  must  be 
sought,  not  offered.'  And  so,  turning  himself  to 
his  cell,  he  grunted  I  know  not  what,  like  a  pig 


1  galUmafray — hash,  or  hodge-podge,  a  mixture  of 
many  ingredients ;  used  also  metaphorically. 

2  commodity — advantage,  or  convenience. 

3  coney — rabbit;  pronounced  here  kun'e. 
<  willing— OiQsixmg, 


under  a  tub.     But  I  must  be  gone,  the  philoso- 
phers are  coming.     \^Exit.'\ 

Plato.  It  is  a  difficult  controversy,  Aristotle, 
and  rather  to  be  wondered  at  than  believed,  how 
natural  causes  should  work  supernatural  effects. 

Aris.  I  do  not  so  much  stand  upon  the  appari- 
tion* is  seen  in  the  moon,  neither  the  Bemonium 
of  Socrates,  as  that  I  cannot  by  natural  reason 
give  any  reason  of  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of  the 
sea ;  which  makes  me,  in  the  depth  of  my  studies, 
to  cry  out,  '  0  ens  entium  miserere  mei.^  '^ 

Plato.  Cleanthes,  and  you  attribute  so  much 
to  nature,  by  searching  for  things  which  are  not 
to  be  found,  that,  whilst  you  study  a  cause  of 
your  own,  you  omit  the  occasion  itself.  There 
is  no  man  so  savage,  in  whom  resteth  not  this 
divine  particle,  that  there  is  an  omnipotent, 
etei-nal,  and  divine  mover,  which  may  be  called 
God. 

Cleant.  I  am  of  this  mind,  that  that  first  mover, 
which  you  term  God,  is  the  instrument  of  all 
the  movings  which  we  attribute  to  nature.  The 
earth,  which  is  mass,  swimmeth  on  the  sea, 
seasons  divided  in  themselves,  fruits  growing  in 
themselves,  the  majesty  of  the  sky,  the  whole 
firmament  of  the  world,  and  whatsoever  else 
appeareth  miraculous,  what  man,  almost  of  mean 
capacity,  but  can  prove  it  natural  ? 

Anax.  These  causes  shall  be  debated  at  our 
philosophers'  feast,  in  which  controversy  I  will 
take  part  with  Aristotle,  that  there  is  Natura 
nalurans,^  and  yet  not  God. 

Cra.  And  I  with  Plato,  that  there  is  Deus 
optimus  maximus,'^  and  not  nature. 

Aris.  Here  cometh  Alexander. 

Alex.  I  see,  Hephestion,  that  these  philosophers 
are  here  attending  for  us. 

Hej}.  They  are  not  philosophers  if  they  know 
not  their  duties. 

Alex.  But  I  much  marvel  Diogenes  should  be 
so  dogged. 

Hep.  1  do  not  think  but  his  excuse  will  be 
better  than  Melippus'  message. 

Alex.  1  will  go  see  him,  Hephestion,  because  I 
long  to  see  him  that  would  command  Alexander 
to  come,  to  whom  all  the  world  is  like  to  come. 
Aristotle  and  the  rest,  sithence^  my  coming  from 
Thebes  to  Athens,  from  a  place  of  conquest  to 
a  palace  of  quiet,  I  have  resolved  with  myself  in 
my  court  to  have  as  many  philosophers  as  I  had 
in  my  camp  soldiers.  My  court  shall  be  a  school, 
wherein  I  will  have  used  as  great  doctrine  in 
peace  as  I  did  in  war  discipline. 

Aris.  We  are  all  here  ready  to  be  commanded, 
and  glad  we  are  that  we  are  commanded,  for 
that  nothing  better  becometh  kings  than  litera- 
ture, which  maketh  them  come  as  near  to  the 
gods  in  wisdom  as  they  do  in  dignity. 

Alex.  It  is  so,  Aristotle  ;  but  yet  there  is 
among  you,  yea,  and  of  your  bringing  up,  that 
sought  to  destroy  Alexander:  Calistenes,  Aris- 
totle, whose  treasons  against  his  prince  shall  not 
be  borne  out  with  the  reasons  of  his  iDhilosophy. 

Aris.  If  ever  mischief  entered  into  the  heart 
of  Calistenes,^  let  Calistenes  suffer  for  it;  but 
that  Aristotle  ever  imagined  any  such  thing  of 
Calistenes,  Aristotle  doth  deny. 


1  Probably  which  should  be  inserted  before  is. 

2  '  0  Being  of  beings,  pity  me.' 

2  Somewhat  equivalent  to  the  Force  of  certain  modem 
philosophers. 

■•  '  God,  the  Best  and  Greatest.' 

^  sithence — since. 

^  Callisthenes  was  a  pupil  and  relation  of  Aristotle, 
and  rendered  himself  so  obnoxious  to  Alexander  by  his 
arrogance  and  independence,  that  he  was  accused  of 
being  privy  to  a  plot  to  assassinate  the  king. 


46 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Alex.  Well,  Aristotle,  kindred  may  blind  thee, 
and  affection  me ;  but  in  kings'  causes  I  will 
not  stand  to  scliolars'  arguments.  This  meeting 
shall  be  for  a  commandment,  that  you  all  fre- 
quent my  court,  instruct  the  young  with  rules, 
confirm  the  old  with  reasons.  Let  your  lives  be 
answerable '  to  your  learnings,  lest  my  proceed- 
ings be  contrary  to  my  promises. 

Hep.  You  said  you  would  ask  every  one  of 
them  a  question,  which  yesternight  none  of  us 
could  answer. 

Alex.  I  will.  Plato,  of  all  beasts,  which  is  the 
subtilest ." 

Plato.  That  which  man  hitherto  never  knew. 

Alex.  Aristotle,  how  should  a  man  be  thought 
a  god  ? 

Aris.  In  doing  a  thing  impossible  for  a  man. 

Alex.  Crisippus,  which  was  first,  the  day  or 
the  night  ? 

Cris.  The  day,  by  a  day. 

Alex.  Indeed  !  strange  questions  must  have 
strange  answers.  Cleanthes,  what  say  you,  is 
life  or  death  the  stronger  ? 

Cle.  Life,  that  suffereth  so  many  troubles. 

Alex.  Crates,  how  long  should  a  man  live  ? 

Crates.  Till  he  think  it  better  to  die  than  to 
live. 

Alex.  Anaxarchus,  whether  doth  the  sea  or 
the  earth  bring  forth  most  creatures  ? 

Anax.  The  earth,  for  the  sea  is  but  a  part  of 
the  earth. 

Alex.  Hephestion,  methinks  they  have  answered 
all  well,  and  in  such  questions  I  mean  often  to  try 
them. 

Hep.  It  is  better  to  have  in  your  court  a  wise 
man  than  in  your  ground  a  golden  mine.  There- 
fore would  I  leave  war  to  studj'  wisdom,  were  I 
Alexander. 

Alex.  So  would  I,  were  I  Hephestion.  But 
come,  let  us  go  and  give  release,  as  I  promised, 
to  our  Theban  thrall.2  [Exeunt. 

Plato.  Thou  art  fortunate,  Aristotle,  that  Alex- 
ander is  thy  scholar. 

Aris.  And  all  you  happy,  that  he  is  your  sove- 
reign. 

Cris.  I  could  like  the  man  well,  if  he  could 
be  contented  to  be  a  man. 

Aris.  He  seeketh  to  draw  near  to  the  gods  in 
knowledge ;  not  to  be  a  god. 

Enter  Diogenes. 

Plato.  Let  us  question  a  little  with  Diogenes, 
why  he  went  not  with  us  to  Alexander.  Dio- 
genes, thou  didst  forget  thy  duty,  that  thou  went'st 
not  with  us  to  the  king. 

Diog.  And  you  your  profession  that  went  to 
the  king. 

Plato.  Thou  takest  as  great  pride  to  be  peevish 
as  others  do  glory  to  be  vu-tuous. 

Diog.  And  thou  as  great  honour,  being  a  philo- 
sopher, to  be  thought  court-like,  as  others  shame 
that  be  courtiers  to  be  accounted  philosophers. 

Aris.  These  austere  manners  set  aside;  it  is 
well  known  that  thou  didst  counterfeit  money. 

Diog.  And  thou  thy  manners,  in  that  thou  didst 
not  counterfeit  money. 

Aris.  Thou  hast  reason  to  contemn  the  court, 
being,  both  in  body  and  mind,  too  crooked  for  a 
courtier. 

Diog.  As  good  be  crooked,  and  endeavour 
to  make  myself  straight  from'  the  court;  as  be 
straight,  and  learn  to  be  crooked  at  the  court. 

1  answerable  to,  ifec— in  accordance  with  your  teach- 
ings. 
-  thrall — prisoner.    Probably  Timoclea  is  meant. 
3  from — away  from. 


Cris.  Thou  thinkest  it  a  grace  to  be  opposite 
against  Alexander. 

Diog.  And  thou  to  be  jump'  with  Alexander. 

Anax.  Let  us  go ;  for  in  contemning  him,  we 
shall  better  please  him  than  in  wondering  at  him. 

Aris.  Plato,  what  doest  thou  think  of  Diogenes? 

Plato.  To  be  Socrates,  furious.^    Let  us  go. 

[Exeunt  philosophers. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  L 
Diogenes,  Psyllus,  Manes,  Granichus. 

Psyllus.  Behold,  Manes,  where  thy  master  is  ; 
seeking  either  for  bones  for  his  dinner,  or  pins 
for  his  sleeves.     I  will  go  salute  him. 

Manes.  Do  so ;  but  mum,  not  a  word  that  you 
saw  Manes. 

Cran.  Then  stay  thou  behind,  and  I  will  go 
with  Psyllus. 

Psyllus.  All  hail,  Diogenes,  to  your  proper' 
person. 

Diog.  All  hate  to  thy  peevish  conditions. 

Gran.  O  dog! 

Psyllus.  What  dost  thou  seek  for  here  ? 

Diog.  For  a  man  and  a  beast. 

Gran.  That  is  easj^,  withoiit  thy  light,  to  be 
found.     Be  not  all  these  men  ? 

Diog.  Called  men. 

Gran.  What  beast  is  it  thou  lookest  for  ? 

Diog.  The  beast,  my  man.  Manes. 

Psyllus.  He  is  a  beast  indeed  that  will  serve 
thee! 

Diog.  So  is  he  that  begat  thee. 

Gran.  What  wouldst  thou  do  if  thou  shouldst 
find  Manes .' 

Diog.  Give  him  leave  to  do  as  he  hath  done 
before. 

Gran.  What's  that .' 

Diog.  To  run  away. 

Psyllus.  Why,  hast  thou  no  need  of  Manes  ? 

Diog.  It  were  a  shame  for  Diogenes  to  have 
need  of  Manes,  and  for  Manes  to  have  no  need  of 
Diogenes. 

Gran.  But  put  the  case  he  were  gone,  wouldst 
thou  entertain  any  of  us  two  ? 

Diog.  Upon  condition. 

Psyllus.  What? 

Diog.  That  you  shoiild  tell  me  wherefore  any 
of  you  both  were  good. 

Gran.  Why,  I  am  a  scholar,  and  well  seen-  in 
philosophy. 

Psyllus.  And  I  a  'prentice,  and  well  seen  in 
painting. 

Diog.  Well  then,  Granichus,  be  thou  a  painter 
to  amend  thine  ill  face  ;  and  thou,  Psyllus,  a 
philosopher,  to  correct  thine  evil  manners.  But 
who  is  that  Manes  ? 

Manes.  I  care  not  who  I  were,  so  I  were  not 
Manes. 

Gran.  You  are  taken  tardy.* 

Psyllus.  Let  us  slip  aside,  Granichus,  to  see 
the  salutation  between  Manes  and  his  master. 

Diog.  Manes,  thou  knowest  the  last  day  I 
threw  away  my  dish,  to  drink  in  my  hand,  be- 
cause it  was  superfluous ;  now  I  am  determined 
to  put  away  my  man,  and  serve  myself;  quia 
non  egeo  tui  vel  te.^ 


1  to  be  jump — to  agree;  Scotch  Ji'm^,  exact. 

2  furious — raging,  or  intemperate. 

3  proper — comely ;  handsome. 

<   Well  seen — have  good  insight;  well  skilled. 

^  '  You  have  turned  lazy.' 

*  '  For  I  don't  want  eitlier  thyself  or  thy  service.' 


JOHN  LILL  Y. 


47 


Manes.  Master,  you  know  a  while  ago  I  ran 
away ;  so  do  I  mean  to  do  again,  quia  scio  tihi 
non  esse  argentum} 

Diog.  I  know  I  liave  no  money,  neither  will 
I  have  ever  a  man ;  for  I  was  resolved  long 
si  thence^  to  put  away  both  my  slaves,  money  and 
Manes. 

Manes.  So  was  I  determined  to  shake  off  Loth 
my  dogs,  hunger  and  Diogenes. 

Psyllus.  0  sweet  consent^  between  a  crowd* 
and  a  Jew's  harp. 

Gran.  Come,  let  us  reconcile  them. 

Psyllus.  It  shall  not  need,  for  this  is  their  use, 
now  do  they  dine  one  upon  another. 

\_Exit  Diogenes. 

Gran.  How  no^i  Manes,  art  thou  gone  from 
thy  master  ? 

Manes.  No,  I  did  but  now  bind  myself  to  him. 

Psyllus.  Why,  you  are  at  mortal  jars. 

Manes.  In  faith  no ;  we  brake  a  bitter  jest  one 
upon  another. 

Gran.  Why,  thou  art  as  dogged  as  he. 

Psyllus.  My  father  knew  them  both  little  whelps. 

Manes.  Well,  I  will  hie  me  after  my  master. 

Gran.  Why,  is  it  supper  time  with  Diogenes .' 

Manes.  Ay,  with  him  at  all  time  when  he  hath 
meat. 

Psyllus.  Why  then,  every  man  to  his  home ; 
and  let  us  steal  out  again  anon. 

Gran.  Where  shall  we  meet? 

Psyllus.  Why,  at  Ala  vendibili  suspensa  hxdera 
non  est  opus.^ 

Manes.  O  Psyllus,  haheo  te  loco  parentis,'^  thou 
blessest  me.  [_Exeuut. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 

Alexander,  Hephestion,  Page,  Diogenes, 
Apelles. 

Alex.  Stand  aside,  sir  boy,  till  you  be  called. 
Hephestion,  how  do  you  like  the  sweet  face  of 
Campaspe  ? 

Hep.  1  cannot  but  commend  the  stout  courage 
of  Timoclea. 

Alex.  Without  doubt  Campaspe  had  some  great 
man  to  her  father. 

Hep.  You  know  Timoclea  had  Theagines  to 
her  brother. 

Alex.  Timoclea  still  in  thy  mouth !  Art  thou 
not  in  love  ? 

Hep.  Not  I. 

Alex.  Not  with  Timoclea  you  mean ;  wherein 
you  resemble  the  lapwing,  who  crieth  most  where 
her  nest  is  not.?  And  so  you  lead  me  from  espy- 
ing your  love  with  Campaspe,  you  cry  Timoclea. 

Hep.  Could  I  as  well  subdue  kingdoms  as  I 
can  my  thoughts,  or  were  I  as  far  from  ambition 
as  I  am  from  love,  all  the  world  would  account 
mo  as  valiant  in  arms,  as  I  know  myself  moderate 
in  affection. 

Alex.  Is  love  a  vice  ? 

Hep.  It  is  no  virtue. 


1  '  Because  I  know  you're  jrot  no  money.' 

2  '  since.'  3  consent — harmony. 

*  Crowd — a  musical  insti-ument  like  a  fiddle,  with  six 
strings;  Welsh  crwth—a,  bulge,  a  fiddle;  Gael,  cruit — 
a  hunch,  fiddle. 

5  Possibly  this  may  be  meant  as  an  alehouse  motto 
or  sign;  cila  should  be  alx,  and  the  literal  translation 
is,  '  There  is  no  need  of  hanging  ivy  over  saleable  ale ; ' 
or  more  freely  rendered,  '  Good  wine  needs  no  bush.' 
The  ivy  was  sacred  to  Bacchus,  and  formerly  used  to 
be  painted  over  tavern  doors  as  a  sign,  as  the  spruce  is 
in  GeiTuan}'  at  the  present  day. 

^  'I  look  upon  you  as  my  father.' 

'  Dodsley  says  that  this  simile  perhaps  occurs  more 
frequently  in  our  old  -(viiters  than  any  other. 


Alex.  Well,  now  shalt  thou  see  what  small 
difference  I  make  between  Alexander  and  He- 
phestion. And  sith  i  thou  hast  been  always  par- 
taker of  my  triumphs,  thou  shalt  be  partaker  of 
my  torments.  I  love,  Hephestion,  I  love !  I  love 
Campaspe,  a  thing  far  unfit  for  a  Macedonian, 
for  a  king,  for  Alexander.  Why  hangest  thou 
down  thy  head,  Hephestion  ?  Blushing  to  hear 
that  which  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell  ? 

Hep.  Might  my  words  crave  pardon  and  my 
counsel  credit,  I  would  both  discharge  the  duty 
of  a  subject,  for  so  I  am,  and  the  office  of  a 
friend,  for  so  I  will. 

Alex.  Speak,  Hephestion ;  for  whatsoever  is 
spoken,  Hephestion  speaketh  to  Alexander. 

Hep.  I  cannot  tell,  Alexander,  whether  the  re- 
port be  more  shameful  to  be  heard,  or  the  cause 
sorrowful  to  be  believed  ?  What !  is  the  son  of 
Philip,  king  of  Macedon,  become  the  subject  of 
Campaspe,  the  captive  of  Thebes  ?  Is  that  mind, 
whose  greatness  the  world  could  not  contain, 
di-awn  within  the  compass  of  an  idle  alluring 
eye.?  Will  you  handle  the  spindle  with  Her- 
cules,2  when  you  should  shake  the  spear  with 
Achilles  ?  Is  the  warlike  sound  of  drum  and 
trump  turned' to  the  soft  noise  of  lyre  and  lute  ? 
the  neighing  of  barbed  steeds,  whose  loudness 
filled  the  air  with  terror,  and  whose  breaths 
dimmed  the  sun  with  smoke,  converted  to  deli- 
cate tunes  and  amorous  glances  ?  0  Alexander ! 
that  soft  and  jaeldingmind  should  not  be  in  him, 
whose  hard  and  unconquered  heart  hath  made 
so  many  yield.  But  you  love, — ah  grief!  but 
whom?  Campaspe? — ah  shame!  a  maid  forsooth 
unknown,  unnoble,  and  who  can  tell  whether 
immodest  ?  whose  eyes  are  framed  by  art  to 
enamour,  and  whose  heart  was  made  by  nature 
to  enchant.  Ay,  but  she  is  beautiful ;  yea,  but 
not  therefore  chaste :  ay,  bvxt  she  is  comely  in 
all  parts  of  the  body ;  but  she  may  be  crooked  in 
some  part  of  the  mind :  ay,  but  she  is  wise ; 
yea,  but  she  is  a  woman :  beauty  is  like  the 
blackberry,  which  seemeth  red,  when  it  is  not 
ripe,  resembling  precious  stones  that  are  polished 
with  honey,  which  the  smoother  they  look,  the 
sooner  they  break.  It  is  thought  wonderful 
among  the  sea-men,  that  Mugill,^  of  all  fishes  the 
swiftest,  is  found  in  the  belly  of  the  Bret,*  of  all 
the  slowest :  and  shall  it  not  seem  monstrous 
to  wise  men  that  the  heart  of  the  greatest  con- 
queror of  the  world  should  be  found  in  the 
hands  of  the  weakest  creature  of  nature  ?  of  a 
woman  ?  of  a  captive  ?  Hermyns  s  have  fair 
skins,  but  foul  livers ;  sepulchres  fresh  colours, 
but  rotten  bones ;  women  fair  faces,  but  false 
hearts.  Remember,  Alexander,  thou  hast  a  camp 
to  govern,  not  a  chamber;  fall  not  from  the 
armour  of  Mars  to  the  arms  of  Venus  ;  from  the 
fiery  assaults  of  war,  to  the  maidenly  skii-mishes 
of  love ;  from  displaying  the  eagle  in  thine  en- 
sign, to  set  down  the  sparrow.  I  sigh,  Alex- 
ander, that  where  fortune  could  not  conquer, 
folly  should  overcome.  But  behold  all  the  per- 
fection tha(t  may  be  in  CamjDaspe  :  a  hair  curling 
by  natm-e,  not  art ;  sweet,  alluring  eyes ;  a  fair 
face  made  in  despite  ^  of  Venus,  and  a  stately  port 
in  disdain  of  Juno ;  a  wit  apt  to  conceive,  and 
quick  to  answer;  a  skin  as  soft  as  silk,  and  as 


2  Hercules  is  said  to  have  spun,  and  done  other  effemi- 
nate things,  when  living  with  Omphalc. 

3  Mugil — a  Latin  word,  probably  mullet. 

*  Bret— twYhot  or  halibut ;  the  word  is  still  used  in 
some  districts. 

^  Hermyns — ermines. 

6  in  despite  of—m  defiance,  in  disdain  of—m  mockery 
or  contempt. 


48 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS, 


smooth  as  jet ;  a  long  white  hand,  a  line  little 
foot;  to  conclude,  all  parts  answerable  to  the 
best  part;  what  of  this?  Though  she  have 
heavenly  gifts,  virtue  and  beauty,  is  she  not  of 
earthly  metal,  flesh  and  blood  ?  You,  Alexander, 
that  would  be  a  god,  show  yourself  in  this  worse 
than  a  man,  so  soon  to  be  both  overseen  and  over- 
taken in  a  woman,^  whose  false  tears  know  their 
true  times,  whose  smooth  words  wound  deeper 
than  sharp  swords.  There  is  no  surfeit  so  dan- 
gerous as  that  of  honey,  nor  any  poison  so  deadly 
as  that  of  love  ;  in  the  one  physic  cannot  prevail, 
nor  in  the  other  counsel.^ 

Ahx.  My  case  were  light,  Hephestion,  and  not 
worthy  to  be  called  love,  if  reason  were  a  remedy, 
or  sentences  could  salve,  that  sense  cannot  con- 
ceive. Little  do  you  know,  and  therefore  slightly 
do  you  i-egard  the  dead  embers  in  a  pi-ivate  per- 
son, or  live  coals  in  a  great  prince,  whose  passions 
and  thoughts  do  as  far  exceed  others  in  extremity 
as  their  callings  do  in  majesty.  An  eclipse  iu 
the  sun  is  more  than  the  falling  of  a  star  :  none 
can  conceive  the  torments  of  a  king,  unless  he 
be  a  king,  whose  desires  are  not  inferior  to  their 
dignities.  And  then  judge,  Hephestion,  if  the 
agonies  of  love  be  dangerous  in  a  subject, 
whether  thej'  be  not  more  than  deadly  unto 
Alexander,  whose  deep  and  not -to -be -con- 
ceived sighs  cleave  the  heart  in  shivers,  whose 
wounded  thoughts  can  neither  be  expressed  nor 
endured.  Cease  then,  Hephestion,  with  argu- 
ments to  seek  to  refell*  that  which  with  their 
deity  the  gods  cannot  resist ;  and  let  this  suihce 
to  answer  thee,  that  it  is  a  king  that  loveth,  and 
Alexander  ;  whose  affections  are  not  to  be  mea- 
sured by  reason,  being  immortal ;  nor,  I  fear  me, 
to  be  borne,  being  intolerable. 

Hep.  I  must  needs  yield,  when  neither  reason 
nor  counsel  can  be  heard. 

Alex.  Yield,  Hephestion,  for  Alexander  doth 
love,  and  therefore  must  obtain. 

Hep.  Suppose  she  loves    not  you ;    affection 
cometh  not  by  appointment  or  birth ;  and  then, 
as  good  hated  as  enforced. 
Alex.  I  am  a  king,  and  will  command. 
Hep.  You  may,  to  yield  to  lust  by^  force ;  but 
to  consent  to  love  by  fear,  you  cannot 

Alex.  Why,  what  is  that  which  Alexander 
may  not  conquer  as  he  list  ? 

Hep.  Why,  that  which  you  say  the  gods  can- 
not resist — love. 

Alex.  I  am  a  conqueror,  she  a  captive  ;  I  ns 
fortunate  as  she  fair.  My  greatness  may  answer 
her  wants,  and  the  gifts  of  my  mind  the  modesty 
of  hers.  Is  it  not  likely,  then,  that  she  should 
love  ?     Is  it  not  reasonable  "i 

Hep.  You  say  that  in  love  there  is  no  reason, 
and  therefore  there  can  be  no  likelihood. 

Alex.  No  more,  Hephestion  ;  in  this  case  I  will 
use  mine  own  counsel,  and  in  all  other  thine  ad- 
vice. Thou  may'st  be  a  good  soldier,  but  never 
good  lover.  Call  my  page.  {Enter  page.'\  Sirrah, 
go  presently  to  Apelles,  and  will  him  to  come  to 
me  without  either  delay  or  excuse. 
Page.  I  go. 

Alex.  In  the  mean  season,*  to  recreate  my 
spirits,  being  so  near,  we  will  go  see  Diogenes. 
And  see  where  his  tub  is. — Diogenes ! 


*  cmsioerahU  to — corresponding  to. 

2  overseen  and  overtaken  in  a  woman — tricked  or  de- 
ceived, and  captivated  or  intoxicated  by  a  woman. 

3  This  long  harangue  is  a  fair  example  of  the  tedious 
and  affected  style  of  the  author's  Euphues. 

*  /Jf/eW— disprove  or  refute ;  from  Lat.  refello,  to  dis- 
prove, from  fallo,  to  deceive,  and  re,  denoting  an  un- 
doing. 

*  mean  ieosore— meantime. 


Diog.  Who  calleth .' 

Alex.  Alexander.  How  happened  it  that  you 
would  not  come  out  of  your  tub  to  my  palace  ? 

Diog.  Because  it  was  as  far  from  my  tub  to 
your  palace,  as  from  your  palace  to  my  tub. 

Alex.  Why,  then,  dost  thou  owe  no  reverence 
to  kings  ? 

Diog.  No. 

Alex.  Why  so  ? 

Diog.  Because  they  be  no  gods. 

A  lex.  They  be  gods  of  the  earth. 

Diog.  Yea,  gods  of  earth. 

Alex.  Plato  is  not  of  thy  mind. 

Diog.  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Alex.  Why.> 

Diog.  Because  I  would  have  none  of  Diogenes' 
mind,  but  Diogenes. 

Alex.  If  Alexander  have  anything  that  may 
pleasure  Diogenes,  let  me  know,  and  take  it. 

Diog.  Then  take  not  from  me  that  you  cannot 
give  me — the  light  of  the  world. 

Alex.  What  dost  thou  want? 

Diog.  Nothing  that  you  have. 

Alex.  I  have  the  world  at  command. 

Diog.  And  I  in  contempt. 

Alex.  Thou  shalt  live  no  longer  than  I  will. 

Diog.  But  I  shall  die  whether  you  will  or  no. 

Alex.  How  should  one  learn  to  be  content  ? 

Diog.  Unlearn  to  covet. 

Alex.  Hephestion,  were  I  not  Alexander,  I 
would  wish  to  be  Diogenes. 

Hep.  He  is  dogged,  but  discreet ;  I  cannot  tell 
how  1  sharp,  with  a  kind  of  sweetness ;  full  of 
wit,  yet  too  wayward. 

Alex.  Diogenes,  when  I  come  this  way  again, 
I  will  both  see  thee  and  confer  with  thee. 

Diog.  Do. 

Alex.  But  here  cometh  Apelles. — How  now, 
ApeUes ;  is  Venus'  face  yet  finished  ? 

Apel.  Not  yet ;  beauty  is  not  so  soon  shadowed,- 
whose  perfection  cometh  not  within  the  compass 
either  of  cunning  or  of  colour. 

Alex.  Well,  let  it  rest  unperfect,  and  come  you 
with  me,  where  I  will  show  you  that  finished  by 
natui-e  that  you  have  been  trifling  about  by  art. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 
Apelles,  Campaspe. 

Apel.  Lady,  I  doubt  whether  there  be  any 
colour  so  fresh,  that  may  shadow  a  countenance 
so  fair. 

Camp.  Sir,  I  had  thought  you  had  been  com- 
manded to  paint  with  your  hand,  not  to  glose^ 
with  your  tongue ;  but,  as  I  have  heard,  it  is 
the  hardest  thing  in  painting  to  set  down  a  hard 
favour,*  which  maketh  you  to  despair  of  my 
face ;  and  then  shall  you  have  as  great  thanks 
to  spare  your  labour  as  to  discredit  your  art. 

Apel.  Mistress,  you  neither  differ  from  your- 
self nor  your  sex ;  for,  knowing  your  own  per- 
fection, you  seem  to  dispraise  that  which  men 
most  commend,  drawing  them  by  that  mean  into  an 
admiration,  where,  feeding  themselves,  they  fall 
into  an  ecstasy ;  your  modesty  being  the  cause 
of  the  one,  and  of  the  other,  your  affections.* 

Camp.  I  am  too  young  to  understand  your 


>  In  some  editions  there  is  a  semicolon  after  haw. 

-  sAadowcd— depicted. 

3  gtose— flatter ;  generally  said  to  be  allied  to  gloss — 
explain;  but  in  meaning  rather  connected  with  gloss— 
glitter;  polish. 

*  favour — look  or  countenance. 

s  Dodsley  (ed.  1744)  XQ3.6.S  perfectioM. 


JOHN  LILLY. 


49 


speech,  though  old  enough  to  withstand  your 
device.  You  have  been  so  long  used  to  colours, 
you  can  do  nothing  but  colour. 

A-pd.  Indeed,  the  colours  I  see  I  fear  will  alter 
the  colours  I  have.  But  come,  Madam,  will  you 
draw  near  ?  for  Alexander  will  be  here  anon. 
Psyllus,  stay  you  here  at  the  window ;  if  any 
inquire  for  me,  answer,  Non  lubet  esse  dovii.^ 

\_Exeunt. 

ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 

PSTLLUS,  MaMES. 

Psyllus.  It  is  always  my  master's  fashion,  when 
any  fair  gentlewoman  is  to  be  drawn  within,  to 
make  me  to  stay  without.  But  if  he  should  paint 
Jupiter  like  a  bull,  like  a  swan,  like  an  eagle, 
then  must  Psyllus  with  one  hand  grind  colours, 
and  with  the  other  hold  the  candle.  But  let  him 
aloue;  the  better  he  shadows-  her  face,  the  more 
will  he  burn  his  own,  heart.  And  now,  if  any 
man  could  meet  with  Manes,  who,  I  dare  say, 
looks  as  lean  as  if  Diogenes  dropped  out  of  his 
nose — 

Manes.  And  here  comes  Manes,  who  hath  as 
much  meat  in  his  maw  as  thou  hast  honesty  in 
thy  head. 

Psyllus.  Then  I  hope  thou  art  very  hungry. 

Manes.  They  that  know  thee  know  that. 

Psyllus.  But  dost  thou  not  remember  that  we 
have  certain  liquor  to  confer^  withal  ? 

Manes.  Ay,  but  I  have  business ;  I  must  go 
cry  a  thing. 

Psyllus.  Why,  what  hast  thou  lost  ? 

Manes.  That  which  I  never  had — my  dinner  ! 

Psyllus.  Foul  lubber,  wilt  thou  cry  for  thy 
dinner  ? 

Manes.  I  mean,  I  vtmsi  cry;  not  as  one  would 
say  cry,*  but  cry,  that  is,  make  a  noise. 

Psyllus.  Why,  fool,  that  is  all  one  ;  for  if  thou 
cry,  thou  must  needs  make  a  noise. 

Manes.  Boy,  thou  art  deceived  :  Cry  hath  divers 
significations,  and  may  be  alluded^  to  many 
things;  knave  but  to  one,  and  can  be  applied 
but  to  thee. 

Psyllus.  Profound  M  anes ! 

Manes.  We  Cynics  are  mad  fellows  ;  didst  thou 
not  find  I  did  quip  "  thee  .' 

Psyllus.  No,  verily ;  why,  what's  a  quip  ? 

Manes.  We  great  girders'  call  it  a  short  saying 
of  a  sharp  wit,  with,  a  bitter  sense  in  a  sweet 
word. 

Psyllus.  How  canst  thou  thiis  divine,  divide, 
define,  dispute,  and  all  on  the  sudden  ? 

Manes.  Wit  will  have  his  swing ;  I  am  be- 
witched, inspired,  inflamed,  infected. 

Psyllus.  Well,  then  will  I  not  tempt  thy  gibing 
spirit. 

3Ianes.  Do  not,  Psyllus,  for  thy  dull  head  will 
be  but  a  grindstone  for  my  quick  wit,  which,  if 
thou  whet  with  overthwarts,*  periisti,  actum  est 
de  te.^  I  have  drawn  blood  at  one's  brains  with 
a  bitter  bob.'" 

Psyllus.  Let  mo  cross  myself,  for  I  die  if  I 
cross  thee. 


1  '  It  is  not  his  pleasure  to  tie  at  home.' 

-  '  depicts.'  ^  con/ei — discuss,  consume. 

*  c?'2/— weep.  *  aWurfed— referred. 

*  quip— ta,unt  or  retort  upon.  A  quip  is  a  cut  or 
smart  stroke  of  wit ;  it  is  allied  to  whip. 

'  girder — one  who  girds,  gibes,  or  uses  sarcasm.  To 
gird  is  to  cut  with  a  switch,  to  lash  with  wit.  Anglo- 
Saxon,  geard,  gird,  and  German,  gerte — switch  or  rod. 

8  overthwarts — cross  or  sharp  answers. 

8  '  Thou  art  done  for,  it's  all  over  with  thee.' 

10  bob — taunt  or  scoff. 


Manes.  Let  me  do  my  business ;  I  myself  am 
afraid  lest  my  wit  should  wax  warm,  and  then 
must  it  needs  consume  sqme  hard  head  with  tine 
and  pretty  jests.  I  am  sometimes  in  such  a  vein, 
that  for  want  of  some  duU  pate  to  work  on,  I 
begin  to  gird'  myself. 

Psyllus.  The  gods  shield  me  from  such  a  fine 
fellow,  whose  words  melt  wits  like  wax  ! 

Manes.  Well,  then,  let  us  to  the  matter.  In 
faith,  my  master  meaneth  to-moi'row  to  fly. 

Psyllus.  It  is  a  jest. 

Manes.  Is  it  a  jest  to  fly?  should'st  thou  fly 
so  soon,  thou  should'st  repent  it  in  earnest. 

Psyllus.  Well,  I  will  be  the  cryer. 

Manes  and  Psyllus,  one  after  another.  Oyez, 
Oyez,  Oyez,-  All  manner  of  men,  women,  or  chil- 
dren, that  will  come  to-morrow  into  the  market- 
place, between  the  hours  of  nine  and  ten,  shall 
see  Diogenes,  the  Cynic,  Qy. 

Psyllus.  I  do  not  think  he  will  fly. 

Manes.  Tush  !  say  fly.^ 

Psyllus.  Fly. 

Manes.  Now  let  us  go,  for  I  will  not  see  him 
again  till  midnight.  I  have  a  back  way  into  his 
tub. 

Psyllus.  Which  way  callest  thou  the  back  way, 
when  every  way  is  open  ? 

Manes.  I  mean  to  come  in  at  his  back. 

Psyllus.  Well,  let  us  go  away,  that  we  may 
return  speedily.  [_Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III. 
Apelles,  Cabipaspe. 

Apel.  I  shall  never  draw  your  eyes  well,  be- 
cause they  blind  mine. 

Camp.  Why  then,  paint  me  without  eyes,  for 
I  am  blind. 

Ajiel.  Were  you  ever  shadowed  before  of  any  ? 

Camp.  No.  And  would  you  could  so  now 
shadow  me  that  I  might  not  be  perceived  of  any. 

Apel.  It  were  pity  but  that  so  absolute*  a  face 
should  furnish  Venus's  temple  amongst  these 
pictures. 

Camp.  What  are  these  pictures  ? 

Apel.  This  is  Lseda,  whom  Jove  deceived  in 
likeness  of  a  swan. 

Camp.  A  fair  woman,  but  a  foul  deceit. 

Apiel.  This  is  Alcmena,  unto  v/hom  Jupiter 
came  in  shape  of  Amphitrion,  her  husband,  and 
begat  Hercules. 

Camp.  A  famous  son,  but  an  infamous  fact. 

Apel.  He  might  do  it  because  he  was  a  god. 

Camp.  Nay,  therefore  it  was  evil  done,  because 
he  was  a  god. 

Apel.  This  is  Danae,  into  whose  prison  Jupiter 
drizzled  a  golden  shower,  and  obtained  his  desire. 

Camp.  What  gold  can  make  one  yield  to  desire.' 

Apel.  This  is  Europa,  whom  Jupiter  ravished ; 
this  Antiopa. 

Camp.  Were  all  the  gods  like  this  Jupiter  ?  _ 

Ajwl.  There  were  many  gods  in  this  like 
Jupiter. 

Camp.  I  think,  in  those  days,  love  was  well 
ratified  =  among  men  on  earth,  when  lust  was  so 
full  authorized  by  the  gods  in  heaven. 

Ai>el.  Nay,  you  may  imagine  there  were  women 


1  gird — ^jibe  at. 

2  Oyez  is  French— hear  ye;  the  form  used  at  the  com- 
mencement of  public  proclamations. 

"  Psyllus  is  no  doubt  supposed  to  have  hesitated  to 
say  fly. 
■i  absolute — ^perfect.  ''  ratijied — established. 


50 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


passing  amiable  when  there  were  gods  exceeding 
amorous. 

Camp.  Were  women  never  so  fair,  men  would 
be  false. 

Apel.  Were  women  never  so  false,  men  would 
be  fond. 

Camp.  What  counterfeit'  is  this,  Apelles? 

Apel.  This  is  Venus,  the  goddess  of  love. 

Camp.  What !  be  there  also  loving  goddesses  ? 

Apel.  This  is  she  that  hath  power  to  command 
the  very  affections  of  the  heart. 

Camp.  How  is  she  hired?  by  prayer,  by  sacri- 
fice, or  bribes  ? 

Apd.  By  prayer,  sacrifice,  and  bribes. 

Camp.  What  prayer  ? 

Apel.  Vows  irrevocable. 

Camp.  What  sacrifice  ? 

Apel.  Hearts  ever  sighing ;  never  dissembling. 

Camp.  What  bribes  ? 

Apel.  Koses  and  kisses.  But  were  you  never 
in  love  ? 

Camp.  No ;  nor  love  in  me. 

Apel.  Then  have  you  injured  many! 

Camp.  How  so  ? 

Apel.  Because  you  have  been  loved  of  many. 

Camp.  Flattered,  perchance,  of  some. 

Apel.  It  is  not  possible  that  a  face  so  fair  and 
a  wit  so  sharp,  both  without  comparison,  should 
not  be  apt  to  love. 

Camp.  If  you  begin  to  tip  your  tongue  with 
cunning,  I  pray  dip  your  pencil  in  colours,  and 
faU  to  that  you  must  do,  not  that  you  would  do. 

ACT  III.— SCENE  IV. 

Clttus,  Parmenio,  Alexander,  Hephestion, 
Crysus,  Diogenes,  Apelles,  Campaspe. 

Clytus.  Parmenio,  I  cannot  tell  how  it  coipeth 
to  pass  that  in  Alexander,  now-a-days,  there 
groweth  an  unpatient  kind  of  life :  in  the  morn- 
ing he  is  melancholy,  at  noon  solemn,  at  all 
times  either  more  sour  or  severe  than  he  was 
accustomed. 

Par.  In  king's  causes,  I  rather  love  to  doubt 
than  conjecture,  and  think  it  better  to  be  ignorant 
than  inquisitive.  They  have  long  ears  and 
stretched  arms  in  whose  head  suspicion  is  a 
proof,  and  to  be  accused  is  to  be  condemned. 

Clytus.  Yet,  between  us,  there  can  be  no  danger 
to  find  out  the  cause,  for  that  there  is  no  malice 
to  withstand  it.  It  may  be  an  unquenchable 
thirst  of  conqueiing  maketh  him  unquiet:  it  is 
not  imlikely  his  long  ease  hath  altered  his  humour. 
That  he  should  be  in  love,  it  is  not  impossible. 

Par.  In  love,  Clytus  ?  No,  no ;  it  is  as  far  from 
his  thought  as  ti-eason  in  ours :  he,  whose  ever 
waking  eye,  whose  never  tired  heart,  whose  body 
patient  of  labour,  whose  mind  unsatiable  of  vic- 
tory hath  always  been  noted,  cannot  so  soon  be 
melted  into  the  weak  conceits  of  love.  Aristotle 
told  him  there  were  many  worlds,  and  that  he 
hath  not  conquered  one  that  gapeth  for  all,  galleth 
Alexander.     But  here  he  cometh. 

Alex.  Parmenio  and  Clytus,  I  would  have  you 
both  ready  to  go  into  Persia  about  an  ambassage,^ 
no  less  profitable  to  me  than  to  yourselves  honour- 
able. 

Clytus.  We  are  ready  at  all  commands ;  wishing 
nothing  else  but  continually  to  be  commanded. 

Alex.  Well,  then,  withdraw  yourselves  till  I 
have  further  considered  of  this  matter.  [Exeunt 
Clytus  and  Parmenio.']     Now  we  will  see  how 


'  counterfeit — picture  or  portrait. 

•  about  an  ambassage — on  an  embassy,  or  business. 


Apelles  goeth  forward :  I  doubt  me  that  natiu'e 
hath  overcome  art,  and  her  countenance  his 
cunning. 

Hej).  You  love,  and  therefore  think  anything. 

Alex.  But  not  so  far  in  love  with  Campaspe  as 
with  Bucephalus,  if  occasion  serve  either  of  con- 
flict or  of  conquest. 

Hep.  Occasion  cannot  want,  if  will  do  not. 
Behold  all  Persia  swelling  in  the  pride  of  their 
own  power;  the  Scythians  careless  what  courage 
or  fortune  can  do ;  the  Egyptians  dreaming  in 
the  soothsayings  of  their  augurs,  and  gaping  over 
the  smoke  of  their  beasts'  entrails.'  All  these, 
Alexander,  are  to  be  subdued,  if  that  world  bo 
not  slipped  out  of  your  head,  which  you  have 
sworn  to  conquer  with  that  hand. 

Alex.  I  confess  the  labour's  fit  for  Alexander, 
and  yet  recreation  necessary  among  so  many 
assaults,  bloody  wounds,  intolerable  troubles : 
give  me  leave  a  little,  if  not  to  sit,  yet  to  breathe. 
And  doubt  not  but  Alexander  can,  when  he 
wUl,  throw  affections  as  far  from  him  as  he  can 
cowardice.  But  behold  Diogenes  talking  with 
one  at  his  tub  ! 

Crysus.  One  i^enny,  Diogenes;  I  am  a  Cynic. 

Diog.  He  made  thee  a  beggar  that  first  gave 
thee  anything. 

Crysus.  Why,  if  thou  wilt  give  nothing,  nobody 
will  give  thee. 

Bioff.  1  want  nothing  till  the  springs  dry  and 
the  earth  perish. 

Crysus.  I  gather  for  the  gods. 

Diog.  And  I  care  not  for  those  gods  which 
want  money. 

Crysus.  Thou  art  not  a  right  Cynic  that  wilt 
give  nothing. 

Diog.  Thou  art  not,  that  wilt  beg  anything. 

Crysus.  Alexander,  King  Alexander,  give  a 
poor  Cynic  a  groat. 

Alex.'  It  is  not  for  a  king  to  give  a  groat. 

Crysus.  Then  give  me  a  talent. 

Alex.  It  is  not  for  a  beggar  to  ask  a  talent. 
Away. — Apelles ! 

Apel.  Here. 

Alex.  Now  gentlewoman?  doth  your  beauty 
put  the  painter  to  his  trump  ?  ^ 

Camp.  Yes,  my  lord,  seeing  so  disordered  a 
countenance,  he  feareth  he  shall  shadow  ^  a  de- 
formed countei'feit. 

Alex.  Would  he  could  colour  the  life  with  the 
feature.*  And,  methinketh,  Apelles,  were  you  as 
cunning  as  report  saith  you  are,  you  may  paint 
flowers  as  well  with  sweet  smells  as  fresh  colours, 
observing  in  your  mixture  such  things  as  should 
draw  near  to  their  savours. 

Apiel.  Your  Majesty  must  know  it  is  no  less 
hard  to  paint  savours  than  virtues :  colours  can 
neither  speak  nor  think. 

Alex.  Where  do  you  first  begin  when  you  draw 
any  picture .' 

Apel.  The  proportion  of  the  face  in  just  com- 
pass, as  I  can. 

Alex.  I  would  begin  with  the  eye,  as  a  light  to 
all  the  rest. 

Apel.  If  you  will  paint,  as  you  are  a  king,  your 
Majesty  may  begin  where  you  please  ;  but,  as  you 
would  be  a  painter,  you  must  begin  with  the  face. 

Alex.  Aurelius  would  in  one  hour  colour  four 
faces. 

Apel.  I  marvel  in  half  an  hour  he  did  not  four. 


1  Alluding  to  the  method  of  augury  by  Inspection  of 
the  entrails  of  animals. 

2  put  the  painter  to  his  trump — make  him  play  his 
tnimp  card,  i.e.  put  him  to  his  last  push. 

3  sliadoio,  &c. — paint  an  untnie  likeness. 

*  colour  the  life,  &c. — paint  the  features  to  the  life. 


JOHN  LILLY. 


51 


Alex.  Why,  is  it  so  easy  ? 

Apd.  No ;  but  he  doth  it  so  homely.* 

Alex.  When  will  you  finish  Campaspe  ? 

Apd.  Never  finish  ;  for  ahvays  in  absolute 
beauty  there  is  somewhat  above  art. 

Alex.  Why  should  not  I,  by  labour,  be  as 
cunniug2  as  Apelles? 

Apel.  God  shield'  you  should  have  eause  to  be 
so  cunning  as  Apelles ! 

Alex.  Methinketh  four  colours  are  sufficient  to 
shadow  any  countenance,  and  so  it  was  in  the 
time  of  Phidias. 

Apel.  Then  had  men  fewer  fancies,  and  women 
not  so  many  favours.  For  now,  if  the  hair  of 
her  eyebrows  be  black,  yet  must  the  hair  of  her 
head  be  yellow  :*  the  attire  of  her  head  must  be 
different  from  the  habit  of  her  bodj',  else  would 
the  picture  seem  like  the  blazon  of  ancient 
armoui-y,  not  like  the  sweet  delight  of  new-found 
amiableness.  For  as,  in  garden  knots,^  diversity 
of  odours  make  a  more  sweet  savour,  or  as,  in 
music,  divers  strings  cause  a  more  delicate  con- 
sent,^ so  in  painting,  the  more  coh  'urs  the  better 
counterfeit ;  observing  black  for  11.  ground,  and 
the  rest  for  grace. 

Alex.  Lend  me  thy  pencil,  Zpelles;  I  will 
paint,  and  thou  shalt  judge. 

Apel.  Here. 

Alex.  The  coal^  breaks. 

Apel.  You  lean  too  hard. 

Altx.  Now  it  blacks  not. 

Apel.  You  lean  too  soft. 

Alex.  This  is  awry. 

Apel.  Your  eye  goeth  not  with  your  hand. 

Alex.  Now  it  is  worse. 

Apel.  Your  hand  goeth  not  with  your  mind. 

Alex.  Nay,  if  all  be  too  hard  or  soft,  so  many 
rules  and  regards,^  that  one's  hand,  one's  eye, 
one's  mind  must  all  draw  together,  I  had  rather 
be  setting  of  a  battles  than  blotting  of  a  board.'" 
But  how  have  I  done  here  ? 

Apel.  Like  a  king. 

Alex.  I  think  so;  but  nothing  more  unlike  a 
painter.  Well,  Apelles,  Campaspe  is  finished  as 
I  wish;  dismiss  her,  and  bring  presently  her 
counterfeit  after  me. 

Apel.  I  will. 

Alex.  Now,  Hephestion,  doth  not  this  matter 
cottonii  as  I  would  ?  Campaspe  looketh  plea- 
santly ;  liberty  will  increase  her  beauty,  and  my 
love  shall  advance  her  honour. 

Hep.  I  will  not  contrary'-  you,  your  Majesty ; 
for  time  must  wear  out  that''  love  hath  wrought, 
and  reason  wean  what  appetite  nui'sed. 

Alex.  How  stately  she  passeth  by,  yet  how 
soberly !  a  sweet  consent'*  in  her  countenance 
with  a  chaste  disdain  !'^  desire  mingled  with  coy- 

1  homily — commonly,  poorly. 

2  cunning — skilful. 

'  shield — guard  against,  forbid. 

*  Allucling  to  the  fashion,  preTalent  in  the  time  of 
LiUy,  of  dyeing  the  hair  yellow,  which  was  the  natural 
colour  of  Queen  Elizabeth's.  Yellow  hair  was  much 
admired  in  ancient  times,  and  has  come  into  fashion 
again  at  the  present  day. 

'5  It  was  fashionable  in  Elizabeth's  time  to  arrange 
flower-beds  in  intricate  knotted  convolutions. 

*  consent — harmony. 

'  Charcoal  was  used  as  a  pencil  to  outUne  a  picture. 

*  Things  to  be  regarded  or  attended  to. 

9  setting  of  a  battle — arranging  an  army  for  battle, 
'o  blotting  of  a  board — painting  a  picture.      In  old 
times,  pictures  were  painted  on  boards  or  panels. 

11  cotton — succeed,  or  go  on  prosperously ;  probably 
from  the  finishing  of  cloth,  which,  when  it  cottons,  or 
rises  to  a  nap,  is  quite  complete. 

12  '  contradict.'  "  that — what. 
1*  consent — acquiescence,  or  compliance. 
**  disdain — pride  or  reserve. , 


ness !  and  I  cannot  tell  how  to  term  it,  a  curst' 
yielding  modesty ! 

Hep.  Let  her  pass. 

Alex.  So  she  shall  for  the  fairest  on  the  earth. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IIL— SCENE  V. 
PsYLLUs,  Maxes,  Apelles. 

Psyllus.  I  shall  be  hanged  for  tarrying  so  long. 

Manes.  I  pray  God  my  master  be  not  flown 
before  I  come. 

Psyllus.  Away,  Manes  !  my  master  doth  come. 

Apel.  Where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ? 

Psyllus.  Nowhere  but  here. 

Ajiel.  Who  was  here  eithens  my  coming  ? 

Psyllus.  Nobody. 

Apel.  Ungracious  wag,  I  perceive  you  have 
been  aloitering.    Was  Alexander  nobody  ? 

Psyllus.  He  was  a  king;  I  meant  no  mean 
body. 

Apel.  I  will  cudgel  your  body  for  it,  and  then 
will  I  say  it  was  no  body,  because  it  was  no 
honest  body.  Away  in.  \_Exit  Psyllus.']  Un- 
fortunate Apelles,  and  therefore  unfortunate 
because  Apelles!  Hast  thou,  by  drawing  her 
beauty,  brought  to  pass  that  thou  canst  scarce 
draw  thine  own  breath  ?  And  by  so  much  the 
more  hast  thou  increased  thy  care,  by  how  much 
the  more  thou  hast  showed  thy  cunning  :  was 
it  not  sufficient  to  behold  the  fire,  and  warm 
thee,  but  with  Satyrus  thou  must  kiss  the  fire 
and  burn  thee.?  0  Campaspe,  Campaspe,  art 
must  yield  to  nature,  reason  to  appetite,  wisdom 
to  affection  !  Could  Pygmalion  2  entreat  by 
prayer  to  have  his  ivory  turned  into  flesh  ?  and 
cannot  Apelles  obtain  by  plaints'  to  have  the 
picture  of  his  love  changed  to  life  ?  Is  painting 
so  far  inferior  to  carving .'  or  dost  thou,  Venus, 
more  delight  to  be  hewed  with  chisels  then 
shadowed  with  colours.'  What  Pygmalion,  or 
what  Pyrgoteles,'  or  what  Lysippus  is  he,  that 
ever  made  thy  face  so  fair,  or  spread  thy  fame  so 
far  as  I  ?  unless  Venus,  in  this  thou  enviest  mine 
art,  that  in  colouring  my  sweet  Campaspe,  I  have 
left  no  place  by  cunning  to  make  thee  so  ami- 
able. But  alas !  she  is  the  paramour  to  a  prince : 
Alexander,  the  mouai'ch  of  the  earth,  hath  both 
her  body  and  affection.  For  what  is  it  that 
kings  cannot  obtain  by  prayers,  threats,  and 
promises  ?  Will  not  she  think  it  better  to  sit 
under  a  cloth  of  estate^  like  a  queen,  than  in  a 
poor  shop  like  a  housewife?  and  esteem  it 
sweeter  to  be  the  concubine  of  the  lord  of  the 
world,  than  spouse  to  '-•  a  painter  in  Athens? 
Yes,  yes,  Apelles,  thou  mayest  swim  against  the 
stream  with  the  crab,  and  feed  against  the  wind 
with  the  deer,  and  peck  against  the  steel  with  the 
cockatrice  :*  stars  are  to  be  looked  at,  not  reached 


1  Dodsley  (ed.  1744)  reads  courteous :  yielding  modesty, 
i.e.  modesty  without  pmdery. 

'  Pygmalion,  a  king  of  Cyrus,  is  said  to  have  fallen  in 
love  with  the  ivory  image  of  a  maiden,  which  he  himself 
had, made;  and,  on  Venus  answering  his- prayer  to 
breathe  life  into,  it,  married  the  maiden. 

3  plaints — lamentations,  or  violent  entreaties. 

*  Pyrgoteles  was  a  celebrated  gem  engraver,  and  Ly- 
sippus a  distinguished  statuary  of  ancient  Greece,  both 
contemporaries  of  Apelles. 

5  The  canopy  placed  over  royalty. 

6  cockatrice — from  cock,  and  Anglo-Saxon  ater,  a  snake; 
supposed  to  be  produced  from  a  cock's  egg,  with  the 
head  of  a  cock  and  body  of  a  sei-pent.  It  was  said  to 
have  a  deadly  eye,  and  many  fables  are  told  about  it. 
It  was  supposed  to  have  the  power  to  pierce  steel  by 
peckmg  at  it. 


52 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


at ;  princes  to  be  yielded  unto,  not  contended 
with ;  Campaspe  to  be  honoured,  not  obtained ; 
to  be  painted,  not  possessed  of  thee.  0  fair 
face !  0  unhappy  hand  !  and  why  didst  thou  draw 
it  so  fair  a  face  ?  0  beautiful  countenance  !  the 
express  image  of  Venus,  but  somewhat  fresher : 
the  only  pattern  of  that  eternity  which  Jupiter, 
dreaming  asleep,  could  not  conceive  again  wak- 
ing. Blush,  Venus,  for  I  am  ashamed  to  end 
thee.  Now  must  I  paint  things  unpossible  for 
mine  art,  but  agreeable  with  my  affections :  deep 
and  hollow  sighs,  sad  and  melancholy  thoughts, 
wounds  and  slaughters  of  conceits,  a  life  posting 
to  death,  a  death  galloping  from  life,  a  wavering 
constancy,  an  unsettled  resolution,  and  what 
not,  Apelles  ?  And  what  but  Apelles  ?  But  as 
they  that  ai'e  shaken  with  a  fever  are  to  be 
warmed  with  clothes,  not  groans,  and  as  he  that 
melteth  in  a  consumption  is  to  be  recured  by 
colices,'  not  conceits ;  so  the  feeding  canker  of 
my  care,  the  never-dying  worm  of  my  heart,  is 
to  be  killed  by  counsel,  not  cries ;  by  applying  of 
remedies,  not  by  replying  of  reasons.  And  sith 
in  cases  desperate  there  must  be  used  medicines 
that  !are  extreme,  I  will  hazard  that  little  life 
that  is  left,  to  restore  the  greater  part  that  is  lost ; 
and  this  shall  be  my  first  practice,  for  wit  must 
work  where  authority  is  not.  As  soon  as  Alexan- 
der hath  viewed  this  portraiture,  I  will,  by  device, 
give  it  a  blemish,  that  by  that  means  she  may 
come  again  to  my  shop;  and  then  as  good  it 
were  to  utter  my  love,  and  die  with  denial,  as 
conceal  it,  and  live  in  despair. 

Song  by  Apelles. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 

At  cards  for  kisses,  Cupid  paid; 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows; 

Loses  them  too ;  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  tlie  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how), 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  tlien  the  dimple  of  his  chin : 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  set-  her  both  his  eyes; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  love  !  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas !  become  of  me  ? 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

SOLINUS,  PSTLLUS,  GkANICHUS,  ManES, 

Diogenes,  Populus  (the  People). 

Sol.  This  is  the  place,  the  day,  the  time,  that 
Diogenes  hath  appointed  to  fly. 

Psylhis.  I  will  not  lose  the  flight  of  so  fair  a 
fowl  as  Diogenes  is,  though  my  master  cudgel  my 
no  body,  as  he  threatened. 

Gran.  What,  Psyllus,  mil  the  beast  wag  his 
wings  to-day  ? 

Psyllus.  We  shall  hear ;  for  here  cometh  Manes. 
— Manes,  will  it  be  ? 

Mams.  Be !  he  were  best  be  as  cunning  as  a 
bee,  or  else  shortly  he  will  not  be  at  all. 

Gran.  How  is  •  he  furnished  to  fly  ?  hath  he 
feathers  ? 

Manes.  Thou  art  an  ass !  capons,  geese,  and 


1  coUces.  Cullis  was  a  strong  broth  for  invalids, 
strained  or  gelatinized.  French  couCis — a  broth,  or 
jelly,  from  confer,  to  strain.  It  was  most  elaborately 
prepared,  containing,  among  many  other  more  edible 
and  savoury  ingredients,  pieces  of  gold,  ambergi'is,  and 
dust  of  oriental  pearls. 

*  Set  as  a  stake. 


owls  have  feathers.  He  hath  found  Dedalus' 
old  waxen  wings,  and  hath  been  piecing  them 
th"is  month,  he  is  so  broad  in  the  shoulders.  0, 
you  shall  see  him  cut  the  air  even  like  a  tortoise. 

Sol.  Methinks  so  wise  a  man  should  not  be  so 
mad ;  his  body  must  needs  be  too  heavy. 

Manes.  Why,  he  hath  eaten  nothing  this  seven- 
night  but  cork  and  feathers. 

Psyllus.  Touch  him.  Manes. 

Manes.  He  is  so  light  that  he  can  scarce  keep 
him  from  flying  at  midnight. 

Populus  intrat  (the  Populace  enters). 

Manes.  See,  they  begin  to  flock;  and  behold,  my 
master  bustles  himself  to  fly. 

Diog.  Tou  wicked  and  bewitched  Athenians, 
whose  bodies  make  the  earth  to  groan,  and  whose 
breaths  infect  the  air  with  stench.  Come  ye  to 
see  Diogenes  fly  ?  Diogenes  cometh  to  see  you 
sink :  yea,  call  me  dog ;  so  I  am,  for  I  long  to 
gnaw  the  bones  in  your  skins.  Ye  term  me  a 
hater  of  men :  no,  I  am  a  hater  of  your  manners. 
Your  lives  dissolute,  not  fearing  death,  will  prove 
your  deaths  desperate,  not  hoping  for  life.  What 
do  you  else  in  Athens  but  sleep  in  the  day,  and 
surfeit  in  the  night :  back-gods  in  the  morning 
with  pride,  in  the  evening  belly-gods  with  glut- 
tony! You  flatter  kings,  and  call  them  gods; 
speak  truth  of  yourselves,  and  confess  you  are 
de^'ils!  From  the  bee  you  have  taken  not  the 
honey,  but  the  wax,  to  make  your  religion ; 
framing  it  to  the  time,  not  to  the  truth.  Your 
filthy  lust  you  coloiu:  under  a  courtly  colour  of 
love ;  injuries  abroad  under  the  title  of  policies  at 
home ;  and  secret  malice  creepeth  under  the  name 
of  public  justice.  You  have  caused  Alexander 
to  diy  up  springs  and  plant  vines,  to  sow  rocket 
and  weed  endive,  to  shear  sheep,  and  shrine' 
foxes.  All  conscience  is  sealed  at  Athens. 
Swearing  cometh  of  a  hot  mettle ;  lying  of  a 
quick  wit;  flattery  of  a  flowing  tongue  ;  indecent 
talk  of  a  merry  disposition.  All  things  are  law- 
ful at  Athens.  Either  you  think  there  are  no 
gods,  or  I  must  think  ye  are  no  men.  You  build 
as  though  you  should  live  for  ever,  and  surfeit 
as  though  you  should  die  to-morrow.  None 
teacheth  true  philosophy  but  Aristotle,  because 
he  was  the  king's  schoolmaster!  0  times!  0 
men !  0  corruption  in  manners !  Eemember 
that  green  grass  must  turn  to  dry  hay.  When 
you  sleep,  you  are  not  sure  to  wake ;  and  when 
you  rise,  not  certain  to  lie  down.  Look  you 
never  so  high,  your  heads  must  lie  level  with 
your  feet.  Thus  have  I  flown  over  your  dis- 
ordered lives;  and  if  you  will  not  amend  your 
manners,  I  will  study  to  fly  farther  from  you, 
that  I  may  be  nearer  to  honesty. 

Sol.  Thou  ravest,  Diogenes,  for  thy  life  is 
different  from  thy  words.  Did  not  I  see  thee 
come  out  of  a  brothel  house  ?  was  it  not  a 
shame  ? 

Diog.  It  was  no  shame  to  go  out,  but  a  shame 
to  go  in. 

Gran.  It  were  a  good  deed,  Manes,  to  beat  thy 
master. 

Manes.  You  were  as  good  eat  my  master. 

One  of  the  people.  Hast  thou  made  us  all  fools, 
and  wiit  thou  not  fly  ? 

Diog.  I  tell  thee,  unless  thou  be  honest,  I  will 


^  s?irine — enshrine  or  deify.  'He  means,'  says  Nares, 
'  that  the  Athenians  had  occasioned  Alexander  to  en- 
courage luxury  in  preference  to  utility,  and  the  plunder 
of  the  innocent,  while  he  exalted  or  deified  the  wicked; 
this  he  calls  shearing,'  &c. 


JOHN  LILLY. 


53 


People.  Dog !  dog !  take  a  bone ! 

Diog.  Thy  father  need  fear  no  dogs,  but  dogs 
thy  father. 

People.  We  will  tell  Alexander  that  thou  re- 
provest  him  behind  his  back. 

Diog.  And  I  will  tell  him  that  you  flatter  him 
before  his  face. 

People.  We  will  cause  all  the  boys  in  the  street 
to  hiss  at  thee. 

Diog.  Indeed,  I  think  the  Athenians  have  their 
children  ready  for  any  vice,  because  they  be  Athe- 
nians. 

Manes.  Why,  master,  mean  you  not  to  fly  ? 

Diog.  No,  Manes,  not  without  wings. 

Manes.  Everybody  will  account  you  a  liar. 

Diog.  No,  I  warrant  you;  for  I  will  always 
say  the  Athenians  are  mischievous. 

Psyllus.  I  care  not,  it  was  sport  enough  for  me 
to  see  these  old  huddles '  hit  home. 

Gran.  Nor  I. 

Psyllus.  Come,  let  us  go !  and  hereafter,  when 
I  mean  to  rail  upon  any  body  openly,  it  shall  be 
given  out,  I  will  fly.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 
Casipaspe,  Apelles. 

Camp,  [alone.']  Campaspe,  it  is  hard  to  judge 
whether  thy  choice  be  more  unwise,  or  thy 
chance  unfortunate.  Dost  thou  prefer — but  stay, 
utter  not  that  in  words  which  maketh  thine  ears 
to  glow  with  thoughts.  Tush  !  better  thy  tongue 
wag,  than  thy  heart  break !  Hath  a  painter  crept 
further  into  thy  mind  than  a  prince  ?  Apelles, 
than  Alexander?  Fond  wench!  the  baseness  of 
thy  mind  bewrays"  the  meanness  of  thy  birth. 
But  alas!  affection  is  a  fire,  which  kindleth  as 
well  in  the  bramble  as  in  the  oak ;  and  catcheth 
hold  where  it  first  lighteth,  not  where  it  may 
best  burn.  Larks  that  mount  aloft  in  the  air, 
build  their  nests  below  in  the  earth ;  and  women 
that  cast  their  eyes  upon  kings,  may  place  their 
hearts  upon  vassals.  A  needle  will  become  thy 
fingers  better  than  a  lute,  and  a  distaff  is  fitter 
for  thy  hand  than  a  sceptre.  Ants  live  safely 
till  they  have  gotten  wings,  and  juniper  is  not 
blown  up  till  it  hath  gotten  an  high  top.  The 
mean  estate  is  without  care  as  long  as  it  con- 
tinueth  without  pi'ide.  But  here  cometh  Apelles, 
in  whom  I  would  thei-e  were  the  like  affection. 

Apel.  Gentlewoman,  the  misfortune  I  had  with 
your  picture  will  put  you  to  some  pains  to  sit 
again  to  be  painted. 

Camp.  It  is  small  pains  for  me  to  sit  still,  but 
infinite  for  you  to  draw  still. 

Apel.  No,  Madam.  To  paint  Venus  was  a  plea- 
sure ;  but  to  shadow  the  sweet  face  of  Campaspe, 
it  is  a  heaven  ! 

Camp.  If  your  tongue  were  made  of  the  same 
flesh  that  your  heart  is,  your  words  would  be  as 
your  thoughts  are  ;  but  such  a  common  thing  it 
is  amongst  you  to  commend,  that  oftentimes,  for 
fashion's  sake,  you  call  them  beautiful  whom 
you  know  black. 

Apel.  What  might  men  do  to  be  believed  ? 

Camp.  Whet  their  tongue  on  their  hearts. 

Apel.  So  they  do,  and  speak  as  they  think. 

Camp.  I  would  they  did  ! 

Apel.  I  would  they  did  not ! 


1  huddle — a  term  of  contempt  applied  to  old  decrepid 
persons;  possibly  from  having  tlieir  clothes  huddled 
about  them,  or  from  being  bent  or  huddled  together 
with  age. 

*  bewrays — betrays. 


Camp.  Why,  would  you  have  them  dissemble  ? 

Apel.  Not  in  love,  but  their  love.^  But  will 
you  give  me  leave  to  ask  you  a  question  without 
offence  ? 

Camp.  So  that  you  will  answer  me  another 
without  excuse. 

Apel.  Whom  do  you  love  best  in  the  world  ? 

Camp.  He  that  made  me  last  in  the  world. 

Apel.  That  was  a  god. 

Camp.  I  had  thought  it  had  been  a  man.  But 
whom  do  you  honour  most,  Apelles  ? 

Apel.  The  thing  that  is  likest  you,  Campaspe. 

Camp.  My  picture  ? 

Apel.  I  dare  not  venture  upon  your  person. 
But  come,  let  us  go  in,  for  Alexander  will  think 
it  long  till  we  return.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  -IV.— SCENE  III. 
Clttus,  Parmenio. 

Clytus.  We  hear  nothing  of  our  embassage ;  - 
a  colour^  belike  to  blear*  our  eyes,  or  tickle  our 
ears,  or  inflame  our  hearts.  But  what  doth  Alex- 
ander in  the  mean  season,  but  use  for  tantara^ — 
sol,  fa,  la ;  for  his  hard  couch,  down  beds  ;  for 
his  handful  of  water,  his  standing  cup  of  wine  ? 

Par.  Clytus,  I  mislike  this  new  delicacy  and 
pleasing  peace ;  for  what  else  do  we  see  now  than 
a  kind  of  softaess  in  every  man's  mind  ;  bees  to 
make  their  hives  in  soldiers'  helmets,  our  steeds 
furnished  with  foot-cloths  of  gold'  instead  of 
saddles  of  steel ;  more  time  to  be  required  to 
scour  the  rust  off  our  weapons,  thah  there  was 
wont  to  be  in  subduing  the  countries  of  our 
enemies.  Sithence '  Alexander  fell  from  his  hard 
armour  to  his  soft  robes,  behold  the  face  of  his 
court :  youths  that  were  wont  to  carry  devices 
of  victory  in  their  shields,  engrave  now  posies^ 
of  love  in  their  rings  ;  they  that  were  accustomed 
on  trotting  horses  to  charge  the  enemy  with  a 
lance,  now  in  easy  coaches  ride  up  and  down  to 
court  ladies ;  instead  of  sword  and  target  to 
hazard  their  lives,  use  pen  and  paper  to  paint 
their  loves.  Yea,  such  a  fear  and  faintness  is 
grown  in  court,  that  thej'  wish  rather  to  hear 
the  blowing  of  a  horn  to  hunt,  than  the  sound 
of  a  trumpet  to  fight.  O  Philip,  wert  thou  alive 
to  see  this  alteration, — thy  men  turned  to  women, 
thy  soldiers  to  lovers,  gloves  worn  in  velvet 
caps,8  instead  of  plumes  in  graven  helmets, — thou 
would'st  either  die  among  them  for  sorrow,  or 
confound  them  for  anger. 

Clytus.  Cease,  Parmenio,  lest,  in  speaking  what 
becometh  thee  not,  thou  feel  what  liketh  thee 
not.  Truth  is  never  without  a  scratch'd  face, 
whose  tongue,  although  it  cannot  be  cut  out,  yet 
must  it  be  tied  up. 

Par.  It  grieveth  me  not  a  little  for  Hephestion, 
who  thirsteth  for  honour,  not  ease ;  but  such  is 
his  fortune  and  nearness  in  friendship  to  Alex- 
ander, that  he  must  lay  a  pillow  under  his  head 


1  This  sentence  may  mean  that  there  should  be  no 
dissembling  in  true  love,  but  that  there  may  be  in  men's 
love,  which  is  false. 

-  embassage — embassy. 

^  colour  belike — pretence  likely. 

*  blear  our  ey«s— make  our  eyes  water. 

*  use  for  tantara,  <fec.— i.e.,  instead  of  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  war-trumpet,  he  now  enjoys  soft  singing. 

•^  Housings  of  horses  worn  in  times  of  peace. 
'  Sithence — since. 

*  A  posy  was  a  poetic  motto  or  conceit  inscribed  on  a 
ring. 

"  Alluding  to  the  custom  of  gallants  wearing  their 
mistress's  glove  in  their  cap  as  a  favour. 


54 


,  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Page.  I  have  known  many  fairer  faces. 

Apel.  And  I  many  better  boys.  \_Exeunt. 


when  he  would  put  a  target  in  his  hand.  But 
let  us  draw  in,  to  see  how  well  it  becomes  them 
to  tread  the  measures  in  a  dance,  that  were  wont 
to  set  the  order  for  a  march.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 
Apelles,  Campaspe. 

Apel.  I  have  now,  Campaspe,  almost  made  an 
end. 

Camp.  You  told  me,  Apelles,  you  would  never 
end. 

Apel.  Never  end  my  love;  for  it  shall  be 
eternal. 

Camp.  That  is,  neither  to  have  beginning  nor 
ending. 

Apel.  Tou  are  disposed  to  mistake;  I  hope 
you  do  not  mistrust. 

Camp.  What  will  you  say  if  Alexander  per- 
ceive your  love  ? 

Apel.  I  will  say  it  is  no  treason  to  love. 

Camp.  But  how  if  he  will  not  suffer  thee  to 
see  my  person  ? 

Apel.  Then  will  I  gaze  continually  on  thy 
picture. 

Camp.  That  will  not  feed  thy  heart. 

Apel.  Yet  shall  it  fill  mine  eye.  Besides,  the 
sweet  thoughts,  the  sure  hopes,  thy  protested 
faith,  will  cause  me  to  embrace  thy  shadow  con- 
tinually in  mine  arms,  of  the  ■ss^hich,  by  strong 
imagination,  I  will  make  a  substance. 

Camp.  Well,  I  must  be  gone  ;  but  this  assure 
yourself,  that  I  had  rather  be  iu  thy  shop  grind- 
ing colours,  than  in  Alexander's  court,  following 
higher  fortunes.  [Campaspe  alone.']  Foolish 
wench !  what  hast  thou  done  ?  that,  alas !  which 
cannot  be  undone,  and  therefore  I  fear  me  im- 
done.  But  content  is  such  a  life,  I  care  not  for 
abundance.  O  Apelles,  thy  love  cometh  from 
the  heart,  but  Alexander's  from  the  mouth.  The 
love  of  kings  is  like  the  blowing  of  winds,  which 
whistle  sometimes  gently  among  the  leaves,  and 
sti-aightways  turn  the  trees  up  by  the  roots ;  or 
fire,  which  warmeth  afar  off,  and  burneth  near 
hand ;  or  the  sea,  which  maketh  meu  hoise '  their 
sails  in  a  flattering  calm,  and  to  cut  their  masts 
in  a  rough  storm.  They  place  affection  by  times, 
by  policy,  by  appointment.  If  they  frown,  who 
dares  call  them  unconstant  ?  if  bewray  secrets, 
who  will  term  them  untrue  ?  if  fall  to  other  loves, 
who  trembles  not,  if  he  call  them  unfaithful  ? 
In  kings  there  can  be  no  love  but  to  queens ; 
for  as  near  must  they  meet  in  majesty  as  they 
do  in  affection.  It  is  requisite  to  stand  aloof 
from  kings,  love,  Jove,  and  lightning.         [Exit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  V. 
Apelles,  Page. 

Apel.  Now,  Apelles,  gather  thy  wits  together. 
Campaspe  is  no  less  wise  than  fair ;  thyself  must 
be  no  less  cunning  than  faithful.  It  is  no  small 
matter  to  be  rival  with  Alexander. 

Page.  Afielles,  yoii  must  come  away  quickly 
with  the  picture.  The  king  thinketh  that,  now 
you  have  painted  it,  you  play  with  it. 

Apel.  If  I  would  play  with  pictures,  I  have 
enough  at  home. 

Page.  None,  perhaps,  you  like  so  well. 

Apel.  It  may  be  I  have  painted  none  so  well. 


1  hoise — hoist. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

Diogenes,  Sylvius,  Perim,  Milo,  Trico, 
Manes. 

Syl.  I  have  brought  my  sons,  Diogenes,  to  be 
taught  of  thee. 

jbiog.  What  can  thy  sons  do .' 

Syl.  You  shall  see  their  qualities.  Dance, 
sirrah !  [Then  Perim  danceth.']  How  like  you 
this  ?  doth  he  well  ? 

Diog.  The  better  the  worser. 

Syl.  The  music  very  good. 

Diog.  The  musicians  very  bad ;  who  only 
study  to  have  their  strings  in  tune,  never  framing 
their  manners  to  order. 

Syl.  Now  shall  you  see  the  other.  Tumble, 
sirrah  !  [Blilo  tumbleth.]  How  like  you  this  ? 
why  do  you  laugh  ? 

Diog.  To  see  a  wag,  that  was  born  to  break 
his  neck  by  destiny,  to  practise  it  by  art. 

Milo.  This  dog  will  bite  me ;  I  will  not  be 
with  him. 

Diog.  Fear  not,  boy ;  dogs  eat  no  thistles. 

Perim.  I  marvel  what  dog  thou  art,  if  thou  be 
a  dog. 

Diog.  When  I  am  hungry,  a  mastiff ;  and 
when  my  belly  is  full,  a  spaniel. 

Syl.  Dost  thou  believe  that  there  are  any  gods, 
that  thou  art  so  dogged  .' 

Diog.  I  must  needs  believe  there  are  gods,  for 
I  think  thee  an  enemy  to  them. 

Syl.  Why  so.' 

Diog.  Because  thou  hast  taught  one  of  thy  sons 
to  rule  his  legs,  and  not  to  follow  learning ;  the 
other  to  bend  his  body  every  way,  and  his  mind 
no  way. 

Perim.  Thou  doest  nothing  but  snarl  and  bark 
like  a  dog. 

Diog.  It  is  the  next'  way  to  drive  away  a  thief. 

Syl.  Now  shall  you  hear  the  third,  who  sings 
like  a  nightingale. 

Diog.  I  care  not,  for  I  have  a  nightingale  to  sing 
herself. 

Syl.  Sing,  sirrah! 

[Trico  singeth.'] 

Song. 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail? 
0  'tis  the  ravlsh'd  nightingale. 
'Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,  tereu,"  she  cries. 
And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 
Brave  prick-song!  ^  who  is't  now  we  hear? 
None  but  the  lark,  so  shrill  and  clear; 
How  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  morn  not  w.iking  till  she  sings. 
Haik !  hark !  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note ! 
Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing, 
'  Cuckoo!'  to  welcome  in  the  spring; 
'  Cuckoo !'  to  welcome  in  the  spring. 

Syl.  Lo,  Diogenes!  I  am  sure  thou  canst  not 
do  so  much. 
Diog.  But  there  is  never  a  thrush  but  can. 
Syl.  What  hast  thou  taught  Manes,  thy  man  ? 
Diog.  To  be  as  unlike  as  may  be  thy  sons. 


1  next — nearest,  i.e.  soonest  or  readiest. 

2  prick-song — music  written  down  was  so  called,  from 
the  points  or  dots  with  which  it  is  noted;  hence  the 
nightingale's  song,  being  more  regularly  musical  than 
any  other,  was  often  termed  a  prick-song. — Nakes. 


JOHN  ■LILLY. 


55 


Manes.  He  hath  taught  me  to  fast,  lie  hard,  and 
run  away. 

Syl.  How  sayest  thou,  Perim,  wilt  thou  be  with 
him? 

Perim.  T,  so  he  will  teach  me  first  to  run  away. 

Biog.  Thou  needest  not  be  taught,  thy  legs  arc 
so  nimble. 

Syl.  How  sayest  thou,  Milo,  wilt  thou  be  with 
him? 

Biog.  Nay,  hold  your  peace  ;  he  shall  not. 

Syl.  Why? 

Biog.  There  is  not  room  enough  for  him  and 
me  to  tumble  both  in  one  tub. 

Syl.  Well,  Diogenes,  I  perceive  my  sons  brook 
not  thy  manners. 

Biog.  I  thought  no  less,  when  they  knew  my 
virtues. 

Syl.  Farewell,  Diogenes ;  thou  neededst  not 
have  scraped  roots*  if  thou  wouldst  have  fol- 
lowed Alexander. 

Biog.  Nor  thou  have  followed  Alexander  if 
thou  hadst  scraped  roots.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  11. 

Apel.  {alone.']  I  fear  me,  Apelles,  that  thine 
eye's  have  blabbed  that  which  thy  tongue  durst 
not.  What  little  regard  hadst  thou,  whilst 
Alexander  viewed  the  counterfeit  of  Campaspe, 
thou  stoodest  gazing  on  her  countenance !  If  he 
espy,  or  but  suspect,  thou  must  needs  twice 
perish,  with  his  hate  arid  thine  own  love.  Thy 
pale  looks  when  he  blushed,  thy  sad  countenance 
when  he  smiled,  thy  sighs  when  he  qvxestioned, 
may  breed  in  him  a  jealousy,  perchance  a  frenzy. 
O  love !  I  never  before  knew  what  thou  wert,  and 
now  hast  thou  made  me  that  I  know  not  what 
myself  am ;  only  this  I  know,  that  I  must  endure 
intolerable  passions  -  for  unknown  pleasures !  Dis- 
pute not  the  cause,  wretch,  but  yield  to  it ;  for 
better  it  is  to  melt  with  desire  than  wrestle  with 
love.  Cast  thyself  on  thy  careful^  bed ;  be  con- 
tent to  live  unknown,  and  die  unfound.*  O 
Campaspe!  I  have '.painted  thee  in  my  heart: 
painted?  nay,  contrary  to  mine  art,  imprinted; 
and  that  in  such  deep  characters,  that  nothing 
can  raise  it  out,  unless  it  rub  my  heart  out. 

\_Exit. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  III. 
MiLECTUS,  Phrtgius,  Lais,  Diogenes. 

Mil.  It  shall  go  hard,  but  this  peace  shall  bring 
us  some  pleasure. 

Phry.  Down  with  arms,  and  up  with  legs,  this 
is  a  world  for  the  nonce. ^ 

Lais.  Sweet  youths,  if  you  knew  what  it  were 
to  save  your  sweet  blood,  you  would  not  so 
foolishly  go  about  to  spend  it.  What  delight 
can  there  be  in  gashing,  to  make  foul  scars  in 
fair  faces,  and  crooked  maims  ^  in  straight  legs  ? 
as  though  men,  being  bom  goodly'  bj- nature, 
would  of  purpose  become  deformed  by  folly ;  and 
all,  forsooth,  for  a  new-found  term,  called  valiant, 


1  RefeiTing,  no  doubt,  to  the  primitive  way  in  which 
Diogenes  got  his  living. 

-  passions — sufferings. 

'  careful— ivW  of  care  or  sorrow ;  sorrowful. 

*  unfound — undiscovered. 

^  nonce — present  occasion,  immediate  purpose :  for 
the  nonce — i.e.,  probably  for  then,  or  the  gnce—ior  tlie 
enjoyment  of  the  present  hour. 

^  maim — defect,  Injury,  lameness. 

'  jrooii/y— good-looking,  well  made. 


— a  word  which  breedeth  more  quarrels  than  the 
sense  can  commendation. 

Mil.  It  is  true,  Lais,  a  feather  bed  hath  no 
fellow ;  good  drink  makes  good  blood,  and  shall 
pelting'  words  spill  it? 

Phry.  I  mean  to  enjoy  the  world,  and  to  draw 
out  my  life  at  the  wire-drawer's,  not  to  curtail  it 
off  at  the  cutler's. 

Lais.  You  may  talk  of  war,  speak  big,  conquer 
worlds  with  great  words:  but  stay  at  home, 
where,  instead  of  alarums  you  shall  have  dances; 
for  hot  battles  with  fierce  men,  gentle  skirmishes 
with  fair  women.  These  pewter^  coats  cau  never 
sit  so  well  as  satin  doublets.  Believe  me,  you 
cannot  conceive  the  pleasure  of  peace,  unless  you 
despise  the  rudeness  of  war. 

Mil.  It  is  so.  But  see  Diogenes  prying  over 
his  tub — Diogenes,  what  sayest  thou  to  such  a 
morsel  ? 

Biog.  I  say,  I  would  spit  it  out  of  my  mouth, 
because  it  should  not  poison  my  stomach. 

Phry.  Thou  speakest  as  thou  art ;  it  is  no  meat 
for  dogs. 

Biog.  I  am  a  dog  ;  and  philosophy  rates '  me 
from  carrion. 

Lais.  Uncivil  wretch,  whose  manners  are 
answei-able''  to  thy  calling,  the  time  was  thou 
wouldst  have  had  my  company,  had  it  not  been, 
as  thou  saidst,  too  dear. 

Biog.  I  remember  there  was  a  thing  that  I 
repented  nie  of,  and  now  thou  hast  told  it ;  in- 
deed, it  was  too  dear  of  nothing,  and  thou  dear 
to  nobody. 

Lais.  Down,  villain !  or  I  v/ill  have  thy  head 
broken. 

31il.  Will  you  couch  ?  ^ 

Phry.  Avauut,  cur !  Come,  sweet  Lais,  let  us 
go  to  some  place  and  possess  peace.  But  first 
let  us  sing;  there  is  more  pleasure  in  tuning  of 
a  voice  than  in  a  volley  of  shot. 

Mil.  Now  let  us  make  haste,  lest  Alexander 
find  us  here.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  IV. 

Alexander,  Hephestion,  Page,  Diogenes, 
Apelles,  Casipaspe. 

Alex.  Methinketh,  Hephestion,  you  are  more 
melancholy  than  you  were  accustomed;  but,  I 
perceive,  it  is  all  for  Alexander.  You  can  neither 
brook  this  peace  nor  my  pleasure :  be  of  good 
cheer  ;  though  I  wink,  I  sleep  not. 

Hep.  Melancholy  I  am  not,  nor  well  content ; 
for  I  know  not  how,  there  is  such  a  rust  crept 
into  my  bones  with  this  long  ease,  that  I  fear  I 
shall  not  scour  it  out  with  infinite  labours. 

Alex.  Yes,  yes ;  if  all  the  travails  of  conquer- 
ing the  world  will  set  either  thy  body  or  mind  in 
tune,  we  will  undertake  them.  But  what  think 
you  of  Apelles?  Did  ye  ever  see  any  so  per- 
plexed? He  neither  answered  directly  to  any 
question,  nor  looked  stedfastly  upon  anything. 
1  hold  my  life,  the  painter  is  in  love. 

Hep.  It  may  be ;  for  commonly  we  see  it  in- 
cident^  in  artificers  to  be  enamoured  of  their 
own  works,  as  Archidamus  of  his  wooden  dove, 


1  pelting — ^paltry,  and  comes  from  the  same  root. 

2  pewter  coa<s— probably   applied   in  jest   to   steel 
armour. 

'  rate  here  probably  means  to  '  call  off,'  a  sense  which 
it  has  still  in  the  Kentish  dialect. 
*  answerable — suitable. 
'  couch — crouch,  or  lie  down. 
'  incident — faUing  to,  happening. 


56 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Pygmalion  of  his  ivory  image,  Arachne  of  his 
wooden  swan ;  especially  painters,  who,  playing 
with  their  own  conceits,  now  coveting  to  draw  a 
glancing  eye,  then  a  rolling,  now  a  winking,  still 
mending  it,  never  ending  it,  till  they  be  caught 
with  it;  and  then,  poor  souls,  they  kiss  the 
colours  with  their  lips,  with  which  before  they 
were  loth  to  taint  their  fingers. 

Alex.  I  will  find  it  out.  Page,  go  speedily  for 
Apelles ;  will  him  to  come  hither ;  and  when  you 
Bee  us  earnestly  in  talk,  suddenly  cry  out,  Apdleis 
shop  is  011  fire! 

Page.  It  shall  be  done. 

Alex.  Forget  not  your  lesson. 

Hep.  I  marvel  what  your  device  shall  be. 

Alex.  The  event  shall  prove. 

Hep.  I  pity  the  poor  painter,  if  he  be  in  love. 

Alex.  Pity  him  not,  I  pray  thee ;  that  severe 
gravity  set  aside,  what  do  you  think  of  love  ? 

Hep.  As  the  Macedonians  do  of  their  herb 
heet,  which,  looking  yellow  in  the  ground,  and 
black  in  the  hand,  think  it  better  seen  than 
touched. 

Alex.  But  what  do  you  imagine  it  to  be  ? 

Hep.  A  word,  by  superstition  thought  a  god, 
by  use  turned  to  an  humour,'  by  self-will  made 
a  flattering  madness. 

Alex.  You  are  too  hard-hearted  to  think  so  of 
love.  Let  us  go  to  Diogenes.^-Diogenes,  thou 
mayst  think  it  somewhat  that  Alexander  cometh 
to  thee  again  so  soon. 

Diog.  If  you  come  to  learn,  you  could  not  come 
soon  enough ;  if  to  laugh,  you  be  come  too  soon. 

Hep.  It  would  better  become  thee  to  be  more 
courteous,  and  frame  thyself  to  please. 

Diog.  And  you  better  to  be  less,  if  you  durst 
displease. 

Alex.  What  dost  thou  think  of  the  time  we 
have  here  ? 

Diog.  That  we  have  little,  and  lose  much. 

Alex.  If  one  bo  sick ,  what  wouldst  thou  have 
him  do  ? 

Diog.  Be  sure  that  he  make  not  his  physician 
Ms  heir. 

Alex.  If  thou  mightest  have  thy  will,  how 
much  ground  would  content  thee  ? 

Diog.  As  much  as  you  in  the  end  must  be 
contented  withal. 

Alex.  What,  a  world? 

Diog.  No,  the  length  of  my  body. 

Alex.  Hephestion,  shall  I  be  a  little  pleasant 
with  him  ? 

Hep.  You  may ;  but  he  will  be  very  perverse 
with  you. 

Alex.  It  skills  not,*  I  cannot  be  angry  with 
him. — Diogenes,  I  pray  thee,  what  dost  _  thou 
think  of  love  ? 

Diog.  A  little  worser  than  I  can  of  hate. 

Alex.  And  why .-" 

Diog.  Because  it  is  better  to  hate  the  things 
which  make  to  love,  than  to  love  the  things 
which  give  occasion  of  hate. 

Alex.  Why,  be  not  women  the  best  creatui-es 
in  the  world .' 

Diog.  Next  men  and  bees. 

Alex.  What  dost  thou  dislike  chiefly  in  a 
woman  ? 

Diog.  One  thing. 

Alex.  What? 

Diog.  That  she  is  a  woman. 

Alex.  In  mine  opinion  thou  wert  never  born  of 
a  woman,  that  thou  thinkest  so  hardly  of  women. 

1  humour — caprice,  temporary  inclination  or  pro- 
pensity. 

2  It  skills  not — it  matters  not;  makes  no  difference. 
Anglo-Saxon  scylan — to  distinguish. 


But  now  cometh  Apelles,  who,  I  am  sure,  is  as  far 
from  thy  thoughts  as  thou  art  from  his  cunning. 
Diogenes,  I  will  have  thy  cabin  removed  nearer 
to  my  court,  because  I  will  be  a  philosopher. 

Diog.  And  when  you  have  done  so,  I  pray  you 
remove  your  court  further  from  my  cabin,  be- 
cause I  will  not  be  a  courtier. 

Alex.  But  here  cometh'' Apelles. — Apelles,  what 
piece  of  work  have  you  now  in  hand? 

Apel.  None  in  hand,  if  it  like  your  Majesty; 
but  I  am  devising  a  platform '  in  my  head. 

Alex.  I  think  your  hand  put  it  in  your  head. 
Is  it  nothing  about  Venus? 

Apel.  No ;  but  something  above  Venus. 

Page.  Apelles !  Apelles !  look  about  you,  yotir 
shop  is  on  fire ! 

Apel.  Ay  me !  if  the  picture  of  Campaspo  be 
burnt,  I  am  undone  ! 

Alex,  ytay,  Apelles,  no  haste ;  it  is  your  heart 
is  on  fire,  not  your  shop ;  and  if  Campaspe  hang 
there,  I  would  she  were  burnt.  But  have  you 
the  picture  of  Campaspe  ?  Belike  you  love  her 
well,  that  you  care  not  though  all  be  lost  so  she 
be  safe. 

Apel.  Not  love  her ;  but  your  Majesty  knows 
that  painters  in  their  last  works  are  said  to  excel 
themselves,  and  in  this  I  have  so  much  pleased 
myself,  that  the  shadow  as  much  delighteth  me 
being  an  artificer,-  as  the  substance  doth  others 
that  are  amorous. 

Alex.  You  lay  your  colours  gi'osly:'  though  I 
could  not  paint  in  your  shop,  I  can  spy  into 
your  excuse.  Be  not  ashamed,  Apelles,  it  is  a 
gentleman's  sport  to  be  in  love.  Call  hither 
Campaspe.  Methinks  I  might  have  been  made 
privy  to  your  affection  ;  though  my  counsel  had 
not  been  necessary,  yet  my  countenance  might 
have  been  thought  requisite.  But  Apelles,  for- 
sooth, loveth  under  hand,  yea  and  under  Alex- 
ander's nose,  and— but  I  say  no  more. 

Apel.  Apelles  loveth  not  so :  but  he  liveth  to 
do  as  Alexander  will. 

Alex.*  Campaspe,  here  is  news.  Apelles  is 
in  love  with  you. 

Camp.  It  pleaseth  your  Majesty  to  say  so. 

Alex.  Hephestion,  I  will  try  her  too.  Cam- 
paspe, for  the  good  qualities  1  know  in  Apelles, 
and  the  virtue  I  see  in  you,  I  am  determined  you 
shall  enjoy  one  another.  How  say  you,  Cam- 
paspe ?  would  you  say  ay  ? 

Camp.  Your  handmaid  must  obey,  if  you  com- 
mand. 

Alex.  Think  you  not,  Hephestion,  that  she 
would  fain  be  commanded  ? 

Hep.  I  am  no  thought-catcher,  but  I  guess  un- 
happily.* 

Alex.  I  will  not  enforce  marriage,  where  I 
cannot  compel  love. 

Camp.  But  your  Majesty  may  move  a  question, 
where  you  be  willing  to  have  a  match. 

Alex.  Believe  me,  Hephestion,  these  parties  are 
agreed ;  they  would  have  me  both  priest  and  wit- 
ness. Apelles,  take  Campaspe;  why  move  ye 
not  ?  Campaspe,  take  Apelles ;  will  it  not  be  ? 
If  you  be  ashamed  one  of  the  other,  bj'  my  con- 
sent you  shall  never  come  together.  But  dis- 
semble not,  Campaspe ;  do  you  love  Apelles  ? 


i^/a</orm— (literally)  flat  form,  groundwork,  ordesign 
drawn  on  a  level  surface ;  here  it  means  design,  plan, 
or  sketch. 

2  artificer — artist. 

3  That  is,  'your  attempt  at  deception  is  clumsy,  and 
easily  seen  through.' 

■»  There  should  have  hecn  an  Enter  Campaspe  here, 
and  Enter  Apelles  above;  but  stage  directions  wei«j 
seldom  used  by  the  earlier  dramatists. 

*  unhappily — mischievously. 


JOHN  LILLY. 


57 


Camp.  Pardon,  my  lord,  I  love  Apelles ! 

Alex.  Apelles,  it  were  a  sbame  for  you,  being 
loved  so  openly  of  so  fair  a  virgin,  to  say  the 
contrary.    Do  you  love  Campaspe  ? 

Apel.  Only  Campaspe! 

Alex.  Two  loving  worms,  Hephestion!  I  per- 
ceive Alexander  cannot  suljdue  the  affections  of 
men,  though  he  conquer  their  countries.  Love 
falleth  like  a  dew  as  well  upon  the  low  grass,  as 
upon  the  high  cedar.  Sparks  have  their  heat, 
ants  their  gall,  flies  their  spleen.  Well,  enjoy 
one  another;  I  give  her  thee  frankly,  Apelles. 
Thou  shalt  see  that  Alexander  maketh  but  a  toy 
of  love,  and  leadeth  affection  in  fetters;  using 
fancy  as  a  fool  to  make  him  sport,  or  a  minstrel 
to  make  him  merry.  It  is  not  the  amorous  glance 
of  an  eye  can  settle  an  idle  thought  in  the  heart ; 
no,  no,  it  is  children's  game,  a  life  for  sempsters 
and  scholars:  the  one,  pricking  in  clouts,  have 
nothing  else  to  think  on ;  the  other,  picking 
fancies  out  of  books,  have  little  else  to  marvel 
at.  Go,  Apelles,  take  with  you  your  Campaspe ; 
Alexander  is  cloyed  with  looking  on  that  which 
thou  wond'rest  at. 

Apel.  Thanks  to  your  Majesty  on  bended  knee, 
you  have  honoured  Apelles. 

Camp.  Thanks  with  bowed  heart,  you  have 
blessed  Campaspe.  [^Exeunt. 

Alex.  Page,  go  warn  Clytus  and  Parmenio 
and  the  other  lords  to  be  in  a  readiness ;  let  the 
trumpet  sound,  strike  up  the  drum,  and  I  will 
presently  into  Persia.  How  now,  Hephestion,  is 
Alexander  able  to  resist  love  as  he  list  ? 

Hep.  The  conquering  of  Thebes  was  not  so 
honourable  as  the  subduing  of  these  thoughts. 

Alex.  It  were  a  shame  Alexander  should 
desire  to  command  the  world,  if  he  could  not 
command  himself.  But  come,  let  us  go,  I  will 
try  whether  I  can  better  bear  my  hand  with  my 
heart,  than  I  could  with  mine  eye.  And,  good 
Hephestion,  when  all  the  world  is  won,  and 
every  country  is  thine  and  mine,  either  iind  me 
out  another  to  subdue,  or,  on  my  word,  I  will  fall 
in  lova  [Exeunt. 


THE  EPILOGUE  AT  THE  BLACK- 
FEIARS. 

Where  the  rainbow  toucheth  the  tree,  no  cater- 
pillars will  hang  on  the  leaves;  where  the 
glow-worm  creepeth  in  the  night,  no  adder  will 
go  in  the  day.  We  hope  in  the  ears  where  our 
travails '  be  lodged,  no  carping  shall  harbour  in 
those  tongues.  Our  exercises  must  be  as  your 
judgment  is,  resembling  water,  which  is  always 
of  the  same  colour  into  what  it  runneth.  In  the 
Trojan  horse  lay  couched  soldiers,  with  children ; 


^travails — labours;  works. 


and  in  heaps  of  many  words  we  fear  divers  unfit, 
among  some  allowable.*  But  as  Demosthenes, 
with  often  breathing"  up  the  hill,  amended  his 
stammering;  so  we  hope  with  sundry  labours 
against  the  hair^  to  correct  our  studies.  If  the 
tree  be  blasted  that  blossoms,  the  fault  is  in  the 
wind,  and  not  in  the  root ;  and  if  our  pastimes 
be  misliked  that  have  been  allowed,*  you  must 
impute  it  to  the  malice  of  others,  and  not  our 
endeavour.  Aud  so  we  rest  in  good  case,*  if  you 
rest  well  content. 


THE  EPILOGUE  AT  THE  COURT. 
We  cannot  tell  whether  we  are  fallen  among 
Diomedes's  birds  or  his  horses ;  the  one  received 
some  men  with  sweet  notes,  the  other  bit  all  men 
\vith  sharp  teeth.  But  as  Homer's  gods  conveyed 
them  into  clouds  whom  they  would  have  kept 
from  curses;  and  as  Venus,  lest  Adonis  should 
be  pricked  with  the  stings  of  adders,  covered  his 
face  with  the  wings  of  swans  ;  so  we  hope,  being 
shielded  with  your  Highness's  countenance,  we 
shall,  though  we  hear  the  neighing,  yet  not  feel 
the  kicking  of  those  jades ;  and  receive,  though 
no  praise  (which  we  cannot  deserve),  yet  a  pardon, 
which  in  all  humility  we  desire.  As  yet  we 
cannot  tell  what  we  should  term  our  labours, 
iron  or  bullion  ;  only  it  belongeth  to  your  Ma- 
jesty to  make  them  fit  either  for  the  forge  or  the 
mint;  current  by  the  stamp,  or  counterfeit  by 
the  anvil.  For  as  nothing  is  to  be  called  white, 
unless  it  had  been  named  white  by  the  first 
creator,  so  can  there  be  nothing  thought  good 
in  the  opinion  of  others,  unless  it  be  christened 
good  by  the  judgment  of  yourself.  For  our- 
selves again,  we  are  like  these  torches  of  wax,* 
of  which,  being  in  your  Highness's  hands,  you 
may  make  doves  or  vultures,  roses  or  nettles, 
lam-el  for  a  garland,  or  elder '  for  a  disgi-ace. 


1  aUowahle — passable ;  pi'aiseworthy. 

2  We  talk  now-a-days  of  taking  a  h-eather,  a  climb  or 
walk  that  tries  the  power  of  our  lungs. 

3  against  the  hair — against  the  grain. 

*  allowed — approved ;  praised.  In  this  sense  the  word 
comes  from  Lat.  laudo,  to  praise. 

5  case — condition. 

*  Alluding  to  the  candles  which  lighted  the  hall  in 
Greenwich,  where  the  play  was  pei-forraed  before  Eliza- 
beth. 

"  The  elder  was  regarded  as  a  disgraced  tree,  because 
Judas  was  popularly  supposed  to  have  hanged  himsell 
on  it. 


GEORGE    PEELE. 


[George  Peele,  a  gentleman  by  birth,  was  born  in  Devonshire  about  1558.  He  was 
educated  at  Oxford,  having  been  a  member  of  Broadgate's  Hall  (nov/  Pembroke  College), 
probably  taking  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  in  1579.  We  are  informed  by  Anthony  a  Wood 
that  Peele  '  was  esteemed  a  most  noted  poet  in  the  University ; '  and  Mr.  Dyce  thinks  it 
probable  that  the  Tale  of  Troy,  which  he  published  in  1589,  and  which  he  calls  'an  old 
poem  of  mine  own, '  was  written  during  his  academic  course.  He  repaired  to  London  about 
1580;  there  he  no  doubt  passed  most  of  the  remainder  of  his  life,  figuring  as  one  of  the 
'authors  by  profession,'  who  formed  so  numerous  a  body  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
He  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  most  of  his  contemporary  brother-dramatists,  and  shared 
but  too  freely  in  the  wild  Bohemianism  which  characterized  most  of  their  lives.  '  Among 
the  town  wits  of  those  days,'  says  Mr.  Dyce,  'habits  of  debauchery  were  but  too  prevalent. 
Not  a  few  of  them  hung  loose  upon  society,  now  struggling  with  poverty,  and  "driven  to 
extreme  shifts,"  and  now,  when  successful  plays  or  poems  had  put  money  in  their  purses, 
revelling  in  the  pleasures  of  taverns  and  ordinaries,  some  of  them  terminating  a  career  of 
folly  by  a  miserable  and  untimely  death.  Peele,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  mingled  as 
eagerly  as  any  of  his  contemporaries  in  the  dissipations  of  London.'  Peele  must  have  been 
one  of  the  most  thriftless  and  dissipated  of  this  mad  crew ;  and  if  we  may  believe  the  tract 
entitled  Merrie  Conceited  Jests  of  George  Peele,  he  frequently  resorted  to  the  lowest  and 
most  rascally  shifts  to  relieve  his  wretched  poverty,  and  supply  him  with  the  means  of 
dissipation.  Mr.  Dyce  professes  to  believe  that  these  stories  are  most  of  them  fictitious, 
although  he  does  not  doubt  the  authenticity  of  some  of  them.  But,  making  every  allow- 
ance, we  are  afraid  that  he  must  be  regarded  as  having  been  almost  entirely  destitute  of 
honour,  and  even  of  common  honesty.  He  appears  for  a  time  to  have  held  the  post  of  city 
poet,  and  devised  several  of  the  pageants  which  graced  the  inauguration  of  a  new  Lord 
Mayor.  The  date  of  Peek's  death  is  not  known.  '  This  person, '  says  Anthony  a  Wood, 
•  was  living,  in  his  middle  age,  in  the  latter  end  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  but  when  or  where  he 
died  I  cannot  tell.'  He  certainly  died  previous  to  1598;  for,  in  a  book  published  in  that 
year,  we  are  told  that  his  death  was  the  result  of  disease  caught  by  licentious  indulgence. 
Perhaps,  Avitli  the  exception  of  Greene,  Peek's  life  and  death  were  more  miserable,  and  his 
character  certainly  more  contemptible,  than  those  of  any  of  the  brilliant  Bohemians  with 
whom  he  mingled.  Of  Peek's  dramatic  works,  Dyce  thinks  that  not  half  has  survived  the 
ravages  of  time.  The  following  are  his  dramas  still  extant : — The  Arraignment  of  Paris: 
a  Pastoral  (printed  1584) ;  The  Famous  Chronicle  History  of  King  Edward  the  First  (1593), 
one  of  our  most  ancient  '  Chronicle  Histories, '  and  deserving  attention,  Mr.  Collier  thinks, 
more  on  this  account  than  because  it  possesses  much  merit  as  a  theatrical  production  ; 
The  Battle  of  Alcazar  (1594),  with  much  probability,  ascribed  to  Peele  ;  Old  Wives'  Tale 
(1595) ;  this  is  chiefly  remarkable  as  containing  the  same  story  as  that  upon  which  Milton 
founded  his  mask  of  Comus.  Warton  has  attempted  to  show  that  Milton  derived  the  narra- 
tive and  idea  of  his  poem  from  Peek ;  but,  as  Mr.  Collier  says,  it  yet  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  they  do  not  each  make  use  of  the  same  original  narrative.  David  and  Bethsahe 
was  iirst  printed  in  1599,  but  how  much  earlier  it  was  written  there  is  no  means  of  ascer- 
taining. Besides  these  di'amas,  Peele  wrote  several  poems  and  pageants.  Collier's  estimate 
of  Peek  as  a  di-amatist  appears  to  us  to  be  just.     'AVhen  Thomas  Nash,  in  1587,  gave 

68 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


59 


Peele  the  praise  of  being  'primus  verhorum  artijier,  he  adopted  a  phrase  which  seems  happily 
to  describe  the  character  of  Peek's  poetry :  his  genius  was  not  bold  and  original,  and  he 
was  wanting  in  the  higher  qualities  of  invention  ;  but  he  had  an  elegance  of  fancy,  a  grace- 
fulness of  expression,  and  a  melody  of  versification  which,  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  career 
was  scarcely  approached.'  The  play,  David  and  Bethsabe,  which  we  have  selected  as  a 
specimen,  is  universally  admitted  to  be  his  best.  It  is  founded  on  a  well-known  incident 
in  the  life  of  King  David,  and  is  chiefly  characterized  by  the  smoothness  of  its  language, 
occasional  pathos  and  vigour  of  expression,  and  richness  of  imagery.  There  is  not  much  of 
a  plot,  little  art  is  displayed  in  the  conduct  of  the  story,  and  none  of  the  characters  can  be 
said  to  be  distinctly  marked  ;  still,  on  the  whole,  it  is  pleasant  and  readable.] 


THE  LOVE  OF  KING  DAVID  AND  FAIR  BETHSABE, 
WITH  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ABSALON: 

AS  IT  HATH  BEEN"  DIVERS  TIMES  PLAYED  ON  THE  STAGE. 

WRITTEN  BY  GEORGK  PEELE. 

London:  Printed  by  Adam  Islip,  1599. 


PEOLOGUE. 

Of  Israel's  sweetest  singer  now  I  sing, 
His  holy  style  and  happy  victories ; 
Whose  Muse  was  dipt  in  that  inspiring  dew 
Archangels  stilled '  from  the  breath  of  Jove,- 
Decking  her  temples  with  the  glorious  flowers 
Heavens  rain'd  on  tops  of  Sion  and  Mount  Sinai. 
Upon  the  bosom  of  his  ivory  lute 
The  cherubims  and  angels  laid  tteir  breasts ; 
And,  when  his  consecrated  fingers  struck 
The  golden  wires  of  his  ravishing  harp, 


'  i<i7?«d— distillea. 


*  Jove — Jehovah. 


He  gave  alarm  to  the  host  of  heaven, 

That,  wing'd  with  lightning,  break  the  clouds, 

and  cast 
Their  crystal  armour  at  his  conquering  feet. 
Of  this  sweet  poet,  Jove's  musician, 
And  of  his  beauteous  son,  I  press  to  sing. 
Then  help,  divine  Adonai,  to  conduct 
Upon  the  wings  of  my  well-temper'd  verse 
The  hearers'  minds  above  the  towers  of  heaven, 
And  guide  them  so  in  this  thi-ice-haughty  flight. 
Their  mounting  feathers  scoi'ch  not  with  the  fire 
That  none  can  temper  but  thy  holy  hand : 
To  thee  for  succour  flies  my  feeble  Muse, 
And  at  thy  feet  her  iron  pen  doth  use. 


^ramatis  '^zx^awx. 


David. 

Amnon,  Son  of  David  hy  Ahinoam. 

Ghileab,  Son  oj" David  by  Abigail. 

Absalon,  Son  of  David  hy  Maacah. 

Adonia,  Son  of  David  by  Hagyith. 

Salomon,  Son  of  David  by  Bethsabe. 

JOAB,  Captain  of  the  host]^%^''''  of  David,  and 

A.^isxi,  (to  David,  I    flljf   ^''    '"^''" 

Amasa      i Nephew  of  David,  and  Son  of  his  sister 

'    \    Abigail;  Captain  ofthe  host  to  Absalon. 

JoNADAB     ^Nephew  of  David,  and  Son   of  his 

'    \     brother  Shimeah ;  friend  to  Amnon. 

Urias    J  Susband  of  Bethsabe,  and  a  Warrior  in 

'    \     David's  army. 
Nathan,  a  Prophet. 
Sadoc,  High  2)riest.  / 

Ahimaas,  his  Son. 


Abiathar,  a  Priest. 
Jonathan,  his  Son. 
AcHiTOPHEL,  Chief  Counsellor  to  Absalon. 

CUSAY. 

Ithay. 

Semei. 

Jethrat. 

Hanon,  King  of  Ammon. 

Machaas,  King  of  Gath. 

Messenger,  Soldiers,  Shepherds,  and  Attendants. 

Thamar,  Daughter  of  David  by  Maacah. 
Bethsabe,  Wife  of  tlrias. 
Woman  of  Thecoa. 
Concubines  to  David. 
Maid  to  Bethsabe. 

Chorus. 


6o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


The  rrologue-speaher,  hefore  going  out,  draws  a 
curtain  and  discovers  Bethsabe,  with  her  Maid, 
bathing  over  a  spring.  She  sings,  and  David 
sits  above  viewing  her. 

THE  SONG. 

Hot  sun,  cool  fire,  temper'd  with  sweet  air, 
Black  sliade,  fair  nurse,  shadow  my  white  hair : 
Shine,  sun ;  bum,  fire ;  breathe,  air,  and  ease  me ; 
Blaclc  shade,  fair  nurse,  shroud  me,  and  please  me : 
Shadow,  my  sweet  nurse,  Iteep  me  from  burning; 
Make  not  my  glad  cause  cause  of  [my]  mom-ning. 

Let  not  my  beauty's  fire 

Inflame  unstaid  desire. 

Nor  pierce  any  bright  eye 

That  wandereih  lightly. 

Beth.  Come,  gentle  zephyr,  trick'd  with  those 
perfumes 
That  erst  in  Eden  sweeten'd  Adam's  love, 
And  stroke  my  bosom  with  thy  silken  fan. 
This  shade,  sun-proof,  is  yet  no  proof  for  thee  ; 
Thy  body,  smoother  than  this  waveless  spring, 
And  purer  than  the  substance  of  the  same, 
Can  creep  through  that  his  lances  cannot  pierce. 
Thou,  and  thy  sister,  soft  and  sacred  Air, 
Goddess  of  life,  and  governess  of  health. 
Keep  every  fountain  fresh  and  arbour  sweet. 
No  brazen  gate  her  passage  can  repulse. 
Nor  bushy  thicket  bar  thy  subtle  breath : 
Then  deck  thee  with  thy  loose  delightsome  robes, 
And  on  thy  wings  bring  delicate  perfumes. 
To  play  the  wanton  with  us  through  the  leaves. 
Dav.  What  tunes,  what  words,  what  looks, 
what  wonders  pierce 
My  soul,  incensed  '  with  a  sudden  fire  ? 
What  tree,  what  shade,  what  spring,  what  para- 
dise. 
Enjoys  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  dame  ? 
Fair  Eva,  placed  in  perfect  happiness. 
Lending  her  praise-notes  to  the  liberal  heavens. 
Struck  with  the  accents  of  archangels'  tunes. 
Wrought  not  more  pleasure  to  her  husband's 

thoughts 
Than  this  fair  woman's  words  and  notes  to  mine. 
May  that  sweet  plain,  that  bears  her  pleasant 

weight. 
Be  still  enamell'd  with  discolour'd^  flowers; 
That  precious  fount  bear  sand  of  purest  gold ; 
And,  for  the  pebble,  let  the  silver  streams 
That  pierce  earth's  bowels  to  maintain  the  source. 
Play  upon  riibies,  sapphires,  chrysolites ; 
The  brims  let  be  embraced  with  golden  curls 
Of  moss,  that  sleeps  with  sound  the  waters  make. 
For  joy  to  feed  the  fount  with  their  recourse. 
Let  all  the  grass  that  beautifies  her  bower 
Bear  manna  every  morn  instead  of  dew ; 
Or  let  the  dew  be  sweeter  far  than  that 
That  hangs,  like  chains  of  pearl,  on  Hermon  hill. 
Or  balm  which  trickled  from  old  Aaron's  beard. — 
Cusay,  come  up,  and  serve  thy  lord  the  king. 

Enter  Cusat,  above. 

Cu.  What  service  doth  my  lord  the  king  com- 
mand? 

Dav.  See,  Cusay,  see  the  flower  of  Israel, 
The  fairest  daughter  that  obeys  the  king 
In  all  the  land  the  Lord  subdued  to  me  ; 
Fairer  than  Isaac's  lover  at  the  well. 
Brighter  than  inside-bark  of  new-hewn  cedar. 
Sweeter  than  flames  of  fine-perfumed  myrrh. 
And  comelier  than  the  silver  clouds  that  dance 
On  zephyr's  wings  before  the  King  of  Heaven ! 

Cu.  Is  it  not  Bethsabe  the  Hethite's  wife, 
Urias,  now  at  Eabbah  siege  with  Joab  ? 


1  incensed — inflamed. 

2  discoloured — ^variously  colouied. 


J}av.  Go  know,  and  bring  her  quickly  to  the 
king ; 
Tell  her,  her  graces  have  found  grace  with  him. 
Cu.  1  will,  my  lord.  \_Exit, 

Dav.  Bright  Bethsabe  shall  wash  in  David's 
bower. 
In  water  mix'd  with  purest  almond-flower. 
And  bathe  her  beauty  in  the  milk  of  kids. 
Bright  Bethsabe  gives  earth  to  my  desires. 
Verdure  to  earth,  and  to  that  verdure  flowers ; 
To  flowers  sweet  odours,  and  to  odours  wings, 
That  carry  pleasures  to  the  hearts  of  kings. 

Enter  Cusay,  heloto,  to  Bethsabe,  sJie  starting 
as  something  affright.^ 

Cu.  Fair  Bethsabe,  the  king  of  Israel 
From  forth  his  princely  tower  hath  seen  thee 

bathe, 
And  thy  sweet  graces  have  found  grace  with 

him. 
Come,  then,  and  kneel  unto  him  where  he  stands ; 
The  king  is  gracious,  and  hath  liberal  hands. 

Beth.  Ah  !  what  is  Bethsabe  to  please  the  king  ? 
Or  what  is  David,  that  he  should  desire, 
For  fickle  beauty's  sake,  his  servant's  wife  ? 
Cu.  David,  thou  know'st,  fair  dame,  is  wise 
and  just. 
Elected  to  the  heart  of  Israel's  God  ; 
Then  do  not  thou  expostulate  with  him 
For  any  action  that  contents  his  soul. 
Beth:  My  lord  the  king,  elect  to  God's  own 
heart. 
Should  not  his  gi-acious  jealousy  incense^ 
Whose  thoughts  are  chaste  :  I  hate  incontinence. 
Cu.   Woman,    thou  wrong'st    the    king,   and 
doubt'st  his  honour, 
Whose  truth  maintains  the  crown  of  Israel, 
Making  him  stay  that  bade  me  bring  thee  straight. 
Beth.  The  king's  poor  handmaid  will  obey  my 

lord. 
Cu.  Then  come,  and  do  thy  duty  to  his  grace, 
And  do  what  seemeth  favour  in  his  sight. 

[Exit,  below,  with  Bethsabe. 
Dav.  Now  comes  my  lover  tripping  like  the 
roe, 
And  brings  my  longings  tangled  in  her  hair. 
To  joy  3  ber  love  I'll  build  a  kiugly  bower. 
Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams. 
That,  for  their  homage  to  her  sovereign  joys,' 
Shall,  as  the  serpents  fold  into  their  nests 
In  oblique  turnings,  wind  their  nimble  waves 
About  the  circles  of  her  curious  walks. 
And  with  their  murmur  summon  easeful  sleep 
To  lay  his  golden  sceptre  on  her  brows. — 
Open  the  doors,  and  entertain  my  love  ; 
Open,  I  say,  and,  as  you  open,  sing — 
'  Welcome,  fair  Bethsabe,  King  David's  darling  !' 

Enter,  above,  Cusay  with  Bethsabe. 

Welcome,  fair  Bethsabe,  King  David's  darling.    , 
Thy  bones'  fair  covering,  erst*  discovered  fair,* 
And  all  mine  eyes  with  all  thy  beauties  pierced ; 
As  heaven's  bright  eye  burns  most  when  most 

he  climbs 
The  crooked  zodiac  with  his  fiery  sphere, 
And  shineth  furthest  from  this  earthly  globe ; 
So,  since  thy  beauty  scorch'd  my  conquer'd  soul, 
I  call'd  thee  nearer  for  my  nearer  cure. 


1  i.e.  '  somewhat  affrighted.' 

2  incense— kindle.  Bethsabe  no  doubt  here  refers  to 
her  husband. 

3  ^oy— enjoy. 

*  Joys.  Dyce  thinks  the  sense  seems  to  require 
'  charms.'  *  ers(— first  or  formerly. 

6  and  all  mine  eyes.  Mr.  Dyce  thinks  a  line  has  pro- 
bably dropt  out  here. 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


6i 


Beth.  Too  near,  my  lord,  was  your  unarmed 
heart, 
When  furthest  off  my  hapless  beauty  pierced ; 
And  would  this  dreary  day  had  turn'd  to  night. 
Or  that  some  pitchy  cloud  had  cloak'd  the  sun, 
Before  their  lights  had  eaus'd  my  lord  to  see 
His  name  disparag'd  and  my  chastity  ! 

J)av.  My  love,  if  want  of  love  have  left  thy  soul 
A  sharper  sense  of  honour  than  thy  king 
(For  love  leads  princes  sometimes  from  their 

seats). 
As  erst  my  heart  was  hurt,  displeasing  thee, 
So  come  and  taste  thy  ease  with  easing  me. 

£etk.  One  medicine  cannot  heal  our  different 
harms. 
But  rather  make  both  rankle  at  the  bone ; 
Then  let  the  king  be  cunning  in  his  cure. 
Lest  flattering  both,  both  perish  in  his  hand. 

iJav.  Leave  it  to  me,  my  dearest  Bethsabe, 
"Whose  skill  is  conversant  in  deeper  cures. — 
And,  Cusay,  haste  thou  to  my  servant  Joab, 
Commanding  him  to  send  Urias  home 
With  all  the  speed  can  possibly  be  us'd. 

Cu.  Cusay  will  fly  about  the  king's  desire. 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter  Joab,  Aeisai,  Ukias,  and  others,  with  drum 
and  ensign. 

Joab.  Courage,  ye  mighty  men  of  Israel, 
And  charge  your  fatal  instruments  of  war 
Upon  the  bosoms  of  proud  Ammon's  sons, 
That  hath  disguis'd  your  king's  ambassadors, 
Cut  half  their  beards  and  half  their  garments  off. 
In  spite  of  Israel  and  his  daughters'  sons ! 
Ye  fight  the  holy  battles  of  Jehovah, 
King  David's  God,  and  ours,  and  Jacob's  God, 
That  guides  your  weapons  to  their  conquering 

strokes. 
Orders  you  footsteps,  and  directs  your  thoughts 
To  stratagems  that  harbour  victory: 
He  casts  his  sacred  eyesight  from  on  high, 
And  sees  your  foes  run  seeking  for  their  deaths. 
Laughing  their  labours  and  their  hopes  to  scorn  ; 
While   'twixt   your   bodies   and    their   blunted 

swords 
He  puts  on  armour  of  his  honour's  proof. 
And  makes  their  weapons  wound  the  senseless 

winds. 
Alis.  Before  this  city  Eabbah  we  will  lie. 
And  shoot  forth  shafts  as  thick  and  dangerous 
As  was  the  hail  that  Moses  mix'd  with  fire, 
And  threw  with  fury  round  about  the  fields, 
Devouring  Pharaoh's  friends  and  Egypt's  fruits. 

Ur.  First,  mighty  captains,  Joab  and  Abisai, 
Let  us  assault  and  scale  this  kingly  tower, 
Where  all  their  conduits  and  their  fountains  are ; 
Then  we  may  easily  take  the  city  too. 

Joah.  Well  hath  Urias  counsell'd  our  attempts ; 
And  as  he  spake  us,  so  assault  the  tower : 
Let  Hanon  now,  the  king  of  Ammon's  son, 
Kepulse  our  conquering  passage  if  he  dare. 

Enter  Haa'ox,  Machaas,  and  others,  upon  the 
walls. 

Ha.  What  would  the  shepherd's-dogs  of  Israel 
Snatch  from  the  mighty  issue  of  King  Ammon, 
The  valiant  Ammonites  and  haughty  Syrians  ? 
'Tis  not  your  late  successive  victories 
Can  make  us  yield,  or  quail  our  courages ; 
But  if  ye  dare  assay  to  scale  this  tower. 
Our  angry  swords  shall  smite  ye  to  the  ground, 
And  venge*  our  losses  on  your  hateful  lives. 

Joab.  Hanon,  th}'  father  Nahas  gave  relief 
To  holy  David  in  his  hapless  exile. 


venge — revenge. 


Liv^d  his  fixfed  date,  and  died  in  peace ; 
But  thou,  instead  of  reaping  his  reward. 
Hast  trod  it  under  foot,  and  scorn'd  our  king ; 
Therefore  thy  days  shall  end  with  violence. 
And  to  our  swords  thy  vital  blood  shall  cleave. 

Mack.  Hence,  thou  that  bear'st  poor  Israel's 
shepherd's-hook, 
The  proud  lieutenant  of  that  base-born  king, 
And  keep  within  the  compass  of  his  fold ; 
For,  if  ye  seek  to  feed  on  Ammon's  fruits. 
And  stray  into  the  Syrians'  fruitful  meads. 
The  mastiffs  of  our  land  shall  worry  ye. 
And  pull  the  weesels'  from  your  greedy  throats. 

Abis.   Who   can  endure  these  pagans'    blas- 
phemies ? 

Ur.  My  soul  repines  at  this  disparagement. 

Joab.  Assault,  ye  valiant  men  of  David's  host. 
And  beat  these  railing  dastards  from  their  doors. 

Assault,  and  they  win  the  toioer ;  and  then  Joab 
speaks  above. 

Thus  have  we  won  the  tower,  which  we  will 

keep, 
Maugre''  the  sons  of  Ammon  and  of  Syria. 

Enter  Cusay,  below. 

Cu.  Where  is  Lord  Joab,  leader  of  the  host .' 
Joab.  Here  is  Lord  Joab,  leader  of  the  host. 
Cusay,  come  up,  for  we  have  won  the  hold.^ 
Cu.  lu  happy  hour,  then,  is  Cusay  come. 

Cusay  ^oes  iip. 

Joab.  What  news,  then,  brings  Lord  Cusay 
from  the  king  ? 

Cu.  His  Majesty  commands  thee  out  of  hand 
To  send  him  home  Urias  from  the  wars. 
For  matter  of  some  service  he  should  do. 

Ur.  'Tis  for  no  choler  hath  surprised  the  king, 
I  hope,  Lord  Cusay,  'gainst  his  servant's  truth  ? 

Cu.  No ;  rather  to  prefer  Urias'  truth. 

Joab.  Here,  take  him  with  thee,  then,  and  go 
in  peace ; 
And  tell  my  lord  the  king  that  I  have  fought 
Against  the  city  Kabbah  with  success. 
And  scaled  where  the  royal  palace  is. 
The  conduit-heads  and  all  their  sweetest  springs: 
Then  let  him  come  in  person  to  these  walls, 
With  all  the  soldiers  he  can  bring  besides, 
And  take  the  city  as  his  own  exploit. 
Lest  I  surprise  it,  and  the  people  give 
The  glory  of  the  conquest  to  my  name. 

Cu.  We  will,  Lord  Joab;  and  great  Israel's 
God 
Bless  in  thy  hands  the  battles  of  our  king ! 

Joab.  Farewell,  Urias  ;  haste  away  the  king. 

Ur.  As  sure  as  Joab  breathes  a  victor  here, 
Urias  will  haste  him  and  his  own  return. 

[^Exeunt  Cusay  and  Urias. 

Abis.  Let  us  descend,  and  ope  the  palace  gate. 
Taking  our  soldiers  in  to  keep  the  hold. 

Joab.  Let  us,  Abisai : — and,  ye  sons  of  Judah, 
Be  valiant,  and  maintain  your  victory.     \_Exeunt. 

Enter  Thamar. 

Tha.  Whither,  alas,  ah  !  whither  shall  I  fly, 
With  folded  arms  and  all-amazed  soul  ? 
Cast  as  was  Eva  from  that  glorious  soil 
(Where  all    delights  sat  .bating,   wing'd    with 

thoughts, 
Eeady  to  nestle  in  her  naked  breasts). 
To  bare  and  barren  vales  with  floods  made  waste. 
To  desert  woods,  and  hiUs  with  lightning  scorch'd, 


1  weeseU — weasands,  i.e.  windpipes. 
*  Manrjre—'m  spite  of.    French  malgrd. 
3  hold — stronghold,  or  keep 


62 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


With  death,  with  shame,  with  hell,  with  horror 

sit; 
There  will  I  wander  from  my  father's  face ; 
There  Absalon,  my  brother  Absalon, 
Sweet  Absalon  shall  hear  his  sister  mourn ; 
There  will  I  lure  with  my  windy  sighs 
Night-ravens  and  owls  to  rend  my  bloody  side, 
Which  with  a  rusty  weapon  I  will  wound, 
And  make  them  passage  to  my  panting  heart. 
Why  talk'st  thou,  wretch,  and  leav'st  the  deed 

undone  ? 
Eend  liaic  and  garments,  as  thy  heart  is  rent 
With  inward, fury  of  a  thousand  griefs, 
And  scatter  them  by  these  unhallow'd  doors, 
To  figure  Amnon's  resting  cruelty. 
And  tragic  spoil  of  Thamar's  chastity. 

Enter  Absalon. 

Abs.  What  causeth   Thamar    to    exclaim    so 

much? 
Tha.  The  cause  that  Thamar  shameth  to  dis- 
close. 
Ahs.  Say;    I  thy  brother  will  revenge   that 
cause. 
Hath  Amnon  forced  thee?  by  David's  hand, 
And  by  the  covenant  God  hath  made  with  him, 
Amnon  shall  bear  his  violence  to  hell ; 
Traitor  to  heaven,  traitor  to  David's  throne, 
Traitor' to  Absalon  and  Israel. 
This  fact  hath  Jacob's  ruler  seen  from  heaven. 
And  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  tower  of  fire, 
As  he  rides  vaunting  him  upon  the  gi'eens. 
Shall  tear  his  chariot-wheels  with  violent  winds. 
And  throw  his  body  in  the  bloody  sea ; 
At  him  the  thunder  shall  discharge  his  bolt; 
And  bis  fair  spouse,  with  bright  and  fieiy  wings. 
Sit  ever  burning  on  his  hateful  bones : 
Myself,  as  swift  as  thunder  or  his  spoixse,' 
Will  hunt  occasion  with  a  secret  hate. 
To  work  false  Amnon  an  ungracious  end. — 
Go  in,  my  sister ;  rest  thee  in  my  house ; 
And  God  in  time  shall  take  this  shame  from  thee. 
Tha.  Nor  God  nor  time  wUl  do  that  good  for 
me.  [Exit. 

Enter  David  with  his  train. 

Dav.  My  Absalon,  what  mak'st  thou  here  alone. 
And  bear'st  such  discontentment  in  thy  brows  ? 

Abs.  Great  cause  hath  Absalon  to  be  displeas'd. 
And  in  his  heart  to  shroud  the  wounds  of  wrath. 

Dav.  'Gainst  whom  should  Absalon  be  thus 
displeas'd  ? 

Abs.  'Gainst  wicked  Amnon,  thy  ungracious 
son. 
My  brother  and  fair  Thamar's  by  the  king, 
My  step-brother  by  mother  and  by  kind :  ^ 
He  hath  dishonour'd  David's  holiness. 
And  fix'd  a  blot  of  lightness  on  his  throne. 

Dav.  Hath  Amnon  brought  this  evil  on  my 
house. 
And  suffer'd  sin  to  smite  his  father's  bones  ? 
Smite,  David,  deadlier  than  the  voice  of  heaven, 
And  let  hate's  fire  be  kindled  in  thy  heart : 
Frame  in  the  arches  of  thy  angry  brows. 
Making  thy  forehead,  like  a  comet,  shine. 
To  force  false  Amnon  tremble  at  thy  looks. 
Sin,  with  his  sevenfold  crown  and  purple  robe. 
Begins  his  triumphs  in  my  guilty  throne ; 
There  sits  he  watching  with  his  hundred  eyes 
Our  idle  minutes  and  our  wanton  thoughts ; 
And  with  his  baits,  made  of  our  frail  desires, 
Gives  us  the  hook  that  hales  our  souls  to  hell : 
But  with  the  spirit  of  my  kingdom's  God 
I'll  thrust  the  flattering  tyrant  from  his  throne. 


1  Kind — nature. 


And  scourge  his  bondslaves  from  my  hallow'd 

COVU't 

With  rods  of  iron  and  thorns  of  sharpen'd  steel. 
Then,  Absalon,  revenge  not  thou  this  sin; 
Leave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  chasten  him. 

Abs.  I  am  content:  then  grant,  my  lord  the 
king. 
Himself  with  all  his  other  lords  would  come 
Up  to  my  sheep-feast  on  the  plain  of  Hazor. 

Dav.  Nay,  my  fair  son,  myself  with  all  my  lords 
Will  bring  thee  too  much  charge  ;  yet  some  shall 
go. 

Abs.  But  let  my  lord  the  king  himself  take 
pains ; 
The  time  of  year  is  pleasant  for  your  grace. 
And  gladsome  summer  in  her  shady  robes. 
Crowned  with  roses  and  with  painted  flowers. 
With  all  her  nymphs,  shall  entertain  my  lord. 
That,  from  the  thicket  of  my  verdant  groves, 
Will  sprinkle  honey-dews  about  his  breast, 
And  cast  sweet  balm  upon  his  kingly  head : 
Then  grant  thy  servant's  boon,  and  go,  my  lord. 

Dav.  Let  it  content  my  sweet  son  Absalon, 
That  I  may  stay,  and  take  my  other  lords. 

Abs.  But  shall  thy  best-belovfed  Amnon  go  ? 

Dav.  What  needeth  it,  that  Amnon  go  with 
thee? 

Abs.  Yet  do  thy  son  and  servant  so  much 
grace. 

Dav.  Amnon  shall  go,  and  all  my  other  lords, 
Because  I  will  give  grace  to  Absalon. 

Enter  Cusay  and  TJkias,  with  others. 

Cu.  Pleaseth  my  lord  the  king,  his  servant  Joab 
Hath  sent  Urias  from  the  Syrian  wars. 

Dav.  Welcome,  Urias,  from  the  Syrian  wars, 
Welcome  to  David  as  his  dearest  lord. 

Ur.  Thanks  be  to  Israel's  God  and  David's 
grace, 
Urias  finds  such  gi-eeting  with  the  king. 

Dav.  No  other  greeting  shall  Urias  find 
As  long  as  David  sways  th'  elected  seat 
And  consecrated  throne  of  Israel. 
Tell  me,  Urias,  of  my  servant  Joab ; 
Fights  he  with  truth  the  battles  of  our  God, 
And  for  the  honour  of  the  Lord's  anointed? 

Ur.  Thy  servant  Joab  fights  the  chosen  wars 
With  truth,  with  honour,  and  with  high  success, 
And  'gainst  the  wicked  king  of  Ammon's  sons, 
Hath,  by  the  finger  of  om-  sovereign's  God, 
Besieg'd  the  city  Eabbah,  and  achiev'd  ' 
The  court  of  waters,  where  the  conduits  run. 
And  all  the  Ammonites'  delightsome  springs : 
Therefore  he  wisheth  David's  mightiness 
Should  number  out  the  host  of  Israel, 
And  some  in  person  to  the  city  Eabbah, 
That  so  her  conquest  may  be  made  the  king's. 
And  Joab  fight  as  his  inferior. 

Dav.  This  hath  not  God  and  Joab's  prowess 
done 
Without  Urias'  valour,  I  am  sure. 
Who,  since  his  true  conversion  from  a  Hethite 
To  an  adopted  son  of  Israel, 
Hath  fought  like  one  whose  arms  were  lift  by 

heaven. 
And  whose  bright  sword  was  edg'd  with  Israel's 

wrath. 
Go  therefore  home,  Urias,  take  thy  rest ; 
Visit  thy  wife  and  household  with  the  joys 
A  victor  and  a  favourite  of  the  king's 
Should  exercise  with  honour  after  arms. 

Ur.  Thy  servant's  bones  are  yet  not  half  so 
craz'd. 
Nor  constitute  on  such  a  sickly  mould, 


>  achiev'd — won,  or  reached. 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


63 


That  for  so  little  service  he  should  faint, 
And  seek,  as  cowards,  refuge  of  his  home  : 
Nor  are  his  thoughts  so  sensually  stu-r'd, 
To  stay  the  arms  with  which  the  Lord  would 

smite 
And  fill  their  circle  with  his  conquer'd  foes, 
For  wanton  bosom  of  a  flattering  wife. 

Dav.  Urias  hath  a  beauteous  sober  wife, 
Then  go,  Urias,  solace  in  her  love ; 
Whom  God  hath  knit  to  thee,  tremble  to  loose. 

Ur.  The  king  is  much  too  tender  of  my  ease : 
The  ark,  and  Israel,  and  Judah  dwell 
In  palaces  and  rich  pavilions  ; 
But  Joab  and  his  brother  in  the  fields, 
Suffering  the  wrath  of  winter  and  the  sim : 
And  shall  Urias  (of  more  shame  than  they) 
Banquet,  and  loiter  in  the  work  of  heaven  ? 
As  sm-e  as  thy  soul  doth  live,  my  lord, 
Mine  ears  shall  never  lean  to  such  delight. 
When  holy  labour  calls  me  forth  to  fight. 

Dav.  Then  be  it  with  Urias'  manly  heart 
As  best  his  fame  may  shine  in  Israel. 

Ur.  Thus  shall  Urias'  heart  be  best  content. 
Till  thou  dismiss  me  back  to  Joab's  bands : 
This  ground  before  the  king  my  master's  doors 
Shall  be  my  couch,  and  this  unwearied  arm 
The  proper  pillow  of  a  soldier's  head  ; 

[Lies  down. 
For  never  will  I  lodge  within  my  house, 
Till  Joab  triumph  in  my  secret  vows. 

Dav.  Then  fetch  some  flagons  of  our  purest 
wine, 
That  we  may  welcome  home  our  hardy  friend 
With  full  carouses  to  his  fortunes  past. 
And  to  the  honours  of  his  future  arms ; 
Then  wiU  I  send  him  back  to  Eabbah  siege. 
And  follow  with  the  strength  of  Israel. 

Enter  one  with  flagons  of  wine. 

Arise,  Urias ;  come  and  pledge  the  king. 

Ur.  If  David  think  me  worthy  such  a  gi*ace, 
I  wiU  be  bold  and  pledge  my  lord  the  king. 

[Rises. 

Dav.  Absalon  and  Cusay  both  shaU  drink 
To  good  Urias  and  his  happiness. 

Ahs.  We  will,  my  lord,  to  please  Urias'  soul. 

Dav.  I  will  begin,  Urias,  to  thyself. 
And  all  the  treasure  of  the  Ammonites, 
Which  here  I  promise  to  impart  to  thee. 
And  bind  that  promise  with  a  full  carouse. 

[Drinks. 

Ur.  What  seemeth  pleasant  in  my  sovereign's 
eyes, 
That  shall  Urias  do  till  he  be  dead. 

Dav.  Fill  him    the  cup.       [Ukias  drinhs.l — 
Follow,  ye  lords  that  love 
Your  sovereign's  health,  and  do  as  he  hath  done. 

Ahs.  Ill  may  he  thrive,  or  live  in  Israel, 
That  loves  not  David,  or  denies  his  charge. — 
Urias,  here  is  to  Abisai's  health. 
Lord  Joab's  brother  and  thy  loving  friend. 

[Drinks. 

Ur.  I  pledge  Lord  Absalon  and  Abisai's  health. 

[Drinks. 

Cu.  Here  now,  Urias,  to  the  health  of  Joab, 
And  to  the  pleasant  jom-ney  we  shall  have 
When  we  return  to  mighty  Eabbah  siege. 

[Drinks. 

Ur.  Cusay,  I  pledge  thee  with  aU  my  heart. — 
Give  me  some  drink,  ye  servants  of  the  king ; 
Give  me  my  diink.  [Drinks. 

Dav.  Well  done,  my  good  Urias !  drink  thy  fill. 
That  in  thy  fulness  David  may  rejoice. 

Ur.  I  will,  my  Lord. 

Ahs.  Now,  Lord  Urias,  one  carouse  to  me. 

Ur.  No,  SU-,  I'll  drink  to  the  king ; 
Tour  father  is  a  better  man  than  you. 


Dav.  Do  so,  Urias  ;  I  will  pledge  thee  straight 

Ur.  1  will  indeed,  my  lord  and  sovereign  ; 
I'll  once  in  my  days  be  so  bold. 

Dav.  Fill  him  his  glass. 

Ur.  Fill  me  my  glass. 

Dav.  Quickly,  I  say. 

Ur.  Quickly,  I  say.— Here,  my  lord,  by  your 
favour  now  I  drink  to  you.  [Drinks. 

Dav.  I  pledge  thee,  good  Urias,  presently. 

[Drinks. 

Als.  Here,  then,  Urias,  once  again  for  me. 
And  to  the  health  of  David's  childfen.      [Drinks. 

Ur.  David's  chUdren ! 

Ahs.  Ay,  David's  children:  wilt  thou  pledge 
me,  man  ? 

Ur.  IPledge  me,  man  ? 

Abs.  Pledge  me,  I  say,  or  else  thou  lov'st  us  not. 

Ur.  What,  do  you  talk .'  do  you  talk  ?  I'll  no 
more  ;  I'll  lie  down  here. 

Dav.  Bather,  Urias,  go  thou  home  and  sleep. 

Ur.  0,  ho,  sir !  would  you  make  me  break  my 
sentence?  [Lies  down.']  Home,  sir  !  no,  indeed, 
sir :  I'll  sleep  upon  mine  arm,  like  a  soldier ; 
sleep  lilve  a  man  as  long  as  I  live  in  Israel. 

Dav.  [aside.~\  If  naught  will  serve  to  save  his 
wife  s  renown, 
I'll  send  him  with  a  letter  unto  Joab 
To  put  him  in  the  forefront  of  the  wars, 
That  so  my  purposes  may  take  effect. — 
Help  him  in,  sirs. 

[Exeunt  David  and  Absalox. 

Cu.  Come  rise,  Urias  ;  get  thee  in  and  sleep. 

Ur.  I  will  not  go  home,  sir ;  that's  flat. 

Cu.  Then  come  and  rest  thee  upon  David's  bed. 

Ur.  On  afore,  my  lords,  on  afore.         [Exeunt. 

Enter  Choeus. 

Chorus.  O  proud  revolt  of  a  presumptuous  man, 
Laying  his  bridle  in  the  neck  of  sin, 
Eeady  to  bear  him  past  his  grave  to  hell ! 
Like  as  the  fatal  raven,  that  in  his  voice 
Carries  the  dreadful  summons  of  our  deaths, 
Flies  by  the  fair  Arabian  spiceries. 
Her  pleasant  gardens  and  delightsome  parks. 
Seeming  to  curse  them  with  his  hoarse  exclaims, 
And  yet  doth  stoop  with  hungry  violence 
Upon  a  piece  of  hateful  can-ion  ; 
So  wretched  man,  displeas'd  with  those  delights 
Would  yield  a  quickening  savour  to  his  soul, 
Pursues  with  eager  and  unstanch^d  thirst 
The  greedy  longings  of  his  loathsome  flesh. 
If  holy  David  so  shook  hands  with  sin. 
What  shall  om-  baser  spirits  glory  in  ? 
This  kingly  giving  lust  her  rein 
Pursues  the  sequel  with  a  greater  ill. 
Urias  in  the  forefront  of  the  wars 
Is  murdered  by  the  hateful  heathens'  sword. 
And  David  joys  his  too  dear  Bethsabe. 
Suppose  this  past,  and  that  the  child  is  born, 
Whose  death  the  prophet  solemnly  doth  mourn. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Bethsabe  with  her  Maid. 

Beth.  Mourn,  Bethsabe,  bewail  thy  foolishness, 
Thy  sin,  thy  shame,  the  sorrow  of  thy  soul : 
Sin,  shame,  and  soitow  swarm  about  thy  soul ; 
And,  in  the  gates  and  entrance  of  my  heart, 
Sadness,with  wreathed  arms,  hangs  her  complaint. 
No  comfort  from  the  ten-string'd  instrument. 
The  tinkling  cymbal,  or  the  ivory  lute; 
Nor  doth  the  sound  of  David's  kingly  harp 
Make  glad  the  broken  heart  of  Bethsabe : 
Jerusalem  is  fill'd  with  thy  complaint. 
And  in  the  streets  of  Sion  sits  thy  grief. 
The  babe  is  sick,  sick  to  the  death,  I  fear. 
The  fruit  that  sprung  from  thee  to  David's  house; 
Nor  may  the  pot  of  honey  and  of  oil 


64 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Glad  David  or  his  handmaid's  countenance. 

Urias — wo  is  me  to  think  hereon ! 

F<Jr  who  is  it  among  the  sons  of  men 

That  saith  not  to  my  soul,  '  The  king  hath  siuu'd; 

David  hath  done  amiss,  and  Bethsabe 

Laid  snares  of  death  unto  Urias'  life  ? ' 

My  sweet  Urias,  fall'n  into  the  j)it 

Art  thou,  and  gone  even  to  the  gates  of  hell 

Tor  Bethsabe,  that  wouldst  not  shroud  her  shame. 

Oh,  whatjis  it  to  serve  the  lust  of  kings ! 

How  lion-like  they  rage  when  we  resist! 

But,  Bethsabe,  in  humbleness  attend 

The  grace  that  God  will  to  his  handmaid  send. 

Enter  David  in  his  r/owii,  xoallcing  sadly ;  Servants 
attending. 

Dav.  {aside.'\  The  babe  is  sick,  and  sadis David's 
heart. 
To  see  the  guiltless  bear  the  guilty's  pain. 
David,  hang  up  thy  harp  ;  hang  down  thy  head  ; 
And  dash  thy  ivory  lute  against  the  stones. 
The  dew,  that  on  the  hill  of  Hermon  falls, 
Eains  not  on  Sion's  tops  and  lofty  towers ; 
The  plains  of  Gath  and  Askaron  rejoice, 
And  David's  thoughts  are  spent  in  pensiveness : 
The  babe  is  sick,  sweet  babe,  that  Bethsabe 
With  woman's  pain  brought  forth  to  Israel. 

Enter  Nathan. 

But  what  saith  Nathan  to  his  lord  the  king  ? 

Na.  Thus  Nathan  saith  unto  his  lord  the  king. 
There  were  two  men  both  dwellers  in  one  town  : 
The  one  was  mighty,  and  exceeding  rich 
In  oxen,  sheep,  and  cattle  of  the  field  ; 
The  other  poor,  having  nor  ox,  nor  calf, 
Nor  other  cattle,  save  one  little  lamb 
Which  he  had  bought  and  nom-ish'd  by  the  hand ; 
And  it  grew  up,  and  fed  with  him  and  his. 
And  eat  and  drank  as  he  and  his  were  wont, 
And  in  his  bosom  slept,  and  was  to  him 
As  was  his  daughter  or  his  dearest  child. 
There  came  a  stranger  to  this  wealthy  man ; 
And  he  refus'd  and  spar'd  to  take  his  own. 
Or  of  his  store  to  di-ess  or  make  him  meat. 
But  took  the  poor  man's  sheep,  partly,  poor  man's 

store,' 
And  dress'd  it  for  this  stranger  in  his  house. 
What,  tell  me,  shall  be  done  to  him  for  this  ? 

Dav.  Now,  as  the  Lord  doth  live,  this  wiclved  man 
Is  judg'd  and  shall  become  the  child  of  death ; 
Fourfold  to  the  poor  man  shall  he  restore. 
That  without  mercy  took  his  lamb  away. 
Na.  Thou  art  the  man ;  and  thou  hast  judg'd 

thyself. 
David,  thus  saith  the  Lord  thy  God  by  ma: 
I  thee  anointed  king  in  Israel, 
And  sav'd  thee  from  the  tyranny  of  Saul ; 
Thy  master's  house  I  gave  thee  to  possess ; 
His  wives  into  thy  bosom  did  I  give. 
And  Judah  and  Jerusalem  withal ; 
And  might,  thou  know'st,  if  this  had  been  too 

small. 
Have  given  thee  more : 

Wherefore,  then,  hast  thou  gone  so  far  astray, 
And  hast  done  evil,  and  sinned  in  my  sight  ? 
Urias  thou  hast  killed  with  the  sword ; 
Yea,  with  the  sword  of  the  uncircumcis'd 
Thoii  hast  him  slain :  wherefore,  from  this  day 

forth, 
The  sword  shall  never  go  from  thee  and  thine ; 
For  thou  hast  ta'en  this  Hethite's  wife  to  thee  : 
Wherefore,  behold,  I  will,  saith  Jacob's  God, 


•  But  tooTc  the  poor  man's  sheep,  partly,  poor  man's 
store.    Some  con-uption  or  omission  here. 


In  thine  own  house  stir  evil  up  to  thee ; 
Yea,  I  before  thy  face  will  take  thy  wives. 
And  give  them  to  thy  neighbour  to  possess  : 
This  shall  be  done  to  David  in  the  day. 
That  Israel  openly  may  see  thy  shame. 

Dav.  Nathan,  I  have  against  the  Lord,  I  have, 
Sinned  ;  Oh,  sinned  grievously !  and,  lo. 
From  heaven's  throne  doth  David  throw  himself. 
And  groan  and  grovel  to  the  gates  of  hell ! 

{_FaUs  doiun. 

Na.    [raising  him.]    David,    stand  up :    thus 
saith  the  Lord  by  me,: 
David  the  king  shall  live,  for  he  hath  seen 
The  true  repentant  sorrow  of  thj'  heart ; 
But,  for  thou  hast  in  this  misdeed  of  thine 
Stirr'd  up  the  enemies  of  Israel 
To  triumph,  and  blaspheme  the  God  of  Hosts, 
And  say,  he  set  a  wicked  man  to  reign 
Over  his  lov^d  people  and  his  tribes, — 
The  child  shall  surely  die,  that  erst  was  born, 
His  mother's  sin,  his  kingly  father's  scorn.' 

[Exit. 

Dav.  How  just  is  Jacob's  God  in  all  his  works ! 
But  must  it  die  that  David  loveth  so  ? 
Oh,  that  the  Mighty  One  of  Israel 
NilP  change  his  doom,  and  says  the  babe  must 

die! 
Mourn,  Israel,  and  weep  in  Sion-gates ; 
Wither,  ye  cedar-trees  of  Lebanon  ; 
Ye  sprouting  almonds,  with  your  flowering  tops. 
Droop  down,  and  drench  in  Hebron's  fearful 

streams : 
The  babe  must  die  that  was  to  David  born. 
His  mother's  sin,  his  kingly  father's  scorn. 

[_Sits  sadly. 

Enter  Cusay. 

First  Serv.  What  tidings  bringeth  Cusay  to 
the  king  ? 

Cu.  To  thee,  the  servant  of  King  David's  court, 
This  bringeth  Cusay,  as  the  prophet  spake  ; 
The  Lord  hath  surely  stricken  to  the  death 
The  child  new-born  by  that  Urias'  wife. 
That  by  the  sons  of  Ammou  erst  was  slain. 

First  Serv.  Cusay,  be  still ;  the  king  is  vex^d 
sore: 
How  shall  he  speed  that  brings  this  tidings  first, 
When,  while  the  child  was  yet  alive,  we  spake, 
And  David's  heart  would  not  be  comforted .' 

Dav.  Yea,  David's  heart  will  not  be  comforted! 
What  murmur  ye,  the  servants  of  the  king  ? 
What  tidings  telleth  Cusay  to  the  king  ? 
Say,  Cusay,  lives  the  child,  or  is  he  dead  ? 

Cu.  The  child  is  dead,  that  of  Urias'  wife 
David  begat. 

Dav.  Urias'  wife,  say'st  thou  ? 
The  child  is  dead,  then  ceaseth  David's  shame : 
Fetch  me  to  eat,  and  give  me  wine  to  drink ; 
Water  to  wash,  and  oil  to  clear  my  looks ; 
Bring  down  your  shalms,  ^  your  cymbals,  and 

your  pipes ; 
Let  David's  harp  and  lute,  his  hand  and  voice. 
Give  laud  to  him  that  loveth  Israel, 
And  sing  liis  praise  that  shendeth*  David's  fame, 
That  put  away  his  sin  from  out  his  sight, 
And  sent  his  shame  into  the  streets  of  Gath. 
Bring  ye  to  me  the  mother  of  the  babe. 
That  I  may  wipe  the  tears  from  off  her  face. 
And  give  her  comfort  with  this  hand  of  mine, 
And  deck  fair  Bethsabe  with  ornaments, 

I  seor7i — disgi-ace ;  reproach.  ^  iVi'K— will  not. 

3  A  kind  of  pipe  hlce  a  hautboy;  properly  shawm. 
German  schalmei,  liautboy  ;  probably  connected  with 
French  chaluineau,  pipe,  reed;  Latin,  cala7}ius,  a  reed. 

*  shendelh — defendeth  here,  though  shend  properly— 
injure,  reproach.    Anglo-Saxon,  scandu,  scandal. 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


65 


That  she  may  bear  to  me  another  son, 
That  may  be  lov^d  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts ; 
For  where  he  is,  of  force  must  David  go, 
But  never  may  he  come  where  David  is. 

They  iring  in  water,  wine,  and  oil.     Music  and  a 
banquet ;  and  enter  Bethsabe. 

Fair  Bethsabe,  sit  thou,  and  sigh  no  more  : — 
And  sing  and  play,  you  servants  of  the  king : 
Now  sleepeth  David's  sorrow  with  the  dead. 
And  Bethsabe  liveth  to  Israel. 

They  me  all  solemnities  together,  and  sing,  <.jc. 

Now  arms  and  warlike  engines  for  assault 
Prepare  at  once,  ye  men  of  Israel, 
Ye  men  of  Judah  and  Jerusalem, 
That  Eabbah  may  be  taken  by  the  king, 
Lest  it  be  called  after  Joab's  name, 
Nor  David's  glory  shine  in  Sion  streets. 
To  Kabbah  marcheth  David  with  his  men, 
To  chdstise  Ammon  and  the  wicked  ones. 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter  Absalon  with  several  others. 

Abs.  Set  up  your  mules,  and  give  them  well  to 
eat. 
And  let  us  meet  our  brothers  at  the  feast 
Accursed  is  the  master  of  this  feast. 
Dishonour  of  the  house  of  Israel, 
His  sister's  slander,  and  his  mother's  shame  : 
Shame  be  his  share  that  could  such  ill  contrive, 
But  may  his  wickedness  find  just  reward ! 
Therefore  doth  Absalon  conspire  with  you, 
That  Amnon  die  what  time  he  sits  to  eat ; 
For  in  the  holy  temple  have  I  sworn 
Wreak'  of  his  villany  in  Thamar's  rape. 
And  here  he  comes :  bespeak  him  gently  all, 
Whose  death  is  deeply  graved  in  my  heart. 

Enter  AaraoN,  Adonia,  and  Jonadab. 

Am.  Our  shearers  are  not  far  from  hence,  I 

wot ; 
And  Amnon  to  you  all  his  brethren 
Giveth  such  welcome  as  our  fathers  erst 
Were  wont  in  Judah  and  Jerusalem  ; — 
But,  specially.  Lord  Absalon,  to  thee. 
The  honour  of  thy  house  and  progeny : 
Sit  down  and  dine  with  me.  King  David's  son, 
Thou  fair  young  man,  whose  hairs  shine  in  mine 

eye 
Like  golden  wires  of  David's  ivory  lute. 
Abs.  Amnon,  where  be  thy  shearers  and  thy 

men. 
That  we  may  pour  in  plenty  of  thy  wines, 
And  eat  thy  goats'-milk,  and  rejoice  with  thee  ? 
Am.  Here  cometh  Amnou's  shearers  and  his 

men: — 
Absalon,  sit  and  rejoice  with  me. 

Enter  a  company  o/"  Shepherds,  who  dance  and  sing. 

Drink,  Absalon,  in  praise  of  Israel ; 
Welcome  to  Amnon's  fields  from  David's  court. 
Abs.  [stabbing  Amnon.]  Die  with  thy  draught ; 
perish,  and  die  accurs'd ; 
Dishonour  to  the  honour  of  us  aU  ; 
Die  for  the  villany  to  Thamar  done, 
Unworthy  thou  to  be  King  David's  son ! 

[Exit  with  others. 
Jonad.  Oh,  what  hath  Absalon  for  Thamar 
done, 
Murder'd  his  brother,  great  King  David's  son ! 

Ad.  Run,  Jonadab,  away,  and  make  it  known 
What  cruelty  this  Absalon  hath  shown. 
,  Amnon,  thy  brother  Adonia  shall 


Wreak — vengeance. 


Bury  thy  body  'mong  the  dead  men's  bones  ; 
And  we  will  make  complaint  to  Israel 
Of  Amnon's  death,  and  pride  of  Absalon. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  David,  Joab,  Abisai,  Cusay,  and  others, 
with  drum  and  ensign  against  Rabbah. 

Dav.  This  is  the  town  of  the  uncircumcis'd, 
The  city  of  the  kingdom,  this  is  it, 
Kabbah,  where  wicked  Hanon  sitteth  king. 
Despoil  this  king,  this  Hanon,  of  his  crown  ; 
Unpeople  Eabbah  and  the  streets  thereof  ; 
For  in  their  blood,  and  slaughter  of  the  slain, 
Lieth  the  honour  of  King  David's  line. 
Joab,  Abisai,  and  the  rest  of  you, 
Fight  ye  this  daj'  for  great  Jerusalem. 

Enter  Hanon  and  others  on  the  walls. 

Joab.  And  see  where  Hanon  shows  him  on  the 
walls ; 
Why,  then,  do  we  forbear  to  give  assault, 
That  Israel  may,  as  it  is  promised. 
Subdue  the  daughters  of  the  Gentiles'  tribes  ? 
AU  this  must  be  pcrform'd  by  David's  hand. 

Dav.  Hark  to  me,  Hanon,  and  remember  well : 
As  sure  as  He  doth  live  that  kept  my  host, 
What  time  our  young  men,  by  the  pool  of  Gibeon, 
Went  forth  against  the  strength  of  Isboseth, 
And  twelve  to  twelve  did  with  their  weapons 

play; 
So  sure  art  thou  and  thy  men  of  war 
To  feel  the  sword  of  Israel  this  day, 
Because  thou  hast  defied  Jacob's  God, 
And  suffer'd  Eabbah  with  the  Philistine 
To  rail  upon  the  tribe  of  Benjamin. 

Ba.   Hark,  man :  as  sure  as  Saul  thy  master 
fell, 
And  gor'd  his  sides  upon  the  mountain-tops, 
And  Jonathan,  Abinadab,  and  Melchisua,    ' 
Water'd  the  dales  and  deeps  of  Askaron 
With  bloody  streams,  that  from  Gilboa  ran 
In  channels  through  the  wilderness  of  Ziph, 
What  time  the  sword  of  the  uncircumcis'd 
Was  drunken  with  the  blood  of  Israel ; 
So  sure  shall  David  perish  with  his  men 
Under  the  walls  of  Eabbah,  Hanon's  town. 

Joab.  Hanon,  the  God  of  Israel  hath  said, 
David  the  king  shall  wear  that  crown  of  thine, 
That  weighs  a  talent  of  rhe  finest  gold. 
And  triumph  in  the  spoil  of  Hanon's  town, 
When  Israel  shall  hale  thy  people  hence, 
And  turn  them  to  the  tile-kiln,  man  and  child, 
And  put  them  under  harrows  made  of  irou, 
And  hew  their  bones  with  axes,  and  their  limbs 
With  iron  swords  divide  and  tear  in  twain. 
Hanon,  this  shall  be  done  to  thee  and  thine, 
Because  thou  hast  defied  Israel. — 
To  arms,  to  arms,  that  Eabbah  feel  revenge, 
And  Hanon's  town  become  King  David's  spoil ! 

Alai-um,  excursions,  assault;  exeunt.  Then  the 
trumpets  sound,  and  re-enter  David  with 
Hanon's  crown,  Joab,  etc. 

Dav.  Now  clattering  arms  and  wrathful  storms 
of  Avar 
Have  thunder'd  over  Kabbah's  razfed  towers ; 
The  wreakfuP  ire  of  great  Jehovah's  arm. 
That  for  his  people  made  the  gates  to  rend, 
And  cloth'd  the  cherubims  in  fiery  coats 
To  fight  against  the  wicked  Hanon's  to^vn. 
Pay  thanks,  ye  men  of  Judah,  to  the  King, 
The  God  of  Sion  and  Jerusalem, 
That  hath  exalted  Israel  to  this. 
And  crownfed  David  with  this  diadem. 


'  wreakful — vengeful. 


66 


EARLY  DRAMA TISTS. 


Joah.  Beauteous  and  bright  is  he  among  the 

tribes ; 
As  when  the  sun/  attir'd  in  glistering  robe, 
Comes  dancing  from  his  oriental  gate, 
And  bridegroom-like  hurls  through  the  gloomy 

air 
His  radiant  beams,  such  doth  King  David  show, 
Crown'd  with  the  honour  of  his  enemies'  town, 
Shining  in  riches  like  the  firmament, 
The  starry  vault  that  overhangs  the  earth  : 
So  looketh  David,  king  of  Israel. 
Ahis.  Joab,  why  doth  not  David  mount  his 

thi-one, 
"Whom   Heaven  hath    beautified  with   Hanon's 

ci'own  ? 
Sound    tiiimpets,    shalms,   and   instruments   of 

praise, 
To  Jacob's  God  for  David's  victory. 

[^Trumpets,  4'c. 

Enter  Jonadab. 

Jonad.  Why  doth  the  king  of  Israel  rejoice  ? 
Why  sitteth  David  crown'd  with  Babbah's  rule  ? 
Behold,  there  hath  great  heaviness  befall'n 
In  Amnon's  fields  by  Absalon's  misdeed ; 
And  Amnon's  shearers  and  their  feast  of  mirth, 
Absalon  hath  o'ertiirned  with  his  sword ; 
Nor  liveth  any  of  King  David's  sons 
To  bring  this  bitter  tidings  to  the  king. 

Dav.  Ay  me,  how  soon  are  David's  triumphs 
dash'd! 
How  suddenly  declineth  David's  pride ! 
As  doth  the  daylight  settle  in  the  west. 
So  dim  is  David's  glory  and  his  gite.^ 
Die,  David ;  for  to  thee  is  left  no  seed 
That  may  revive  thy  name  in  Israel. 

Jonad.  lu  Isi-ael  is  left  of  David's  seed. 
Comfort  your  lord,  you  servants  of  the  king. — 
Behold,  thy  sons  return  in  mourning  weeds. 
And  only  Amnon  Absalon  hath  slain. 

Enter  Adonia  witJi  other  Sons  o/David. 

Dav.  Welcome,  my  sons;  dearer  to  me  you  are 
Than  is  this  golden  crown  or  Hanon's  spoil. 
Oh,  tell  me,  then,  tell  me,  my  sons,  I  say. 
How  cometh  it  to  pass  that  Absalon 
Hath  slain  his  brother  Amnon  with  the  sword .' 

Ad.  Thy  sons,  0  king,  went  up  to  Amnon's 
fields. 
To  feast  with  him  and  eat  his  bread  and  oil ; 
And  Absalon  upon  his  mule  doth  come, 
And  to  his  men  he  saith,  '  When  Amnon's  heart 
Is  merry  and  secure,  then  strOce  him  dead. 
Because  he  forcfed  Thamar  shamefully, 
And  hated  her,  and  threw  her  forth  his  doors.' 
And  this  did  he  ;  and  they  with  him  conspire, 
And  kUl  thy  son  in  wreak  of  Thamar's  wi-ong. 

Dav.  How  long  shall  Judah  and  Jerusalem 
Complain,  and  water  Sion  with  their  tears .' 
How  long  shall  Israel  lament  in  vain, 
And  not  a  man  among  the  mighty  ones 
Will  hear  the  sorrows  of  King  David's  heart ! 
Amnon,  thy  life  was  pleasing  to  thy  lord. 
As  to  mine  ears  the  music  of  my  lute. 


1  As  when  the  sun,  &c.  Hawkins,  who  (Preface  to 
The  Origin  of  the  English  Drama,  vol.  i.  p.  11)  justly 
praises  this  simile,  had  forgotten  the  following  lines  of 
Spenser : — 

'At  last,  the  golden  orientall  gate 
Of  greatest  heaven  'gan  to  open  fayre ; 
And  Phoebus,  fresh  as  brydegrome  to  his  mate, 
Came  dauncing  forth,  shaking  his  deawie  hayre; 
And  huii'd  his  glist'ring  beams  through  gloomy  ayre.' 
The  Faerie  Queene,  13.  1,  c.  5,  "st.  2. 
— DrCE. 

2  gite—a.  gown ;  used  here  metaphorically  for  splen- 
dour, brightness. 


Or  songs  that  David  t'uneth  to  his  harp; 
And  Absalon  hath  ta'en  from  me  away 
The  gladness  of  my  sad  distressed  soul. 

[_Exeunt  Joab  and  some  others- 
Enter  Woman  of  Thecoa. 

Wo.  of  T.  \hneeUng.']     God  save  King  David, 

king  of  Israel, 
And  bless  the  gates  of  Sion  for  his  sake  ! 
Dav.  Woman,  why  mournest  thou  ?  rise  from 

the  earth ; 
Tell  me  what  sorrow  hath  befall'n  thy  soul. 
Wo.  of  T.  \_rising.']  Thy  servant's  soul,  0  king, 

is  troubled  sore. 
And  grievous  is  the  anguish  of  her  heart; 
And  from  Thecoa  doth  thy  handmaid  come. 

Dav.  Tell  me,  and  say,  thou  woman  of  Thecoa, 
What  aileth  thee,  or  what  is  come  to  pass. 

Wo.  of  T.  Thy  servant  is  a  widow  in  Thecoa. 
Two  sons  thy  handmaid  had;  and  they,  my  lord, 
Fought  in  the  field,  where  no  man  went  betwixt. 
And  so  the  one  did  smite  and  slay  the  other. 
And,  lo!  behold,  the  kindred  doth  arise. 
And  cry  on  him  that  smote  his  brother, 
That  he  therefore  may  be  the  child  of  death ; 
'  For  we  will  follow  and  destroy  the  heir.' 
So  will  they  quench  that  sparkle  that  is  left, 
And  leave  nor  name  nor  issue  on  the  earth 
To  me  or  to  thy  handmaid's  husband  dead. 
Dav.   Woman,    return ;    go    home    unto    thy 

house : 
I  will  take  order  that  thy  son  be  safe. 
If  any  man  say  otherwise  than  well, 
Bring  him  to  me,  and  I  shall  chastise  him; 
For,  as  the  Lord  doth  live,  shall  not  a  hair 
Shed  from  thy  son  or  fall  upon  the  earth. 
Woman,  to  God  alone  belongs  revenge  : 
Shall,  then,  the  kindred  slay  him  for  his  sin  ? 
Wo.  of  T.  WeU  hath  King  David  to  his  hand- 

maid  spoke : 
But  wherefore,  then,  hast  thou  determined 
So  hard  a  part  against  the  righteoits  tribes, 
To  follow  and  pursue  the  banished, 
Whenas'  to  God  alone  belongs  revenge? 
Assuredly  thou  saist  against  thyself : 
Therefore  call  home  again  the  banished, 
Call  home  the  banished,  that  he  may  live, 
And  raise  to  thee  some  fruit  in  Israel. 

Dav.  Thou  woman  of  Thecoa,  answer  me, 
Answer  me  one  thing  I  shall  ask  of  thee 
Is  not  the  hand  of  Joab  in  this  work  ? 
TeU  me,  is  not  his  finger  in  this  fact  ? 

Wo.  of  T.  It  is,  my  lord ;  his  hand  is  in  this 

work : 
Assur©  thee,  Joab,  captain  of  thy  host. 
Hath  put  these  words  into  thy  handmaid's  mouth; 
And  thou  art  as  an  angel  from  on  high. 
To  understand  the  meaning  of  my  heart : 
Lp,  where  he  cometh  to  his  lord  the  king. 

Re-enter  Joab. 

Dav.  Say,  Joab,  didst  thou  send  this  woman  in 
To  put  this  parable  for  Absalon  ? 

Joab.  Joab,  my  lord,  did  bid  this  woman  speak; 
And  she  hath  said,  and  thou  hast  understood. 

Dav.  I  have,  and  am  content  to  do  the  thing. 
Go  fetch  my  son,  that  he  may  live  with  me. 

Joah.  [kneeling.^  Now  God  be  blessed  for  King 
David's  hfe ! 
Thy  servant  Joab  hath  found  grace  with  thee. 
In  that  thou  sparest  Absalon  thy  child.       [JRisea. 
A  beautiful  and  fan*  young  man  is  he ; 
In  all  his  body  is  no  blemish  seen ; 
His  hair  is  like  the  wire  of  David's  hai-p, 


1  Whenasr-vrben. 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


67 


That  twines  about  his  bright  and  ivory  neck; 

In  Israel  is  not  such  a  goodly  man  : 

And  here  I  bring  him  to  entreat  for  grace. 

JoAB  brings  in  Absalox. 

Dav.  Hast  thou  slain  [Amnon]  in  the  fields  of 
Hazor  ? 
Ah,  Absalon,  my  son !  ah,  my  son,  Absalon ! 
But  wherefore  do  I  vex  thy  spirit  so  ? 
Live,  and  retiu-n  from  Gesur  to  thy  house ; 
Eeturn  from  Gesur  to  Jerusalem : 
What  boots  it  to  be  bitter  to  thy  soul? 
Amnon  is  dead,  and  Absalon  survives. 

Abs.  Father,  I  have  offended  Israel, 
I  have  offended  David  and  his  house ; 
For  Thamar's  wrong  hath  Absalon  misdone : 
But  David's  heart  is  free  from  sharp  revenge. 
And  Joab  hath  got  grace  for  Absalon. 

Bav.  Depart  with  me,  you  men  of  Israel, 
Tou  that  have  f oUow'd  Eabbah  with  the  sword. 
And  ransack  Amnon's  richest  treasuries. — 
Live,  Absalon,  my  son,  live  once  in  peace : 
Peace  [be]  with  thee,  and  with  Jerusalem ! 

\_Exeunt  all  except  Abs.\lon. 

Abs.  David  is  gone,  and  Absalon  remains, 
Flowering  in  pleasant  springtime  of  his  youth : 
Why  liveth  Absalon,  and  is  not  honour'd 
Of  tribes  and  elders  and  the  mightiest  ones. 
That  round  about  his  temples  he  may  wear 
Garlands  and  wreaths  set  on  with  reverence; 
That  every  one  that  hath  a  cause  to  i^lead 
Might  come  to  Absalon  and  call  for  right  ? 
Then  in  the  gates  of  Sion  would  I  sit. 
And  publish  laws  in  great  Jerusalem  ; 
And  not  a  man  should  live  in  all  the  land 
But  Absalon  would  do  him  reason's  due  : 
Therefore  I  shall  address  me,  as  I  may. 
To  love  the  men  and  tribes  of  Israel.  \Exit. 

Enter  David,  Ithay,  Sadoc,  Aiiimaas,  Jojta- 
TiiAX,  and  others;  David  barefoot,  with  some 
loose  covering  over  his  head;  and  all  mourning. 

Dav.   Proud  lust,  the  bloodiest  traitor  to  our 

.  souls, 
Whose    greedy  throat   nor  earth,   air,    sea,    or 

heaven. 
Can  glut  or  satisfy  with  any  store. 
Thou  art  the  cause  these  torments  suck  my  blood, 
Piercing  with  venom  of  thy  poison'd  eyes 
The  strength  and  marrow  of  my  tainted  bones. 
To  punish  Pharaoh  and  his  cursed  host. 
The  waters  shrunk  at  great  Adonai's  voice, 
And  sandy  bottom  of  the  sea  appear'd, 
Offering  his  service  at  his  servant's  feet ; 
And,  to  inflict  a  plague  on  David's  sin. 
He  makes  his  bowels  traitors  to  his  breast, 
Winding  about  his  heart  with  mortal  gripes. 
Ah,  Absalon,  the  wrath  of  Heaven  inflames 
Thy  scorched  bosom  with  ambitious  heat ! 
And  Satan  sets  thee  on  a  lofty  1  tower. 
Showing  thy  thoughts  the  pride  of  Israel, 
Of  choice  to  cast  thee  on  her  ruthless  stones ! — 
Weep  with  me,  then,  ye  sons  of  Israel ; 
Lie  down  with  David,  and  with  David  mourn 
Before  the  Holy  One  that  sees  our  hearts ; 

[Lies  down,  and  all  the  rest  after  him. 

Season  this  heavy  soil  with  showers  of  tears, 
And  fill  the  face  of  everj'  flower  with  dew ; 
Weep,  Israel,  for  David's  soul  dissolves, 
Lading  the  fountains  of  his  drownfed  eyes, 
And  pours  her  substance  on  the  senseless  earth  ! 
Sa.  Weep,  Israel ;  oh,  weep  for  David's  soul, 

1  /o/Zy— 'lustie'  is  another  reading. 


Strewing  the  ground  with  hair  and  garments  torn, 
For  tragic  witness  of  your  hearty  woes ! 

AJii.  Oh,  would  our  eyes  were  conduits  to  our 

hearts. 
And  that  our  hearts  were  seas  of  liquid  blood, 
To  pour  in  streams  upon  this  holy  mount, 
For  witness  we  would  die  for  David's  woes ! 
Jonaih.  Then  should  this  mount  of  Olives  seem 

a  plain 
Drown'd  with  a  sea,  that  with  our  sighs  should 

roar, 
And,  in  the  murmur  of  his  mounting  waves, 
Eeport  our  bleeding  sorrows  to  the  heavens, 
For  witness  we  would  die  for  David's  woes. 
Ith.  Earth  cannot   weep   enough  for   David's 

woes : 
Then  weep,  you  heavens,  and,  all  you  clouds, 

dissolve. 
That  piteous  stars  may  see  our  miseries. 
And  drop  their  golden  tears  upon  the  ground, 
For  witness  how  they  weep  for  David's  woes ! 
Sa.  Now  let  my  sovereign  raise  his  prostrate 

bones, 
And  mourn  not  as  a  faithless  man  would  do  ; 
But  be  assur'd  that  Jacob's  righteous  God, 
That  promis'd  never  to  forsake  your  throne, 
Will  still  be  just  and  jjure  in  his  vows. 

Dav.  Sadoc,  high  priest,  preserver  of  the  ark, 
Whose  sacred  virtue  keeps  the  chosen  crown, 
I  know  my  God  is  spotless  in  his  vows. 
And  that  these  hairs  shall  greet  my  grave  in 

peace : 
But  that  my  son  should  wrong  his  tender'd^  soul, 
And  fight  against  bis  father's  happiness. 
Turns  all  my  hopes  into  despair  of  him, 
And  that  despair  feeds  all  my  veins  with  grief. 

Ith.  Think  of  it,  David,  as  a  fatal  plague 
Which  grief  preserveth,  but  preventeth  not; 
And  turn  thy  drooping  eyes  upon  the  troops 
That,  of  affection  to  thy  worthiness, 
Do  swarm  about  the  person  of  the  king : 
Cherish  their  valours  and  their  zealous  loves 
With  pleasant  looks  and  sweet  encouragements. 
Dav.  Methinks  the  voice  of  Ithay  fills  mine  ears. 
Itk.  Let  not  the  voice  of   Ithay  loathe  thine 

ears, 
Whose   heart  would  balm  thy  bosom  with  his 

tears. 
Dav.  But  wherefore  go'st  thou  to  the  wars 

with  us  ? 
Thou  art  a  stranger  here  in  Israel, 
And  son  to  Achis,  mighty  king  of  Gath  ; 
Therefore  return,  and  with  thy  father  stay. 
Thou  cam'st  but  yesterday;  and  should  I  now 
Let  thee  partake  these  troubles  here  with  us  ? 
Keep  both  thyself  and  all  thy  soldiers  safe  : 
Let  me  abide  the  hazards  of  these  arms. 
And  God  requite  the  friendship  thou  hast  show'd. 

/;;/*.  As  sure  as  Israel's  God  gives  David  life, 
What  place  or  peril  shall  contain  the  king. 
The  same  will  Ithay  share  in  life  and  death. 

Dav.  Then,  gentle  Ithay,  be  thou  still  with  us, 
A  joy  to  David,  and  a  grace  to  Israel. — 
Go,  Sadoc,  now,  and  bear  the  ark  of  God 
Into  the  great  Jerusalem  again  : 
If  I  find  favour  in  his  gracious  eyes. 
Then  will  He  lay  his  hand  upon  my  heart 
Yet  once  again  before  I  visit  death  ; 
Giving  it  strength,  and  virtue  to  mine  eyes. 
To  taste  the  comforts  and  behold  the  form 
Of  his  fair  ark  and  holy  tabernacle : 
But  if  He  say,  '  My  wonted  love  is  worn. 
And  I  have  no  delight  in  David  now,' 
Here  lie  I  armed  with  an  humble  heart 


*  tendered— lOYeCu 


68 


EARLY  DRAMATISTS. 


T'  embrace  the  pains  that  anger  shall  impose, 

And  kiss  the  sword  my  Lord  shall  kill  me  with. 

Then,  Sadoc,  take  Ahimaas  thy  son, 

With  Jonathan  son  to  Abiathar; 

And  in  these  fields  will  I  repose  myself, 

Till  they  return  from  you  some  certain  news. 

Sa.  Thy  servants  will  with  joy  obey  the  king. 
And  hope  to  cheer  his  heart  with  happy  news. 

\Extunt  Sadoc,  Ahimaas,  and  Jchsathan. 

lih.  Now,  that  it  be  no  grief  unto  the  king, 
Let  me  for  good  inform  his  Majesty, 
That,  with  unkind  and  graceless  Absalon, 
Achitophel,  your  ancient  counsellor, 
Directs  the  state  of  this  rebellion. 

Bav.  Then  doth   it  aim  with   danger  at  my 
crown. — 
Oh  Thou,  that  hold'st  his  raging  bloody  bound 
Within  the  circle  of  the  silver  moon, 
That  girds  earth's  centre  with  his  watery  scarf, 
Limit  the  counsel  of  Achitophel, 
No  bounds  extending  to  my  soul's  distress, 
But  turn  his  wisdom  into  foolishness ! 

Enter  Cusay  with  his  coat  turned  and  head 
covered. 

Cu.  Happiness  and  honour  to  my  lord  the 
king ! 

Dav.  What  happiness  or  honour  may  betide 
His  state  that  toils  in  my  extremities  ? 

Cu.  Oh,  let  my  gracious  sovereign  cease  these 
griefs, 
Unless  he  wish  his  servant  Cusay's  death, 
Whose  life  depends  upon  my  lord's  relief  ! 
Then  let  my  presence  with  my  sighs  perfume 
The  pleasant  closet  of  my  sovereign's  soul. 

Dav.  No,  Cusay,  no ;  thy  presence  unto  me 
Will  be  a  burden,  since  I  tender'  thee, 
And  cannot  brook  thy  sighs  for  David's  sake : 
But  if  thou  turn  to  fair  Jerusalem, 
And  say  to  Absalon,  as  thou  hast  been 
A  trusty  friend  unto  his  father's  seat, 
So  thou  wilt  be  to  him,  and  call  him  king, 
Achitophel's  counsel  may  be  brought  to  naught. 
Then  having  Sadoc  and  Abiathar, 
All  three  may  learn  the  secrets  of  my  son, 
Sending  the  message  by  Ahimaas, 
And  friendly  Jonathan,  who  both  are  there. 

Cu.  Then  rise,  referring  the  success  to  Heaven. 

Dav.   Cusay,  I  rise;    though   with   unwieldy 
bones 
I  carry  arms  against  my  Absalon.  {Exeunt. 

Absalon,  Amasa,  Achitophel,  rolth  the  Concu- 
bines of  David,  and  others,  are  discovered  in 
great  state;  Absalon  crowned. 

Abs.  Now,  you  that  were  my  father's  concu- 
bines, 
Liquor  to  his  inchaste  and  lustful  fire, 
Have  seen  his  honour  shaken  in  his  house, 
Which  I  possess  in  sight  of  all  the  world ; 
I  bring  ye  forth  for  foils  to  my  renown, 
And  to  eclipse  the  glory  of  your  king, 
Whose  life  is  with  his  honour  fast  enclos'd 
Within  the  entrails  of  a  jetty  cloud. 
Whose  dissolution  shall  pour  down  in  showers 
The  substance  of  his  life  and  swelling  pride : 
Then  shall  the  stars  light  earth  with  rich  aspects, 
And  heaven  shall  burn  in  love  with  Absalon, 
Whose  beauty  will  sufiice  to  chase  all  mists. 
And  clothe  the  sun's  sphere  with  a  triple  fire, 
Sooner  than  his  clear  eyes  should  suffer  stain, 
Or  bo  offended  with  a  lowering  day. 


1  tender— loye. 


First  Cone.  Thy  father's  hono^ir,  graceless  Ab- 
salon, 
And  ours  thus  beaten  with  thy  violent  arms, 
Will  cry  for  vengeance  to  the  host  of  heaven. 
Whose  power  is  ever  arm'd  against  the  proud, 
And  will  dart  plagues  at  thy  aspiring  head 
For  doing  this  disgrace  to  David's  throne. 

Second  Cone.    To  David's  throne,  to  David's 
holy  throne. 
Whose  sceptre  angels  guard  with  swords  of  fire, 
And  sit  as  eagles  ci  his  conquering  fist, 
Eeady  to  prey  upon  his  enemies: 
Then  think  not  thou,  the  captain  of  his  foes, 
Wert  thou  much  swifter  than  Azahell'  was. 
That  could  outpace  the  nimble-footed  roe. 
To  'scape  the  fury  of  their  thumping-  beaks, 
Or  dreadful  scope  of  their  commanding  wings. 

Ach.  Let  not  my  lord  the  king  of  Israi.-l 
Be  angry  with  a  silly  woman's  threats  ; 
But,  with  the  pleasure  he  hath  erst  enjoy "d, 
Turn  them  into  their  cabinets  again, 
Till  David's  conquest  be  their  overthrow. 

Abs.  Into  your  bowers,  ye  daughters  of  disdain, 
Gotten  by  fury  of  unbridled  lust, 
And  wash  your  couches   with  your  mourning 

tears. 
For  grief  that  David's  kingdom  is  decay'd. 

First  Cone.  No,  Absalon,  his  kingdom  is  en- 
chain'd 
Fast  to  the  finger  of  great  Jacob's  God, 
Which  will  not  loose  it  for  a  rebel's  love. 

{Exeunt  Concubines. 

Ama.  If  I  might  give  advice  unto  the  king, 
These  concubines  should  buy  their  taunts  with 
blood. 

Abs.  Amasa,  no ;  but  let  thy  martial  sword 
Empty  the  veins  of  David's  arm^d  men, 
And  let  these  foolish  women  'scape  our  hands 
To  recompense  the  shame  they  have  sustaiu'd. 
First,  Absalon  was  by  the  trumpet's  sound 
Proclaim'd  through  Hebron,  king  of  Israel ; 
And  now  is  set  in  fair  Jerusalem 
With  c&mplete  state  and  glory  of  a  crown : 
Fifty  fair  footmen  by  my  chariot  run, 
And  to  the  air  whose  rupture'  rings  my  fame, 
Where'er  I  ride,  they  offer  reverence. 
Why  should  not  Absalon,  that  in  his  face 
Carries  the  final  purpose  of  his  God, 
That  is,  to  work  him  grace  in  Israel, 
Endeavour  to  achieve  with  all  his  strength 
The  state  that  most  may  satisfy  his  joy. 
Keeping  his  statutes  and  his  covenants  pure  ? 
His  thunder  is  entangled  in  my  hair, 
And  with  my  beauty  is  his  lightning  quench'd : 
I  am  the  man  he  made  to  glory  in. 
When  by  the  errors  of  my  father's  sin 
He  lost  the  path  that  led  into  the  land 
Whei'ewith  our  chosen  ancestors  were  bless'd. 

Enter  Cosay. 

Cu.  Long  may  the  beauteous  king  of  Israel 
live, 
To  whom  the  people  do  by  thousands  swarm ! 

Abs.  What  meaneth  Cusay  so  to  greet  his  foe  ? 
Is  this'the  love  thou  show'st  to  David's  soul, 
To  whose  assistance  thou  hast  vow'd  thy  life  ? 
Why  leav'st  thou  him  in  this  extremity  ? 

Cu.  Because  the  Lord  and  Israel  chooseth  thee; 
And  as  before  I  serv'd  thy  father's  turn 
With  counsel  acceptable  in  his  sight, 
So  likewise  will  I  now  obey  his  son. 


1  Azahell.  'And  there  were  three  sons  of  Zeruiah 
there,  Joab,  and  Abishai,  and  Asahel :  and  Asahel  was 
as  light  of  foot  as  a  wild  roe.' — 2  Sam.  ii.  18. 

2  thumping — heavy,  large,  great. 

3  rupture — cleaving,  breaking. 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


69 


Ahs.  Then  welcome,  Cusay,  to  King  Absalon. — 
And  now,  mj'  lords  and  loving  counsellors, 
I  think  it  time  to  exercise  our  arms 
Against  forsaken  David  and  his  host. 
Give  counsel  first,  my  good  Achitophel, 
What  times  and  orders  we  may  best  observe 
For  prosperous  manage'  of  these  high  exploits. 

Ach.  Let  me  choose  out  twelve  thousand  va- 
liant men : 
And,  while  the  night  hides  with  her  sable  mists 
The  close  endeavours  cunning  soldiers  use, 
1  will  assault  thy  discontented  sire  ; 
And,  while  with  weakness  of  their  weary  arms, 
Surcharg'd  with  toil,  to  shun  thy  sudden  power 
The  people  fly  in  huge  disorder'd  troops 
To  save  their  lives,  and  leave  the  king  alone, 
Then  will  I  smite  him  with  his  latest^  wound, 
And  bring  the  people  to  thy  feet  in  peace. 

Ahs.  Well  hath  Achitophel  given  his  advice. 
Yet  let  us  hear  what  Cusay  counsels  us, 
Wiiose  great  experience  is  well  worth  the  ear. 

Cu.  Though  wise  Achitophel  be  much  more 
meet 
To  purchase  bearing  with  my  lord  the  king, 
For  all  his  former  counsels,  than  myself, 
Yet,  not  offending  Absalon  or  him, 
This  time  it  is  not  good  nor  worth  pursuit ; 
For,  well  thou  know'st,  thy  father's  men   are 

strong, 
Chafing  as  she-bears  robbfed  of  their  whelps : 
Besides,  the  king  himself  a  valiant  man, 
Train'd  up  in  feats  and  stratagems  of  war  ; 
And  will  not,  for  prevention  of  the  worst, 
Lodge  with  the  common  soldiers  in  the  field ; 
But  now,  I  know,  his  wonted  policies 
Have  taught  him  lurk  within  some  secret  cave. 
Guarded  with  all  his  stoutest  soldiers ; 
Which,  if  the  forefront  of  his  battle  faint. 
Will  yet  give  out  that  Absalon  doth  fly, 
And  so  thy  soldiers  be  discouraged  : 
David  himself  withal,  whose  angry  heart 
Is  as  a  lion's  letted'  of  his  walk, 
Will  fight  himself,  and  all  his  men  to  one, 
Before  a  few  shall  vanquish  him  by  fear. 
My  counsel  therefore  is,  with  trumpet's  sound 
To  gather  men  from  Dan  to  Bersabe, 
That  they  may  march  in  numbers  like  sea-sands. 
That  nestle  close  in  [one]  another's  neck: 
So  shall  we  come  upon  him  in  our  strength. 
Like   to    the   dew  that  falls   in   showers   from 

heaven. 
And  leave  him  not  a  man  to  march  withal. 
Besides,  if  anj'  city  succour  him, 
The  numbers  of  our  men  shall  fetch  us  ropes, 
And  we  will  pull  it  down  the  river's  stream, 
That  not  a  stone  be  left  to  keep  us  out. 

Ahs.  What  says  my  lord  to  Cusay's  counsel 
now? 

Ama.  I  fancy  Cusay's  counsel  better  far 
Than  that  is  given  us  from  Achitophel ; 
And  so,  I  think,  doth  every  soldier  here. 

All.    Cusay's    counsel    is    better  than    Achi- 
tophel's. 

Ahs.  Then  march  we  after  Cusay's  counsel  all: 
Sound  trumpets  through  the  bounds  of  Israel, 
And  muster  all  the  men  will  serve  the  king, 
That  Absalon  may  glut  his  longing  soul 
With  sole  fruition  of  his  father's  crown. 

Ach.  {asider\  111  shall  they  fare  that  follow  thy 
attempts. 
That  scorns  the  counsel  of  Achitophel. 

\Extunt  all  except  Cusay. 


'  manage — managemeni;. 
2  latest— \a.<it,  or  fatal. 
'  letted — hindered. 


Cu.  Thus  hath  the  power  of  Jacob's  jealous 
God 
Fulfill'd  his  servant  David's  drifts  by  me. 
And  brought  Achitophel's  advice  to  scorn. 

Enter  Sadoc.  Abiathar,  Ahimaas,  and 
Jonathan. 

Sa.  God  save  Lord  Cusay,  and  direct  his  zeal 
To  purchase  David's  conquest  'gainst  his  son  ! 

Abi.  What    secrets    hast    thou    glean'd   from 
Absalon .' 

Cu.  These,  sacred  priests  that  bear  the  ark  of 
God:— 
Achitophel  advis'd  him  in  the  night 
To  let  him  choose    twelve   thousand    fighting 

men. 
And  he  would  come  on  David  at  unwares. 
While  he  was  weary  with  his  violent  toil : 
But  I  advis'd  to  get  a  greater  host, 
And  gather  men  from  Dan  to  Bersabe, 
To  come  upon  him  strongly  in  the  fields. 
Then  send  Ahimaas  and  Jonathan 
To  signify  these  secrets  to  the  king, 
And  will'  him  not  to  stay  this  night  abroad  ; 
But  get  him  over  Jordan  presently, 
Lest  he  and  all  bis  people  kiss  the  sword. 

Sa.  Then  go,  Ahimaas  and  Jonathan, 
And  straight  convey  this  message  to  the  king. 

Ahi.  Father,  we  will,  if  Absalon's  chief  spies 
Prevent  not  this  device,  and  stay  us  here. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter  Semei. 

Sem.  The  man  of  Israel  that  hath  nil'd  as  king, 
Or  rather  as  the  tyrant  of  the  land, 
Bolstering  his  hateful  head  upon  the  throne 
That  God  unworthily  hath  blessed  him  with, 
Shall  now,  I  hope,  lay  it  as  low  as  hell. 
And  be  depos'd  from  his  detested  chair. 
Oh  that  my  bosom  could  by  nature  bear 
A  sea  of  poison,  to  be  pour'd  upon 
His  cursed  head,  that  sacred  balm  hath  grac'd 
And  consecrated  king  of  Israel ! 
Or  would  my  breath  were  made  the  smoke  of 

hell. 
Infected  with  the  sighs  of  damnfed  souls. 
Or  with  the  reeking  of  that  serpent's  gorge 
That  feeds  on  adders,  toads,  and  venomous  roots. 
That,  as  I  open'd  my  revenging  lips 
To  curse  the  shepherd  for  his  tyranny, 
My  words  might  cast  rank  poison  to  Lis  pores. 
And  make  his  swoln  and  rankling  sinews  crack. 
Like  to  the  combat- blows  that  break  the  clouds 
When  Jove's  stout  champions  fight  with  fire. 
See  where  he  cometh  that  my  soul  abhors  ! 
I  have  prepar'd  my  pocket  full  of  stones 
To  cast  at  him,  mingled  with  earth  and  dust, 
Which,  bursting  with  disdain,  I  greet  him  with. 

Enter  David,  Joab,  Abisai,  Ithat,  and  others. 

Come  forth,  thou  murderer  and  wicked  man  : 
The  Lord  hath  brought  upon  thy  cursfed  head 
The  guiltless  blood  of  Saul  and  all  his  sons, 
Whose  royal  throne  thy  baseness  hath  usurp'd, 
And,  to  revenge  it  deeply  on  thy  soul. 
The  Lord  hath  given  the  kingdom  to  thy  son. 
And  he  shall  wreak  the  traitorous  wrongs  of 

Saul: 
Even  as  thy  sin  hath  still  importun'd  Heaven, 
So  shall  th}'  murders  and  adultery 
Be  punish'd  in  the  sight  of  Israel, 
As  thou  deserv'st,  with  blood,  with  death,  and 

hell. 
Hence,  murderer,  hence ! 

[Throws  stones  and  earth  at  David. 


'  wiW— desire. 


70 


EARLY  DRAMATISTS. 


Abis.  Why  doth  this  dead  dog  curse  my  lord 
the  king  ? 
Let  me  alone  to  take  away  his  head. 

Dav.  Why  meddleth  thus  the  son  of  Zeruia 
To  interrupt  the  action  of  our  God  ? 
Semei  useth  me  with  this  reproach 
Because  the  Lord  hath  sent  him  to  reprove 
The  sins  of  David,  printed  in  his  brows 
With   blood,  that  blusheth  for  his   conscience' 

guilt ; 
Who  dares,  then,  ask  him  why  he  curseth  me  ? 
Sem.  If,  then,  thy  conscience  tell  thee   thou 
hast  sinn'd, 
And  that  thy  life  is  odious  to  the  world, 
Command  thy  followers  to  shun  thy  face. 
And  by  thyself  here  make  away  thy  soul, 
That  I  may  stand  and  glory  in  thy  §hame. 

Dav.  I  am  not  desperate,  Semei,  like  thyself, 
But  trust  unto  the  covenant  of  my  God, 
Founded  on  mei'cy,  with  repentance  built, 
And  finish'd  with  the  glory  of  my  soul. 

Sem.  A  murderer,  and  hope  for  mercy  in  thy 
end! 
Hate  and  destruction  sit  upon  thy  brows 
To  watch  the  issue  of  thy  damned  ghost, 
Wliich,  with  thy  latest  gasp,  they'll  take  and  tear. 
Hurling  in  every  pain  of  hell  a  piece. 
Hence,  murderer,  thou  shame  to  Israel ! 
Foul  lecher,   drunkard,    plague  to  heaven  and 
earth !  [T/u-ows  again  at  David. 

Joah.  What !  is  it  piety  in  David's  thoughts 
So  to  abhor  1  from  laws  of  policy 
In  this  extremity  of  his  distress. 
To  give  his  subjects  cause  of  carelessness  ? 
Send  hence  the  dog  with  sorrow  to  his  grave. 
Dav.  Why  should  the  sons  of  Zeruia  seek  to 
checks 
His  spirit,  which  the  Lord  hath  thus  inspir'd  ? 
Behold  my  son,  which  issued  from  my  flesh, 
With  equal  fuiy  seeks  to  take  my  life  : 
How  much  more,  then,  the  son  of  Jemini, 
Chiefly  since  he  doth   naught  but  God's   com- 
mand ? 
It  may  be  He  will  look  on  me  this  day 
With  gracious  eyes,  and  for  his  cm-sing  bless 
The  heart  of  David  in  his  bitterness. 
Sem.  What !  dost  thou  fret  my  soul  with  suf- 
ferance ?  3 
Oh  that  the  souls  of  Isboseth  and  Abner, 
Which  thou  sent'st  swimming  to  their  graves  in 

blood. 
With  wounds  fresh  bleeding,  gasping  for  revenge. 
Were  here  to  execute  my  burning  hate  ! 
But  I  will  hunt  thy  foot  with  curses  still : 
Hence,  monster,  murderer,  mirror  of  contempt ! 
[Throws  again  at  David. 

E7iter  Ahimaas  and  Jonathan. 

AM.  Long  life  to  David ;  to  his  enemies  death ! 

Dav.  Welcome,  Ahimaas  and  Jonathan. 
What  news  sends  Cusay  to  thy  lord  the  Inng  ? 

Ahi.  Cusay  would  wish  my  lord  the  king 
To  pass  the  river  Jordan  presently. 
Lest  he  and  all  his  people  perish  here  ; 
For  wise  Achitophel  hath  counsell'd  Absalon 
To  take  advantage  of  your  weary  arms. 
And  come  this  night  upon  you  iu  the  fields. 
But  yet  the  Lord  hath  made  his  counsel  scorn, 
And  Cusay's  policy  with  praise  preferred ; 
Which  was  to  number  ever^'  Israelite, 
And  so  assault  you  in  their  pride  of  strength. 

Jonath.  Abiathar,  besides,  entreats  the  king 


•  abhor — shrink. 

2  The  sons  of  Zeruia  are  Abisai  and  Joab. 

2  sufferance — suffering,  endurance. 


To  send  his  men  of  war  against  his  son. 
And  hazard  not  his  person  in  the  field. 

Dav.  Thanks  to  Abiathai-,  and  to  you  both, 
And  to  my  Cusay,  whom  the  Lord  requite  ; 
But  ten  times  treble  thanks  to  his  soft  hand, 
Whose  pleasant  touch  hath  made  my  heart  to 

dance, 
And  play  him  praises  in  my  zealous  breast, 
That  turn'd  the  counsel  of  Achitophel 
After  the  prayers  of  his  servant's  lips. 
Now  will  Ave  pass  the  river  all  this  night. 
And  iu  the  morning  sound  the  voice  of  war, 
The  voice  of  bloody  and  imldndly^  war. 

Joah.  Then  tell  us  how  thou  wilt  divide  thy 
men. 
And  who  shall  have  the  special  charge  herein. 

Dai\  Joab,  thyself  shall  for  thy  charge  conduct 
The  first  third  part  of  all  my  valiant  men  ; 
The  second  shall  Abisai's  valour  lead ; 
The  third  fair  Ithay,  which  I  most  should  grace 
For  comfort  he  hath  done  to  David's  woes ; 
And  I  myself  will  follow  in  the  midst. 

Ith.  That  let  not  David ;  for,  though  we  should 

Ten  thousand  of  us  were  not  half  so  much 
Esteem'd  with  David's  enemies  as  himself  : 
Thy  people,  loving  thee,  deny  thee  this. 

Dav.  What  seems  them  best,  then,  that  will 
David  do. 
But  now,  my  lords  and  captains,  hear  his  voice 
That  never  yet  pierc'd  piteous  heaven  in  vain  ; 
Then  let  it  not  slip  lightly  through  your  ears; — 
For  my  sake  spare  the  young  man  Absalon. 
Joab,  thyself  did'st  once  use  friendly  words 
To  reconcile  my  heart  incens'd  to  him : 
If,  then,  thy  love  be  to  thy  kinsman  sound. 
And  thou  wilt  jirove  a  perfect  Israelite, 
Friend  -  him  with  deeds,  and  touch  no  hair  of 

him, — 
Not  that  fair  hair  with  which  the  wanton  winds 
Delight  to  play,  and  love  to  make  it  curl, 
AVhereiu  the  nightingales  would  build  their  nests, 
And  make  sweet  bowers  in  every  golden  tress. 
To  sing  their  lover  every  night  a&Ieep. 
Ob,  spoil  not,  Joab,  Jove's  ^  fair  ornaments. 
Which  He  hath  sent  to  solace  David's  soul ! 
The  best,  ye  see,  my  lords,  are  swift  to  sin. 
To  sin,  oiu"  feet  are  wash'd  with  milk  of  roes,* 
And  dried  again  with  coals  of  lightning. 
0  Lord,  Thou  see'st  the  proudest  sin's  poor  slave, 
And  with  his  bridle  ^  pull'st  him  to  the  grave ! 
For  my  sake,  then,  spare  lovely  Absalon. 

Ith.  We  will,  my  lord,  for  thy  sake  favour  him. 

{Exeunt. 

Enter  Achitofhel  with  a  halter. 

Ach.  Now  hath  Achitophel  order'd  his  house, 
And  taken  leave  of  every  pleasure  there ; 
Hereon  depend  Achitophel's  delights. 
And  in  this  circle  must  his  life  be  clos'd. 


1  unkindly — unnatural,  against  Idndred. 

2  i^riend— Ibefriend. 
2  Jove''s — Jeliovali's. 

4  Milk  of  roes. — Walker,  who  {Shakespeare's  Versifica- 
tion, &c.,  p.  18)  quotes  this  as  if  the  reading  of  the  old 
copy  was  '  7nill:  of  roses,'  justly  calls  it  '  a  strange  pas- 
sage.'— DrcE. 

5  And  with  his  bridle,  &c. — '  This  line,'  says  Mr.  Col- 
lier, '  as  printed  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dyce,  exhibits  almost 
the  solitary  verbal  blemish  of  his  edition.  It  there 
stands, 

"  And  with  his  bridle  puU'st  him  to  the  grave ; " 

as  if  David,  addressing  the  Lord,  said,  "Thou  pull'st 
man  to  tlie  grave  with  the  bridle  of  sin ; "  whereas  the 
meaning  is,  that  "  sin  with  his  bridle  pulls  man  to  the 
grave."  The  passage  would  read  better  could  we  alter 
and  in  the  last  line  to  "  who."  ' 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


71 


The  wise  Acliitopliel,  whose  coiiDsel  prov'd 

Ever  as  sound  for  fortunate  success 

As  if  men  ask'd  the  oracle  of  God, 

Is  now  iis'd  like  the  fool  of  Israel. 

Then  set  thy  angry  soul  upon  her  wings, 

And  let  her  fly  into  the  shade  of  death  ; 

And  for  my  death  let  heaven  for  ever  weep, 

Making  huge  floods  upon  the  land  I  leave. 

To  ravish  them  and  all  their  fairest  fruits. 

Let  all  the  sighs  I  breath'd  for  this  disgrace 

Hang  on  my  hedges  like  eternal  mists, 

As  mourning  garments  for  their  master's  death. 

Ope,  earth,  aud  take  thy  miserable  son 

Into  the  bowels  of  thy  cursfed  womb  : 

Once  in  a  surfeit  thou  didst  spue  him  forth ; 

Now  for  fell  hunger  suck  him  in  again, 

And  be  his  body  poison  to  thy  veins. 

And  now,  thou  hellish  instrument  of  heaven. 

Once  execute  th'  arrest  of  Jove's  just  doom, 

And  stop  his  breath  that  curseth  Israel !      \_Exit. 

Enter  Absalox,  with  Amasa  and  the  rest  of  his 
train. 

Abs.  Now  for  the  crown  and  throne  of  Israel, 
To  be  confirm'd  with  virtue  of  my  sword, 
And  writ  with  David's  blood  upon  the  blade. 
Now,  Jove,  let  foi-th  the  golden  firmament. 
And  look  on  him,  with  all  thy  iiery  ej-es, 
•  Which  thou  hast  made  to  give  their  glories  light, 
To  show  thou  lov'st  the  vii-tue  of  thy  hand. 
Let  fall  a  wreath  of  stars  upon  my  head. 
Whose  influence  may  govern  Israel 
With  state  exceeding  all  her  other  kings. 
Fight,  lords  and  captains,  that  your  sovereign's 

face 
May  shine  in  honour  brighter  than  the  sun ; 
And,  with  the  virtue  of  my  beauteous  rays 
Make  this  fair  land  as  fruitful  as  the  fields 
That  with  sweet  milk  and  honey  overflow'd. 
God,  in  the  whizzing  of  a  pleasant  wind. 
Shall  march  upon  the  tops  of  raulberry-trees,i 
To  cool  all  breasts  that  burn  with  any  griefs, 
As  whilom-  He  was  good  to  Moses'  men. 
By  day  the  Lord  shall  sit  within  a  cloud. 
To  guide  your  footsteps  to  the  fields  of  joy ; 
And  in  the  night  a  pillar,  bright  as  fire. 
Shall  go  before  you,  like  a  second  sun. 
Wherein  the  essence  of  his  Godhead  is  ; 
That  day  and  night  you  may  be  brought  to  peace. 
And  never  swerve  from  that  delightsome  path 
That  leads  your  souls  to  perfect  happiness. 
This  shall  he  do  for  joy  when  I  am  king. 
Then  fight,  brave  captains,  that  these  joys  mayfly 
Into  your  bosoms  with  sweet  victory.      [_Exeutit. 

The  battle ;  and  then  Absalon  hangs  hy  the  hair.^ 

Abs.  What  angry  angel,  sitting  in  these  shades. 
Hath  laid  his  cruel  hands  ujjon  my  hair. 
And  holds  my  body  thus  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  ? 
Hath  Absalon  no  soldier  near  his  hand 
That  may  untwine  me  this  unpleasant  curl, 
Or  wound  this  tree  that  ravisheth  his  lord  ? 
O  God,  behold  the  glory  of  thy  hand, 
And  choicest  fruit  of  nature's  workmanship. 


1  Shall  march  upon  the  tops  of  mulberry-irtfs,  Sslc. — 
'  And  it  shall  be,  when  thou  shalt  hear  a  sound  oV  eoing 
in  the  tops  of  the  mulberry-trees,  that  then  thou  su^lt 
go  out  to  battle :  for  God  is  gone  forth  before  thee,'  &c. 

' — 1  CHKON.  XIV.  15. 

2  whilom — formerl}%  once. 

^  Absalon  hangs  by  the  hair. — The  following  entry 
occurs  in  Henslowe's  Diary,  under  Oct.  1602: — 

'  Pd  for  poleyes  and  workmanshipp  for  to  hange  Ab- 
salome,  xiiijd.' 

p.  241,  ed.  Siiake.  Soc.  Does  Henslowe  allude  to  the 
present  play,  or  to  some  other  drama  in  which  Absalon 
was  '  hung  ? ' — Dtce. 


Hang,  like  a  rotten  branch,  upon  this  tree. 
Fit  for  the  axe  and  ready  for  the  fire ! 
Since  Thou  withholdest  all  ordinai-y  help 
To  loose  my  body  from  this  bond  of  death, 
Oh  let  my  beauty  fill  these  senseless  plants 
With   sense   and  power  to  loose  me  from  this 

plague. 
And  work  some  wonder  to  prevent  his  death 
Whose  life  Thou  mad'st  a  special  mu-acle ! 

Enter  JoAB  with  a  soldier. 

Sol.  My  lord,  I  saw  the  young  Prince  Absalon 
Hang  by  the  hair  upon  a  shady  oak. 
And  could  by  no  means  get  himself  imloosed. 

Joab.  Why  slew'st  thou  not  the  wicked  Absalon, 
That  rebel  to  his  father  and  to  Heaven, 
That  so  I  might  have  given  thee  for  thy  pains 
Ten  silver  shekels  and  a  golden  waist?  ' 

Sol.  Not  for  a  thousand  shekels  would  I  slay 
The  son  of  David,  whom  his  father  charged 
Nor  thou,  Abisai.  nor  the  son  of  Gath^ 
Should  touch  with  stroke  of  deadly  violence. 
The  charge  was  given  in  hearing  of  us  all ; 
And  had  I  done  it,  then,  I  know,  thyself, 
Before  thou  wouldst  abide  the  king's  rebuke, 
Wouldst  have  accused  me  as  a  man  of  death. 
Joab.  1  must  not  now  stand  trifling  here  with 

thee. 
Abs.  Help,  Joab,  help,  oh  help  thy  Absalon ! 
Let  not  thy  angry  thoughts  be  laid  in  blood. 
In  blood  of  him  that  sometimes  nourish'd  thee. 
And  softened  thy  sweet  heart  with  friendly  love  ; 
Oh  give  me  once  again  my  father's  sight, 
My  dearest  father  and  my  princely  sovereign  ! 
That,  shedding  tears  of  blood  before  his  face, 
The  ground  may  witness,  and  the  heavens  record, 
My  last  sixbmission  sound^  and  full  of  ruth.* 
Joab.  Rebel  to   nature,    hate  to  heaven   and 
earth ! 
Shall  I  give  help  to  him  that  thirsts  the  soul 
Of  his  dear  father  and  my  sovereign  lord  .' 
Now  see,  the  Lord  hath  tangled  in  a  tree 
The  health  and  glory  of  thy  stubborn  heart. 
And  made  thy  pride  curb'd  with  a  senseless  plant. 
Now,  Absalon,  how  doth  the  Lord  regard 
The  beauty  whereupon  thy  hope  was  built. 
And  which  thou  thought'st  his  grace  did  gloiy  in  ? 
Find'st  thou  not  now,  with  fear  of  instant  death, 
That  God  affects  not  any  painted  shape 
Or  goodly  personage,  when  the  virtuous  soul 
Is  stuff'd  with  naught  but  pride  and  stubbornness  ? 
But  preach  I  to  thee,  while  I  should  revenge 
Thy  cursed  sin  that  staineth  Israel, 
And  makes  her  fields  blush  with  her  children's 

blood  ? 
Take  that  as  part  of  thy  deserved  plague, 
Which  worthily  no  torment  can  inflict. 

[Stabs  him. 
Abs.     0  Joab,  Joab,  cruel,  ruthless  Joab !  _ 
Herewith  thou  wound'st  thy  kingly  sovereign's 

heart. 
Whose    heavenly  temper    hates    his    children's 

blood. 
And'  wiU  be  sick,  I  know,  for  Absalon. 
Oh,  my  dear  father,  that  thy  melting  eyes 
Might  pierce  this  thicket  to  behold  thy  son, 
Thy  dearest  son,  gored  with  a  mortal  dart! 
Yet,  Joab,  pity  me ;  pity  my  fathei-,  Joab ; 
Pity  his  soul's  distress  that  mourns  my  life, 
And  wiU  bo  dead,  I  know,  to  hear  my  death. 

Joab.  If  he  were  so  remorsefuP  of  thj'  state, 
Why  sent  he  me  against  thee  with  the  sword  ? 


1  waist— girdle.  "  the  son  of  Gath—WhSiJ. 

3  io!/nd— perfect.  *  ?-ato— son'ow. 

5  remorseful — compassionate. 


72 


EARLY  DRAMATISTS. 


All  Joab  means  to  pleasure  thee  withal 
Is,  to  despatch  theo  quickly  of  thy  pain  : 
Hold,  Absalon,  Joab's  pity  is  in  this  ; 
[n  this,  proud  Absalon,  is  Joab's  love. 

[Stabs  him  again ;  and  then  exit  with  Soldier. 
Abs.  Such  love,  such  pity  Israel's  God  send 
thee, 
And  for  his  love  to  David  pity  me  ! 
Ah !  my  dear  father,  see  thy  bowels  bleed ; 
See  death  assault  thy  dearest  Absalon  ; 
See,  pity,  pardon,  pray  for  Absalon  ! 

En'erfive  or  six  Soldiers. 

First  Sol.  See  where  the  rebel  in  his  glory 
hangs. — 
Where  is  the  virtue  of  thy  beauty,  Absalon  ? 
Will  any  of  us  here  now  fear  thy  looks. 
Or  be  in  love  with  that  thy  golden  hair. 
Wherein  was  wrapt  rebellion  'gainst  thy  sii-e. 
And  cords  prepar'd  to  stop  thy  father's  breath .' 
Our  captain,  Joab,  hath  begun  to  us. 
And  here's  an  end  to  thee  and  all  thy  sins. 

[They  stab  Absalon,  who  dies. 
Come  let  us  take  the  beauteous  rebel  down, 
And  in  some  ditch,  amids  this  darksome  wood. 
Bury  his  bulk  beneath  a  heap  of  stones, 
Whose  stony  heart  did  hunt  his  father's  death. 

He-enter  in  triumph,  with  drum  and  ensign,  Joab, 
Abisai,  and  Soldiers. 

Joab.  Well  done,  tall  soldiers  !  ^  take  the  traitor 
down. 
And  in  this  miry  ditch  inter  his  bones, 
Covering  his  hateftd  breast  with  heaps  of  stones ; 
This  shady  thicket  of  dark  Ephraim 
Shall  ever  lower  on  his  cursed  grave ; 
Night-ravens  and  owls  shall  ring  his  fatal  knell. 
And  sit  exclaiming  on  his  damned  soul ; 
There  shall  they  heap  their  preys  of  carrion. 
Till  all  his  grave  be  clad  with  stinking  bones. 
That  it  may  loathe  the  sense  of  every  man! 
So  shall  his  end  breed  horror  to  his  name, 
And  to  his  traitorous  fact*  eternal  shame. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Chorus.  Oh  dreadful  precedent  of  his  just  doom. 
Whose  holy  heart  is  never  touch'd  with  ruth 
Of  fickle  beauty  or  of  glorious  shape ; 
But  with  the  virtue  of  an  upright  soul, 
Humble  and  zealous  in  his  inward  thoughts. 
Though  in  his  person  loathsome  and  deformed  ! 
Now,  since  this  story  lends  us  other  store. 
To  make  a  third  discourse  of  David's  life, 
Adding  thereto  his  most  renownfed  death. 
And  all  their  deaths  that  at  his  death  he  judg'd, 
Here  end  we  this,  and  what  here  wants  to  please. 
We  will  supply  with  treble  willingness.       [Exit. 

Trumpets  sound.    Enter  Joab,  Aiiimaas,  Cusay  ; 
Amasa,  with  all  the  other  followers  q/ Absalon. 

Joab.  Soldiers  of  Israel,  and  ye  sons  of  Judah, 
That  have  contended  in  these  irksome  broils. 
And  ript  old  Israel'sbowels  with  your  swords, 
The  godless  general  of  your  stubborn  arms 
Is  brought  by  Israel's  Helper  to  the  grave, — 
A  grave  of  shame,  and  scorn  of  all  the  tribes  ! 
Now,  then,  to  save  your  honours  from  the  dust, 
And  keep  your  bloods  in  temper  by  your  bones, 
Let  Joab's  ensign  shroud  your  manly  heads. 
Direct  your  eyes,  your  weapons,  and  your  heavts, 
To  guard  the  life  of  David  from  his  foes. 
Error  hath  mask'd  your  much-too-forward  minds, 
And  you  have  sinn'd  against  the  chosen  state. 


•  tall — sturdy,  bold,  brave. 


'  fact — deed. 


Against  his  life  for  whom  your  lives  are  bless'd, 

And  follow'd  an  usurper  to  the  field  ; 

In  whose  just  death  your  deaths  are  threatened  ; 

But  Joab  pities  your  disordered  souls. 

And  therefore  offers  pardon,  peace,  and  love, 

To  all  that  will  be  friendly  reconcil'd 

To  Israel's  weal,  to  David,  and  to  Heaven. 

Amasa,  thou  art  leader  of  the  host 

That  under  Absalon  have  raised  their  arms; 

Then  be  a  captain  wise  and  politic. 

Careful  and  loving  for  thy  soldiers'  lives. 

And  lead  them  to  this  honourable  league. 

Ama.  I  will ;  at  least,  I'll  do  my  best: 
And  for  the  gracious  offer  thou  hast  made 

I  give  thee  thanks,  as  much  as  for  my  head 

Then,  you  deceiv'd  poor  souls  of  Israel, 
Since  now  ye  see  the  errors  you  incun-'d. 
With  thanks  and  due  submission  be  appeas'd ; 
And  as  ye  see  your  captain's  precedent, 
Here  cast  we,  then,  our  swords  at  Joab's  feet. 
Submitting  with  all  zeal  and  reverence 
Our  goods  and  bodies  to  his  gracious  hands. 

[Kneels  with  others. 

Joab.  Stand  up,  and  take  ye  all  your  swords 
again :  [All  stand  up. 

David  and  Joab  shall  be  bless'd  herein. 

Ahi.  Now  let  me  go  inform  my  lord  the  king 
How  God  hath  freed  him  from  his  enemies. 

Joab.  Another  time,  Ahimaas,  not  now. — 
But,  Cusay,  go  thyself,  and  tell  the  king 
The  happy  message  of  our  good  success. 

Cu.  I   will,  my  lord,  and  thank  thee  for  thy 
grace.  [Exit. 

Ahi.  What  if  thy  servant  should  go  too,  my 
lord  ? 

Joab.  What  news  hast  thou  to  bring  since  ho 
is  gone  ? 

Ahi.  Yet  do  Ahimaas  so  much  content, 
That  he  may  run  about  so  sweet  a  charge. 

Joab.  Kun,  if  thou  wilt ;  and  peace  be  with 
thy  steps.  [Exit  Ahimaas. 

Now  follow,  that  you  may  salute  the  king 
With  humble  hearts  and  reconciled  souls. 

Ama.  We  follow,  Joab,  to  our  gracious  king; 
And  him  our  swords  shall  honour  to  our  deaths 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  David,  Bethsabe,  Solomon,  Nathan, 
Adonia,  Chileab,  with  their  train, 

Beth.  What  means  my  lord,  the  lamp  of  Israel, 
From  whose  bright  eyes  all  eyes  receive  their  light, 
To  dim  the  glory  of  his  sweet  asp&t. 
And  paint  his  countenance  with  his  heart's  dis- 
tress ? 
Why  should  his  thoughts  retain  a  sad  conceit,* 
When  every  pleasure  kneels  before  his  throne. 
And  sues  for  sweet  acceptance  with  his  grace  ? 
Take  but  your  lute,   and  make  the  mountains 

dance, 
Hetrieve  the  sun's  sphere,  and  restrain  the  clouds, 
Give  ears  to  trees,  make  savage  lions  tame, 
1  mpose  still  silence  to  the  loudest  winds, 
And  fill  the  fairest  day  with  foulest  storms  : 
Then  why  should  passions  of  much  meaner  power 
Dear  head  against  the  heart  of  Israel .' 

Dav.  Eair  Bethsabe,  thou  might'st  increase  the 
strength 
Of  these  thy  arguments,  drawn  from  my  skill, 
liy  urging  thy  sweet  sight  to  my  conceits. 
Whose  virtue  ever  serv'd  for  sacred  balm 
To  cheer  my  pinings  past  all  earthly  joys. 
But,  Bethsabe,  the  daughter  of  the  Highest, 
Whose  beauty  builds  the  towers  of  Israel, 
She  that  in  chains  of  pearl  and  unicorn* 

1  conceit — conception,  thought. 
-  unicorn — Qy.  '  ivory?' 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


71 


Leads  at  her  train  the  ancient  golden  world, 

Tlie  world  that  Adam  held  in  paradise, 

Whose  breath  refineth  all  infectious  airs, 

And  makes  the  meadows  smile  at  her  repair, — 

She,  she,  my  dearest  Bethsabe, 

Fair  Peace,  the  goddess  of  our  graces  hei'e. 

Is  fled  the  streets  of  fair  Jerusalem, 

The  fields  of  Israel,  and  the  heart  of  David, 

Leading  my  comforts  in  her  golden  chains, 

Link'd  to  the  life  and  soul  of  Absalon. 

Beth.  Then  is  the  pleasure  of  my  sovereign's 
heart 
So  wrapt  within  the  bosom  of  that  son. 
That  Salomon,  whom  Israel's  God  affects. 
And  gave  the  name  unto  him  for  his  love, 
Should  be  no  salve  to  comfort  David's  soul  ? 

Dav.  Salomon,  my  love,  is  David's  lord ; ' 
Our  God  hath  nam'd  him  lord  of  Israel : 
In  him  (for  that,  and  since  he  is  thy  son) 
Must  David  needs  be  pleased  at  the  heart ; 
Aud  he  shall  surely  sit  upon  my  throne. 
But  Absalon,  the  beauty  of  my  bones. 
Fair  Absalon,  the  counterfeit  ^  of  love. 
Sweet  Absalon,  the  image  of  content. 
Must  claim  a  portion  in  his  father's  care. 
And  be  in  life  and  death  King  David's  son. 

Nuth.  Yet,  as  my  lord  hath  said,  let  Salomon 
reign. 
Whom  God  in  naming  hath  anointed  king. 
,  Now  is  he  apt  to  learn  th'  eternal  laws. 
Whose  knowledge  being  rooted  in  his  youth 
Will  beautify  his  age  with  glorious  fruits ; 
While  Absalon,  incens'd  with  graceless  pride. 
Usurps  and  stains  the  kingdom  with  his  sin : 
Let  Salomon  be  made  thy  staff  of  age, 
Fair  Israel's  rest,  and  honour  of  thy  race. 

Dav.  Tell  me,  my  Salomon,  wilt  thou  embrace 
Thy  father's  precepts  graved  in  thy  heart, 
And  satisfy  my  zeal  to  thy  renown 
With  practice  of  such  sacred  principles 
As  shall  concern  the  state  of  Israel .' 

Sal.  My  royal  father,  if  the  heavenly  zeal. 
Which  for  my  welfare  feeds  upon  your  soul. 
Were  not  sustain'd  with  virtue  of  mine  own ; 
If  the  sweet  accents  of  your  cheerful  voice 
Should  not  each  hour  beat  upon  mine  ears 
As  sweetly  as  the  breath  of  heaven  to  him 
That  gaspeth  scorched  with  the  summer's  sun, 
I  should  be  guilty  of  unpardon'd  sin, 
Fearing  the  plague  of  heaven  and  shame  of  earth : 
But  since  I  vow  myself  to  learn  the  skill 
And  holy  secrets  of  his  mighty  hand 
Whose  cunning  tunes  the  music  of  my  soul. 
It  would  content  me,  father,  first  to  learn 
How  the  Eternal  fram'd  the  firmament ; 
Which  bodies  lend  their  influence  by  fire, 
And  which  are  fill'd  with  hoary  winter's  ice ; 
What  sign  is  rainy,  and  what  star  is  fair ; 
Why  by  the  rules  of  true  proportion 
The  year  is  still  divided  into  months. 
The  mouths  to  days,  the  days  to  certain  hours ; 
What  fruitful  race  shall  fill  the  future  world  ; 
Or  for  what  time  shall  this  round  building  stand ; 
What  magistrates,  what  kings  shall  keep  in  awe 
Men's  minds  with  bridles  of  th'  eternal  law. 

Dav.  Wade  not  too  far,  my  boy,  in  waves  so 
deep: 
The  feeble  eyes  of  our  aspii-ing  thoughts 
Behold  things  present,  and  recoi-d  things  past ; 
But  things  to  come  exceed  our  human  reach, 
And  are  not  painted  yet  in  angels'  eyes  : 
For  those,  submit  thy  sense,  and  say,  '  Thou 
power, 

'  Salomon,  my  love,  is  David's  7orrf— corrupted.— Dtce. 
*  counterfeit — portrait,  likeness,  image. 


That  now  art  framing  of  the  future  world, 

Know'st  all  to  come,  not  by  the  course  of  heaven, 

By  frail  conjectures  of  inferior  signs. 

By  monstrous  floods,  by  flights  and  flocks  of  birds, 

By  bowels  of  a  sacrificed  beast. 

Or  by  the  figures  of  some  hidden  art ; 

But  by  a  true  and  natural  presage, 

Laying  the  ground  and  perfect  architect' 

Of  all  our  actions  now  before  thine  eyes. 

From  Adam  to  the  end  of  Adam's  seed  : 

0  Heaven,  protect  my  weakness  with  thy  strength ! 

So  look  on  me  that  I  may  view  thy  face, 

And  see  these  secrets  written  in  thy  brows. 

O  sun,  come  dart  thy  rays  upon  my  moon  ! 

That  now  mine  eyes,  eclipsed  to  the  earth, 

May  brightly  be  refin'd  and  shine  to  heaven  ; 

Transform  me  from  this  flesh,  that  I  may  live, 

Before  my  death,  regenerate  with  thee. 

0  thou  great  God,  ravish  my  earthly  sprite  !  * 
That  for  the  time  a  more  than  human  skill 
May  feed  the  organons^  of  all  my  sense; 

That,  when  I  think,  thy  thoughts  may  be  my 

guide. 
And,  when  I  speak,  I  may  be  made  by  choice 
The  perfect  echo  of  thy  heavenly  voice.' 
Thus  say,  my  son,  and  thou  shalt  learn  them  all. 

Sal.  A  secret  fury*  ravisheth  my  soul. 
Lifting  my  mind  above  her  human  bounds  ; 
And,  as  the  eagle,  rous6d  from  her  stand 
With  violent  hunger,  towering  in  the  air, 
Seizeth  her  feather'd  prey,  and' thinks  to  feed, 
But  seeing  then  a  cloud  beneath  her  feet, 
Lets  fall  the  fowl,  and  is  emboldened 
With  eyes  intentive^  to  bedare"  the  sun. 
And  styeth '  close  unto  his  stately  sphere  ; 
So  Salomon,  mounted  on  the  burning  wings 
Of  zeal  divine,  lets  fall  his  mortal  food 
And  cheers  his  senses  with  celestial  air, 
Treads  in  the  golden  starry  labyrinth, 
And  holds  his  eyes  fix'd  on  Jehovah's  brows. 
Good  father,  teach  me  further  what  to  do. 
Nath.   See,   David,   how    his    haughty  spirit 

mounts, 
Even  now  of  height  to  wield  a  diadem  : 
Then  make  him  promise  that  he  may  succeed. 
And  rest  old  Israel's  bones  from  broils  of  wai-. 
Dav.  Nathan,  thou  prophet,  sprung  from  Jesse's 

root, 

1  promise  thee  and  lovely  Eethsabe, 
My  Salomon  shall  govern  after  me. 

Beth.   He   that  hath   touch'd  thee   with  this 
righteous  thought 
Preserve  the  harbour  of  thy  thoughts  in  peace  ! 

Enter  Messenger. 

3fess.  My  lord,  thy  servants  of  the  watch  have 
seen 
One  running  hitherward  from  forth  the  wars. 
Dav.  If  he  be  come  alone,  he  bringeth  news. 
Mess.  Another  hath  thy  servant  seen,  my  lord. 
Whose  running  much  resembles  Sadoc's  son. 
Dav.  He  is   a   good  man,   and  good  tidings 
brings. 

Enter  Aiiimaas. 

Ahi.  Peace  and  content  be  with  my  lord  the 
king. 
Whom  Israel's  God  hath  bless'd  with  victory. 


1  architect— Dyce  suggests  '  archetype '  as  the  correct 
re  ii  cling. 

-  sprite — spirit. 

3  organons — organs,  or  instnimenta. 

■•  fury — enthusiasm,  or  rapture. 

'  intentive — attentive,  gazing. 

^  bedare — defy,  dare. 

^  styeth — soareth,  ascendeth. 


74 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Dav.  Tell  me,  Ahimaas,  lives  my  Absalon  ? 

Aki.  I  saw  a  troop  of  soldiers  gathered, 
But  know  not  what  the  tumult  might  import. 

Dav.  Stand  by,  until  some  other  may  inform 
The  heart  of  David  with  a  happy  truth. 

Enter  Cusay. 

Cu,  Happiness  and  honour  live  with  David's 
soul, 
Whom  God  hath  bless'd  with  conquest  of  his  foes. 

Dav.  But,  Cusay,  lives  the  young  man  Absalon  .' 

Cu.  The  stubborn  enemies  to  David's  peace. 
And  all  that  cast  their  darts  against  his  crown. 
Fare  ever  like  the  young  man  Absalon ! 
For  as  he  rid  the  woods  of  Ephraim, 
Which  fought  for  thee  as  much  as  all  thy  men, 
His  hair  was  tangled  in  a  shady  oak ; 
And  hanging  there,  by  Joab  and  his  men, 
Sustain'd  the  stroke  of  well-deservfed  death. 

Dav.  Hath  Absalon  sustain'd  the  stroke  of  death? 
Die,  David,  for  the  death  of  Absalon, 
And  make  these  cursfed  news  the  bloody  darts 
That  through  his  bowels  rip  thy  wretched  breast. 
Hence,  David,  walk  the  solitary  woods, 
And  in  some  cedar's  shade  the  thunder  slew. 
And  fire  from  heaven  hath  made  his  branches  black. 
Sit  mourning  the  decease  of  Absalon  : 
Against  the  body  of  that  blasted  plant 
In  thousand  shivers  break  thy  ivory  lute. 
Hanging  thy  stringless  harp  upon  his  boughs ; 
And  through  the  hollow  sapless  sounding  trunk 
Bellow  the  torments  that  perplex  thy  soul. 
There  let  the  winds  sit  sighing  till  they  burst ; 
Let  tempest,  muffled  with  a  cloud  of  pitch, 
Threaten  the  forests  with  her  hellish  face. 
And,  mounted  fiercely  on  her  iron  wings, 
Eend  up  the  wretched  engine  i  by  the  roots 
That  held  my  dearest  Absalon  to  death. 
Then  let  them  toss  my  broken  lute  to  heaven. 
Even  to  his  hands  that  beats  me  with  the  strings, 
To  show  how  sadly  his  poor  shepherd  sings. 

\Goes  to  Ids  pavilion  and  sits  close  a  while. 

Beth.  Die,  Bethsabe,  to  see  thy  David  mourn, 
To  hear  his  tunes  of  anguish  and  of  hell. 
Oh,  help,  my  David,  help  thy  Bethsabe, 
Whose  heart  is  pierced  with  thy  breathy  swords," 
And  bursts  with  burden  of  ten  thousand  griefs ! 

[^Lies  down. 
Kow  sit  thy  sorrows  sucking  of  my  blood: 
Oh  that  it  might  be  poison  to  their  powers. 
And  that  their  lips  might  draw  my  bosom  dry. 
So  David's  love  might  ease  him,  though  she  die ! 

Nath.  These  violent  passions  come  not  from 
above ; 
David  and  Bethsabe  offend  the  Highest, 
To  mourn  in  this  immeasurable  sort. 

Dav.  [looking  forth.']  0  Absalon,  Absalon !  0 
my  son,  my  son! 
Would  God  that  I  had  died  for  Absalon ! 
But  he  is  dead ;  ah !  dead  ;  Absalon  is  dead : 
And  David  lives  to  die  for  Absalon. 

[_Sits  close  again. 

Enter  Joab,  Abisai,  Ithat,  and  their  train. 

Joab.  Why  lies  the  queen  so  prostrate  on  the 
ground  ? 
Why  is  this  company  so  tragio-hu'd  ? 
Why  is  the  king  now  absent  from  his  men, 


1  engine — agent  or  means. 

2  breathy  swords — '  We  suggest  whether  it  should  not 
be  "breathed  words; "  but  if  the  text  is  suffered  to  re- 
main, vve  can  only  say,  that  "thy  breathy  swords,"  for 
"the  swords  of  tliy  breath,"  is  more  barbaric  than  any- 
thing which  we  have  met  with  in  Peele.' — Rev.  J.  Mit- 
FOKD, — Ge7it,  Hag.  for  Feburary  1833,  p.  103.  Dyce 
nevertheless  believes  it  to  be  the  genuine  reading. 


And  marcheth  not  in  triumph  through  the  gates  ? 
[Unfolds  the  pavilion. 
David,  awake !  if  sleep  have  shut  thine  eyes, 
Sleep  of  affection,  that  thou  canst  not  see 
The  honour  offer'd  to  the  victor's  head : 
Joab  brings  conquest  pierced  on  his  spear, 
And  joy  from  all  the  tribes  of  Israel. 
Dav.  Thou  man  of  blood,  thou  sepulchre  of 

death. 
Whose  marble  breast  intombs  my  bowels  quick.' 
Did  I  not  charge  thee,  nay,  entreat  thy  hand. 
Even  for  my  sake,  to  spare  my  Absalon  ? 
And  hast  thou  now,  in  spite  of  David's  health. 
And  scorn  to  do  my  heart  some  hajjpiness. 
Given  him  the  sword  and  spilt  his  purple  soul .' 
Joab.  What,   irks    it    David,   that    he   victor 

breathes. 
That  Juda  and  the  fields  of  Israel 
Should  cleanse  their  faces  from  their  children's 

blood? 
What !  art  thou  weary  of  thy  royal  rule  ? 
Is  Israel's  throne  a  serpent  in  thine  eyes, 
And  He  that  set  thee  there  so  far  from  thanks, 
That  thou  must  curse  his  servant  for  his  sake  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that,  as  the  morning  light. 
The  cloudless  morning,  so  should  be  thine  hoUse, 
And  not  as  flowers  by  the  brightest  rain 
Which  grow  up  quicklj'  and  as  quickly  fade  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said,  the  ^vicked  are  as  thorns. 
That  cannot  be  preserved  "  with  the  hand, 
And  that  the  man  shall  touch  them  must  be  arm'd 
With  coats  of  u-ou  and  garments  made  of  steel, 
Or  with  the  shaft  of  a  defenced  spear? 
And  art  thou  angry  he  is  now  cut  off 
That  led  the  guiltless  swarming  ^  to  their  deaths, 
And  was  more  wicked  than  an  host  of  men  ? 
Advance  thee  from  thy  melancholy  den, 
And  deck  thy  body  with  thy  blissful  robes. 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  sways  the  heaven  I  swear, 
I'll  lead  thine  armies  to  another  Iring 
Shall  cheer  them  for  their  princely  chivalry. 
And  not  sit  daunted,  frowning  in  the  dark, 
When  his  fair  looks,  ■wT.th  oil  and  wine  refres^h'd, 
Should  dart  into  their  bosoms  gladsome  beams. 
And  fill  their  stomachs  with  triumphant  feasts  ; 
That  when  elsewhere  stern  war  shall  sound  his 

trump, 
And  call  another  battle  *  to  the  field, 
Fame  still  may  bring  thy  valiant  soldiers  home. 
And  for  their  service  happily  confess 
She    wanted    worthy    trumps    to    sound    their 

prowess : 
Take  thou  this  course  and  live ;  refuse  and  die. 
Abis.  Come,  brother,  let  him  sit  there  till  he 

sink; 
Some  other  shall  advance  the  name  of  Joab. 

[^Offers  to  go  out  with  Joab. 
Beth,  [p-ising.']  Oh,  stay,  my  lords,  stay !   David 

mourns  no  more, 


1  quick — alive. 

-  preserved — held,  taken,  grasped.  The  passage  of 
Scripture  to  which  our  author  here  alludes  is  as  follows : 

'And  he  shall  be  as  the  light  of  the  morning  when 
the  sun  riseth,  even  a  morning  without  clouds;  as  the 
tender  grass  springing  out  of  the  earth  by  clear  shining 
after  rain. 

'  Although  my  house  be  not  so  with  God ;  yet  he  hath 
made  with  me  an  everlasting  covenant,  ordered  in  all 
tilings,  and  sure  :  for  this  is  all  my  salvation,  and  all  my 
desire,  although  he  make  it  not  to  grow. 

'  But  the  sons  of  Belial  shall  be  all  of  them  as  thorns 
thrust  away,  because  they  cannot  be  taken  with  hands 
[The  Vulgate  '  qux  non  toUuntur  manibus  '] : 

'  But  the  man  that  shall  touch  them  must  be  fenced 
with  iron  and  the  staff  of  a  spear,'  &c. 

2  Sam.  xxiii.  4  sqq. 

3  swarming — swarm,  crowd. 

*  battle — army. 


GEORGE  PEELE. 


75 


But  risetli  to  give  lionour  to  your  acts. 

Dav.  [_rising^and  coming  from  his  pavilion.']  Then 
liappy  art  thou,  David's  fairest  son, 
That,  freld  from  the  yoke  of  earthly  toils, 
And  sdquester'd '  from  sense  of  human  sins, 
Thy  soul  shall  joy  -  the  sacred  cabinet. 
Of  those  divine  ideas  that  present 
Thy  changed  spii'it  with  a  heaven  of  bliss. 
Then  thou  art  gone ;  ah,  thou  art  gone,  my  son ! 
To  heaven,  I  hope,  my  Absalon  is  gone : 
Thy  soul  there  plac'd  in  honour  of  the  saints, 
Or  angels  clad  with  immortality, 


1  sequester'd — separated,  withdrawn. 
*jo]/ — eujoy. 


Shall  reap  a  sevenfold  grace  for  all  thy  griefs  ; 
Thy  eyes,  now  no  more  eyes  but  shining  stars, 
Shall  deck  the  flaming  heavens  with  novel  lamps  ; 
There  shalt  thou  taste  the  drink  of  seraphins, 
And  cheer  thy  feelings  with  archangels'  food  ; 
Thy  day  of  rest,  thy  holy  Sabbath-day, 
Shall  be  eternal ;  and,  the  curtain  drawn, 
Thou  shalt  behold  thy  sovereign  face  to  face, 
AVith  wonder,  knit  in  triple  unity — 

Unity  infinite  and  innumerable. 

Courage,  brave  captains!  Joab's  tale  hath  stirr'd, 
And  made  the  suit  of  Israel  preferr'd. 

Joab.  Bravely  resolv'd,  and  spoken  like  a  king : 
Now  may  old  Israel  and  his  daughters  sing. 

[^Exeunt  omnsi.' 


ROBERT    GREENE. 


[Robert  Greene,  tlie  contemporary  and  friend  of  Peele,  and  one  of  tlie  most  profligate  and 
•unfortunate  of  tlie  Elizabethan  dramatists,  was  born  in  Norwich,  probably  about  1560  ; 
Dyce,  however,  dating  his  bu-th  ten  years  earlier.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he 
took  the  degree  of  B.A.  in  1578,  and  that  of  M.A.  in  1583.  He  was  also  connected  in 
some  way  with  Oxford, — he  himself  vaunting  that  he  was  a  Master  of  Arts  of  both  Universi- 
ties. The  interval  between  1578  and  1583  he  spent  in  travelling  through  Spain,  Italy,  and 
other  parts  of  the  continent.  The  following  extract  from  his  work,  The  Repentance  of  Robert 
Greene  (1592),  Avill  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  life  he  led  while  there,  and  after  he  re- 
turned home  : — 

'  For,  being  at  the  University  of  Cambridge,  I  lit  amongst  wags  as  lewd  as  myself,  with 
whom  I  consumed  the  flower  of  my  youth  ;  who  drew  me  to  travel  into  Italy  and  Spain,  in 
which  places  I  saw  and  practised  such  villany  as  is  abominable  to  declare.  Thus,  by  their 
counsel,  I  sought  to  furnish  myself  with  coin,  which  I  procured  by  cunning  sleights  from  my 
father  and  my  friends  ;  and  my  mother  pampered  me  so  long,  and  secretly  helped  jue  to  the 
oil  of  angels,  that  I  grew  thereby  prone  to  all  mischief :  so  that,  being  then  conversant  with 
notable  braggarts,  boon  companions,  and  ordinary  spendthrifts,  that  practised  sundry  super- 
ficial studies,  I  became  as  a  scion  grafted  into  the  same  stock,  whereby  I  did  absolutely  par- 
ticipate of  their  nature  and  qualities.  At  my  return  into  England,  1  ruffled  out  in  my  silks 
in  the  habit  of  malcontent,  and  seemed  so  discontent,  that  no  place  would  please  me  to 
abide  in,  nor  no  vocation  cause  me  to  stay  myself  in  ;  but,  after  I  had  by  degrees  proceeded 
Master  of  Arts,  I  left  the  University  and  away  to  London,  where,  after  I  had  continued  some 
short  time,  and  driven  myself  out  of  credit  with  sundry  of  my  friends,  I  became  an  author 
of  plays,  and  a  penner  of  line-pamphlets,  so  that  I  soon  grew  famous  in  that  quality,  that 
who,  for  that  trade,  known  so  ordinary  about  London  as  Eobin  Greene?  Young  yet  in 
years,  though  old  in  wickedness,  I  began  to  resolve  that  there  was  nothing  bad  that  was 
profitable  ;  whereupon  I  grew  so  rooted  in  all  mischief,  that  I  had  as  great  a  delight  in 
■wickedness  as  sundry  have  in  godliness,  and  as  much  felicity  I  took  in  villany  as  others  had 
in  honesty. ' 

It  is  doubtful  whether  our  author  was  the  '  Robert  Greene '  mentioned  as  being  one  of 
the  Queen's  chaplains  in  1576,  although  there  is  good  reason  for  believing  that  he  did  enter 
the  Church,  and  was  presented  to  the  vicarage  of  Lollesbury  in  Essex  in  1584,  resigning  it, 
however,  next  year,  probably  because  he  found  the  clerical  profession  and  a  country  life  in- 
compatible with  his  unholy  tastes.  That  Greene  was  married  is  certain, — Dyce  thinks  in 
1586, — and  it  is  as  certain,  that  although  on  his  own  authority  his  wife  was  a  most  amiable 
and  loving  woman,  he  ere  long  forsook  her  to  indulge  without  restraint  his  passion  for 
debauchery  and  every  species  of  self-indulgence.  After  leaving  his  wife,  he  lived  with  a 
woman,  the  sister  of  an  infamous  character,  well  known  then  under  the  name  of  '  Cutting 
Ball, '  and  by  her  he  had  a  son  who  died  the  year  after  his  father.  After  leading  one  of  the 
maddest  lives  on  record,  he  died  a  miserable  death  on  the  3d  of  September  1592,  his  last  ill- 
ness being  caused  by  a  surfeit  of  Rhenish  wine  and  pickled  herrings.  On  his  deathbed  he 
was  deserted  by  all  his  former  boon  companions  except  his  mistress,  and  was  indebted  to  the 
wife  of  a  poor  shoemaker  for  the  last  bed  on  which  he  laid  his  miserable  body — ^liis  dying 
injunction  to  his  compassionate  and  admiring  hostess  being  to  crown  his  vain  head  after 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


77 


death  with  a  garland  of  bays.  This  request,  it  seems,  the  poor  woman  attended  to.  On  his 
deathbed  he  wrote  his  Repentance,  in  which  he  expresses  the  greatest  contrition  for  his  mis- 
spent life,  and  beseeches  all  his  old  companions  to  take  warning  by  his  sad  fate  and  repent 
ere  it  be  too  late.  Appended  to  his  Gi-oafs  Worth  of  Wit,  which  is  to  a  great  extent  auto- 
biographical, and  which  he  finished  on  his  deathbed,  is  a  sad  and  tender  letter  to  his  wife, 
expressing  great  sori'ow  for  his  treatment  of  her,  and  imploring  her  forgiveness.  He  also  left 
a  note  to  her,  beseeching  her,  '  by  the  love  of  our  youth  and  my  soul's  rest,'  to  reimburse  the 
shoemaker,  whose  wife  had  befriended  him  in  his  last  and  friendless  days.  Although 
Greene's  character  may  have  been  made  blacker  than  it  really  was  by  the  enmity  of 
Gabriel  Harve}'',  the  friend  of  Spenser,  still  there  is  no  room  for  doubt  that  a  sadder  life 
and  death  eoidd  not  possibly  be  imagined. 

Greene  wrote  many  prose  stories,  and  pamphlets  of  various  kinds,  many  of  which  are 
interesting,  and  all  were  highly  popular  and  extensively  read  ;  but  it  is  only  with  his  dra- 
matic works  we  are  concerned  here.  Five  dramas  are  still  extant  which  were  undoubtedly 
■wi'itten  by  Greene :  The  History  of  Orlando  Furioso,  one  of  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France, 
not  printed  till  1594,  but  probably  one  of  his  earliest  plays  ;  The  Honourable  History  of 
Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay,  first  published  in  1594,  but  written  much  earlier ;  The 
Scottish  History  of  James  the  Fourth,  slain  at  Flodden  (1598)  ;  The  Comical  History  of 
Alphonsus,  King  of  Arragon  (1599) ;  and,  along  with  Lodge,  A  Loohing-Glass  for  London 
and  England  (1594).  Another  play,  superior  to  any  of  the  above,  is  by  some  authorities 
attributed  to  Greene,  but  the  testimony  as  to  its  authorship  is  very  slender  ;  it  is  entitled 
George-a-Green,  the  Pinner  of  Wakefield  (1599).  As  a  dramatist,  Greene  occupies  about  the 
same  rank  as  Peele,  and  was  one  of  the  first  to  introduce  blank  verse  on  the  stage.  His 
versification  is  not  so  smooth  as  that  of  Peele  ;  but  as  it  is  more  broken,  it  is  less  tedious. 
His  dramas  possess  no  very  striking  merit,  although  there  is  an  occasional  vigour  of  language, 
richness  of  fancy,  originality  of  thought,  and  a  distinctness  and  consistency  in  the  por- 
trayal of  character.  They  are,  however,  much  disfigured  by  bombast,  aff"ectation,  and 
pedantry,  his  lowest  boors  and  most  ignorant  dairy-maids  being  made  to  interlard  their  talk 
with  classical  allusions  that  would  be  pedantic  even  in  an  Oxford  Don.  The  drama  we  have 
selected  as  a  specimen  is  by  many  considered  his  best,  and  in  it  he  has  followed  the  well- 
known  prose  tract,  entitled  The  Famous  History  of  Friar  Bacon.  The  character  of  Mar- 
garet, the  fair  maid  of  Fressingfield,  is,  however,  original ;  the  humour  of  Miles  is  often 
genuine  and  pleasing.] 


7^ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


THE  HONOURABLE  HISTORY  OF  FRIAR  BACON  AND 

FRIAR  BUNGAY: 

AS  IT  WAS  PLAYED  BY  HER  MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 

MADE  BY  EGBERT  GREENE,  MASTER  OF  ARTS. 

London :  Pnntedfor  Edioard  Wliite,  and  are  to  he  sold  at  Ms  shop,  at  the  little  North  door  of 
Paul's,  at  the  sign  of  the  Gun.     1594. 


Iramatb  l^rsona. 


King  Henry  the  Third. 

Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  Ms  Son. 

Emperor  of  Germany. 

King  of  Castile. 

Lacy,  Earl  of  Lincoln. 

Warren,  Earl  of  Sussex. 

Ermsby,  a  Gentleman. 

Ealph  Simnell,  the  King's  Fool. 

Eriar  Bacon. 

Miles,  Friar  Bacon's  Poor  Scholar. 

Friar  Bungay. 

Jaques  Vandermast. 

Burden,    ■> 

Mason,       >•  Doctors  of  Oxford. 

Clement,  ) 

wsIy:'}"-- 


Enter  Prince  Edward  malcontented^  with  Lacy, 
Warren,  Ekmsby,  and  Ealph  Sevinell. 
Lacy.  Why  looks  my  lord  like  to  a  troubled 
sky  [fog  ? 

When  heaven's  bright  shine  is  shadow'd  with  a 
Alate  1  we  ran  the  deer,  and  through  the  lawnds.^ 
Stripp'd  ^  with  our  nags  the  lofty  frolic  bucks 
That  scudded  'fore  the  teasers  *  like  the  wind : 
Ne'er  was  the  deer  of  merry  Fressingfield 
So  lustily  pull'd  down  by  jolly  mates, 
Nor  shar'd  the  farmers  such  fat  venison, 
So  frankly  dealt  this  hundi-ed  years  before  ; 
Nor  have 

I  seen  my  lord  more  frolic '  in  the  chase, 
And  now  chang'd  to  a  melancholy  dump.® 

War.  After  the  Prince  got  to  the  Keeper's 
lodge. 
And  had  been  jocund  '  in  the  house  awhile, 
Tossing  off  ale  and  milk  in  country  cans. 
Whether  it  was  the  country's  sweet  content, 
Or  else  the  bonny  damsel  fiU'd  us  drink 
That  seem'd  so  stately  in  her  stammel  red,* 
Or  that  a  qualm  did  cross  his  stomach  then. 
But  straight  he  fell  into  his  passions. 


>  ^?a/e— lately.  ^  Zawnrfs— lawns. 

'  /S^/'ii^p'd— outstripped. 

*  A  teaser  was  a  kind  of  hound. 
^  frolic — frolicsome,  joyful. 

8  dump  was  formerly  applied  to  a  melancholy  strain 
of  music,  and  was  also  used  as  equivalent  to  sorrow. 
'  jocund — jocose,  merry. 

*  stammel — a  kind  of  woollen  cloth.  According  to 
Nares,  stammel  was  a  coarse  kind  of  red,  inferior  to 
fine  scarlet;  but  Halliwell  says  it  was  a  kind  of  fine 
worsted;  and  Dyce  a  sort  of  woollen  cloth :  here,  it  ap- 
pears to  he  applied  to  a  garment. 


Two  Scholars,  their  Sons. 
Keeper. 

Constable. 

A  Post. 

Lords,  Clowns,  &c. 


Elinor,  Daughter  to  the  King  of  Castile, 
Margaret,  the  Keeper's  Daughter. 
Joan,  a  Country  Wench. 
Hostess  of  the  Bell  at  Henley. 


A  Devil. 

Spirit  in  the  shape  of  Hercules. 


Erms-  Sirrah  Ealph,  what  say  you  to  your 
master, 
Shall  he  thus  all  amort '  live  malcontent  ? 

Ralph.  Hearest  thou,  Ned? — ^Nay,  look  if  he 
will  speak  to  me ! 

P.  Edw.  What  say'st  thou  to  me,  fool .' 

Ralph.  I  prithee,  tell  me,  Ned,  art  thou  in  love 
with  the  Keeper's  daughter  ? 

P.  Edw.  How  if  I  be,  what  then  ? 

Ralph.  Why,  then,  sirrah,  I'll  teach  thee  how 
to  deceive  Love. 

P.  Edw.  How,  Ealph  ? 

Ralph.  Marry,  Sirrah  Ned,  thou  shalt  put  on 
my  cap  and  my  coat  and  my  dagger,  and  I  wiU 
put  on  thy  clothes  and  thy  sword ;  and  so  thou 
shalt  be  my  fool. 

P.  Edio.  And  what  of  this  ? 

Ralph.  Why,  so  thou  shalt  beguile  Love ;  for 
Love  is  such  a  proud  scab  ^  that  he  will  never 
meddle  with  fools  nor  children.  Is  not  Ealph's 
counsel  good,  Ned  ? 

P.  Edw.  TeU  me,  Ned  Lacy,  didst  thou  mark 
the  maid, 
How  lovely  in  her  country^weeds  she  look'd  ? 
A  bonnier  wench  aU  Suffolk  cannot  yield, — 
All  Suffolk !  nay,  all  England  holds  none  such. 

Ralph.  Sirrah  Will  Ermsby,  Ned  is  deceived. 

Erms.  Why,  Ealph  ? 

Ralph.  He  says  all  England  hath  no  such ;  and 
I  say,  and  I'll  stand  to  it,  there  is  one  better  in 
Warwickshire. 


1  all  amort,  and  sometimes  alamort;  probably  Fr.  i 
la  inort,  to  the  death,  lifeless,  dejected — but  sometimes 
used  as  if  equivalent  to  '  all  as  if  dead.' 

-  sca6— according  to  Halliwell— ape ;  used  as  a  term 
of  contempt. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


79 


]\'ar.  How  provest  thou  that,  Ealph  ? 

Ralph.  Why,  is  not  the  abbot  a  learned  man, 
and  hath  read  many  books,  and  thinkest  thou 
he  hath  not  more  learning  than  thou  to  choose 
a  bonny  wench?  Yes,  warrant  I  thee,  by  his 
whole  gi-ammar. 

Erms.  A  good  reason,  Ealph. 

P.  Edw.  I  tell  thee,  Lacy,  that  her  sparkling 
eyes 
Do  lighten  forth  sweet  love's  alluring  fire ; 
And  in  her  tresses  she  doth  fold  the  looks 
Of  such  as  gaze  upon  her  golden  hair : 
Her  bashful  white,  mix'd  with  the  morning's  red, 
Luna  doth  boast  ux^on  her  lovely  cheeks  ; 
Her  front  is  beauty's  table,  where  she  paints 
The  glories  of  her  gorgeous  excellence  ; 
Her  teeth  are  shelves  of  precious  margarites,* 
Eichly  enclos'd  with  ruddy  coral  cleeves.2 
Tush,  Lacy,  she  is  beauty's  over-match, 
If  thou  survey'st  her  curious  imageiy. 

Lacy.  I  grant,  my  lord,  the  damsel  is  as  fair 
As  simple  Suffolk's  homely  towns  can  yield  ; 
But  in  the  court  be  quainter  dames  than  she, 
Whose  faces  are  enrich'd  with  honour's  taint,' 
Whose  beauties  stand  upon  the  stage  of  fame. 
And  vaunt  their  trophies  in  the  courts  of  love. 

P.  Edio.  Ah !  Ned,  but  hadst  thou  watch'd  her 
as  myself, 
And  seen  the  secret  beauties  of  the  maid, 
Their  courtly  coyness  were  but  foolery. 

Emis.  Why,  how  watch'd  you  her,  my  lord  ? 

P.  Edw.  Whenas  she  swept  like  Venus  through 
the  house, 
And  in  her  shape  fast  folded  up  my  thoughts. 
Into  the  mUk-house  went  I  with  the  maid. 
And  there  amongst  the  cream-bowls  she  did  shine 
As  Pallas  'mongst  her  princely  huswifery : 
She  turn'd  her  smock  over  her  hly  arms. 
And  div'd  them,  into  milk  to  run  her  cheese ; 
But  whiter  than  the  milk  her  crystal  skin, 
Checked  with  lines  of  azure,  made  her  blush  * 
That  art  or  nature  durst  bring  for  compare. 
Ermsby, 

If  thou  hadst  seen,  as  I  did  note  it  well, 
How  beauty  play'd  the  huswife,  how  this  girl, 
Like  Lucrece,  laid  her  fingers  to  the  work, 
Thou  wouldst,  with  Tarquin,  hazard  Korae  and  all 
To  win  the  lovely  maid  of  Fressingfield. 

Ralph.  Sirrah  Ned,  wouldst  fain  have  her  ? 

P.  Edw.  Ay,  Ealph. 

Ralph.  Why,  Ned,  I  have  laid  the  plot  in  my 
head ;  thou  shalt  have  her  already. 

P.  Edw.  I'U  give  thee  a  new  coat,  an  learn  ^ 
me  that. 

Ralph.  Why,  Sirrah  Ned,  we'll  ride  to  Oxford 
to  Friar  Bacon.  Oh,  he  is  a  brave  scholar,  sin-ah ; 
they  say  he  is  a  brave  necromancer,  that  he  can 
make  women  of  devils,  and  he  can  juggle  cats 
into  costermongers. 

P.  Edw.  And  how  then,  Ealph  ? 

Ralph.  Marry,  sirrah,  thou  shalt  go  to  him: 
and  because  thy  father  Harry  shall  not  miss  thee, 
he  shall  turn  me  into  thee  ;  and  I'll  to  the  court, 
and  I'll  prince  it  out;  and  he  shall  make  thee 
either  a  silken  purse  fuU  of  gold,  or  else  a  fine 
wrought  smock. 

P.  Edw.  But  how  shall  I  have  the  maid  ? 

Ralph.  Marry,  sirrah,  if  thou  be'st  a  silken 
purse  fuU  of  gold,  then  on  Sundays  she'll  hang 
thee  by  her  side,  and  you  must  not  say  a  word. 


1  margarites — pearls,  from  Greek. 

2  deeves  or  dives  was  the  old  plural  of  cliff. 
'  taint — tint. 

*  made  lier  blush,  &c. — Dyce  thinks  this  means  'made 
(would  have  made)  that  woman  blush  whom  art,'  &c. 
^  an  learn — if  thou  wilt  learn. 


Now',  sir,  when  she  comes  into  a  great  press  '  of 
people,  for  fear  of  the  cutpurse,  on  a  sudden 
she'll  swap  thee  into  her  plackerd ;  ^  then,  sirrah, 
being  there,  you  may  plead  for  yourself. 

Erms.  Excellent  policy ! 

P.  Edw.  But  how  if  I  be  a  wroi^ght  smock  ? 

Ralph.  Then  she'll  put  thee  into  her  chest  and 
lay  thee  into  lavender,  and  iipon  some  good  day 
she'll  put  thee  on  ;  and  at  night  when  you  go  to 
bed,  then  being  turned  from  a  smock  to  a  man, 
you  may  make  up  the  match. 

Lacy.  Wonderfully  wisely  counselled,  Ealph. 

P.  Edw.  Ealph  shall  have  a  new  coat. 

Ralph.  God  thank  you  when  I  have  it  on  my 
back,  Ned. 

P.  Edw.  Lacy,  the  fool  hath  laid  a  perfect  plot ; 
For  why '  our  country  Margaret  is  so  coy. 
And  stands  so  much  upon  her  honest  points. 
That  marriage  or  no  market  with  the  maid. 
Ermsby,  it  must  be  necromantic  spells 
And  charms  of  art  that  must  enchain  her  love, 
Or  else  shall  Edward  never  win  the  gW. 
Therefore,  my  wags,  we'll  horse  us  in  the  morn, 
And  post  to  Oxford  to  this  jolly  friar: 
Bacon  shall  by  his  magic  do  this  deed. 

War.  Content,  my  lord;  and  that's  a  speedy 
way 
To  wean  these  headstrong  puppies  from  the  teat. 

P.  Edio.  I   am  unknown,   not  taken   for  the 
Prince ; 
They  only  deem  us  frolic  courtiers. 
That  revel  thus  among  our  liege's  game : 
Therefore  I  have  devis'd  a  policy. 
Lacy,  thou  know'st  next  Friday  is  Saint  James', 
And  then  the  country  flocks  to  Harleston  Fair : 
Then  will  the  Keeper's  daughter  frolic  there, 
And  over-shine  the  troop  of  aU  the  maids 
That  come  to  see  and  to  be  seen  that  day. 
Haunt  thee  disguis'd  among  the  country  swains. 
Feign  thou'rt  a  farmer's  son,  not  far  from  thence, 
Espy  her  loves,  and  who  she  liketh  best ; 
Cote  *  him,  and  court  her  to  control  the  clown  ; 
Say  that  the  courtier  tir^d  aU  in  green. 
That  help'd  her  handsomely  to  run  her  cheese, 
And  fiU'd  her  father's  lodge  with  venison. 
Commends  him,  and  sends  fairings^  to  herself. 
Buy  something  worthy  of  her  parentage. 
Not  worth  her  beaiity ;  for.  Lacy,  then  the  fair 
Affords  no  jewel  fitting  of  the  maid. 
And  when  thou  talk'st  of  me,  note  if  she  blush  : 
Oh,  then  she  loves  ;  but  if  her  cheeks  wax  pale. 
Disdain  it  is.     Lacy,  send  how  she  fares, 
And  spare  no  time  nor  cost  to  win  her  loves. 

Lacy.  I  will,  my  lord,  so  execute  this  charge 
As  if  that  Lacy  were  in  love  with  her. 

P.  Edw.  Send  letters  speedily  to  Oxford  of  the 

news. 
Ralph.  And,  Sirrah  Lacy,  buy  me  a  thousand 
thousand  million  of  fine  bells. 

Lacy.  What  wilt  thou  do  with  them,  Ealph  ? 

Ralph.  Marry,  every  time  that  Ned  sighs  for 
the  Keeper's  daughter,  I'll  tie  a  beU  aboiit  him  : 
and  so  within  three  or  four  days  I  will  send  word 
to  his  father  Harry,  that  his  son  and  my  master 
Ned,  is  become  Love's  morris-dance.^ 


1  press — crowd. 

2  plackerd  or  placket,  sometimes  means  petticoat,  and 
sometimes  pocket,  and  is  frequently  used  in  an  indecent 
sense ;  it  probably  comes  from  Fr.  plainer,  to  clap  on. 

3  For  why — because. 

*  Cote — to  pass  the  side  of  another,  to  outstrip ;  here 
probably  '  keep  by  his  side ;'  Fr.  cote,  side ;  coytoer,  to 
keep  alongside  of. 

^  fairing— a,  present  bought  at  a  fair ;  still  used  ia 
Scotland. 

^  A  morris-dance  was  a  Moorish  dance,  in  which  bells, 
rattles,  &c.,  were  introduced. 


8o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


P.  Edit}.  Well,  Lacy,  look  with  care  unto  thy 
charge 
And  I  will  haste  to  Oxford  to  the  friar, 
That  he  by  art,  and  thou  by  secret  gifts 
May'st  make  me  lord  of  merry  Fressingfield. 
Lacy.  God    send   your    honour    your    heart's 
desire.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Friar  Bacon  and  Miles  ivlth  hooks  under 
his  arm;  Bukdex,  Mason,  and  Clement. 

Bacon.  Miles,  where  are  you  ? 

Miles.  Hie  sum,  doctlssiine  et  reverendissitne 
doctor.^ 

Bacon.  Attulistinos  lihrosmeos  denecromantia?^ 

Miles.  Ecce  quam  honum  et  quam  jucundum 
habitare  libros  in  unum  /^ 

Bacon.  Now  masters  of  our  academic  state. 
That  rule  in  Oxford,  viceroys  in  your  place, 
Whose  heads  contain  maps  of  the  liberal  ai'ts, 
Spending  your  time  in  depth  of  learned  skill, 
Why  flock  you  thus  to  Bacon's  secret  cell, 
A  friar  newly  stall'd  in  Brazen-nose  ? 
Say,  what's  your  mind,  that  I  may  make  reply. 

Burd.  Bacon,    we    hear    that    long   we   have 
suspect 
That  thou  art  read  in  magic's  mystery ; 
In  pyroraanc}^  to  divine  by  flames ; 
To  tell,  by  hydromatic,  ebbs  and  tides ; 
By  aeromancy  to  discover  doubts. 
To  plain  out  questions,  as  ApoUo  did. 

Bacon.  Well,  Master  Burden,  what  of  all  this  ? 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  he  doth  but  fulfil,  by  re- 
hearsing of  these  names,  the  fable  of  the  Fox  and 
the  Grapes  ;  that  which  is  above  us  pertains 
nothing  to  us. 

Burd.  I  tell  thee.  Bacon,  Oxford  makes  report, 
Nay,  England,  and  the  court  of  Henry  says, 
Thou'rt  making  of  a  brazen  head  by  art. 
Which  shall  unfold  strange  doubts  and  aphorisms. 
And  read  a  lecture  in  philosophy ; 
And,  by  the  help  of  devils  and  ghastly  fiends. 
Thou  raean'st,  ere  many  years  or  days  be  past, 
To  compass  England  with  a  wall  of  brass. 

Bacon.  And  what  of  this.' 

Miles.  What  of  this,  master!  Why  he  doth 
speak  mystically  ;  for  he  knows  if  your  skill  fail 
to  make  a  brazen  head,  yet  Mother  Water's  strong 
ale  will  fit  his  turn  to  make  him  have  a  copper 
nose. 

Clem.  Bacon,  we  come  not  grieving  at  thy  skill, 
But  joying  that  our  academy  yields 
A  man  suppos'd  the  wonder  of  the  world ; 
For  if  thy  cunning  work  these  miracles, 
England  and  Europe  shall  admire  thy  fame, 
And  Oxford  shall  in  characters  of  brass. 
And  statues,  such  as  were  built  up  in  Eome, 
Eternize  Friar  Bacon  for  his  art. 

Mason.  Then,  gentle  friar,  tell  us  thy  intent. 

Bacon.  Seeing  you  come  as  friends  unto  the 
friar. 
Resolve  you,*  doctors,  Bacon  can  by  books 
Make  storming  Boreas  thunder  from  his  cave, 
And  dim  fair  Luna  to  a  dark  eclipse. 
The  great  arch-ruler,  potentate  of  hell. 
Trembles  when  Bacon  bids  him,  or  his  fiends 
Bow  to  the  force  of  his  pentageron. 
What  art  can  work,  the  frolic  friar  knows ; 
And  therefore  will  I  turn  my  magic  books, 
And  strain  out  necromancy  to  the  deep. 


1  'Here  I  am,  most  learned  and  most  reverend  teacher.' 

2  'Hast  thou  brought  us  my  books  on  necromancy?' 

3  '  Behold  how  good  and  pleasant  it  is  to  keep  books 
in  one  place  ! ' 

<  Resolve  you — be  assured. 


I  have  contriv'd  and  fraln'd  a  head  of  brass 
(I  made  Belcephon  hammer  out  the  stuff). 
And  that  by  art  shall  read  philosophy : 
And  I  will  strengthen  England  by  my  skill, 
That  if  ten  Csesars  liv'd  and  reign'd  in  Kome, 
With  all  the  legions  Europe  doth  contain. 
They  should  not  touch  a  grass  of  English  ground ; 
The  work  that  Ninus  rear'd  at  Babylon, 
The  brazen  walls  fram'd  by  Semiramis, 
Carv'd  out  like  to  the  portal  of  the  svin. 
Shall  not  be  such  as  rings  the  English  strand 
From  Dover  to  the  market-place  of  Bye. 

Burd.  Is  this  possible  ? 

Miles.  I'll  bring  ye  two  or  three  witnesses. 

Burd.  What  be  those." 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  three  or  four  as  honest  devils 
and  good  companions  as  any  be  in  hell. 

Mason.  No  doubt  but  magic  may  do  much  in 
this; 
For  he  that  reads  but  mathematic  rules 
Shall  find  conclusions  that  avail  to  work 
Wonders  that  pass  the  common  sense  of  men. 

Burd.   But  Bacon    roves   a  bow  beyond    hia 
reach,! 
And  tells  of  more  than  magic  can  perform ; 
Thinking  to  get  a  fame  bj'  fooleries. 
Have  I  not  pass'd  as  far  in  state  of  schools, 
And  read  of  many  secrets  ?  yet  to  think 
That  heads  of  brass  can  utter  any  voice. 
Or  more,  to  tell  of  deep  philosophy ; 
This  is  a  fable  .SIsop  had  forgot. 

Bacon.  Burden,  thou  wrong'st  me  in  detracting 
thus ; 
Bacon  loves  not  to  stuff  himself  with  lies. 
But  tell-me,  'foi'e  these  doctors,  if  thou  dare. 
Of  certain  questions  I  shall  move  to  thee  ? 

Burd.  I  will  :   ask  what  thou  can. 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  he'll  straight  be  on  your 
pick-pack,^  to  know  whether  the  feminine  or  the 
masculine  gender  be  most  worthy. 

Bacon.  Were  you  not  yesterday.  Master  Bur- 
den, at  Henley-upon-the-Thames? 

Burd.  I  was  ;  what  then  ? 

Bacon.  What  book  studied  you  thereon  all  night? 

Burd.  I !  none  at  all ;  I  read  not  there  a  line. 

Bacon.  Then,  doctors.  Friar  Bacon's  art  knows 
naught. 

Clem.  What  say  you  to  this.  Master  Bui'den  ? 
Doth  he  not  touch  you  ? 

Burd.  I  passs  not  of  his  frivolous  speeches. 

Miles.  Nay,  Master  Burden,  my  master,  ere  ho 
hath  done  with  you,  will  turn  you  from  a  doctor 
to  a  dunce,  and  shake  you  so  small,  that  ho 
will  leave  no  more  learning  in  you  than  is  iu 
Balaam's  ass. 

Bacon.  Masters,  for  that  learn'd  Burden's  skill 
is  deep, 
And  sore  he  doubts  of  Bacon's  cabalism,* 
I'll  show  you  why  he  haunts  to  Henley  oft ; 
Not,  doctors,  for  to  taste  the  fragrant  air, 
But  there  to  spend  the  night  in  alchemy, 
To  multiply  with  secret  spells  of  art ; 
Thus  private  steals  he  learning  from  us  all. 
To  prove  my  sayings  true,  I'll  show  you  straight 
The  book  he  keeps  at  Henley  for  himself. 


*  roves  a  how,  <bc.  '  To  rove  a  bow  beyond  his  reach 
is  equivalent  to  the  proverbial  phrase  of  shooting  with 
a  long  bow:  the  bow  is  too  long  for  the  stretch  of  his 
arms.' — Editor  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plays.  Rove  meant  to 
shoot  an  arrow  at  an  elevation  for  a  distant  mark — not 
point-blank. 

2  pick-pack,  the  older  form  of  pick-a-back,  i.e.  earned 
like  a  pack  over  the  shoulder. 

3  pass — care  for,  or  regard. 

*  cabalism — secret  power.  Cabala  among  the  Jews 
was  a  method  of  inteipreting  the  hidden  meaning  of 
Scripture. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


8r 


Miles.  Nay,  now  my  master  goes  to  conjura- 
tion, take  heed. 

Bacon.  Masters, 
Btand  still,  fear  not,  I'll  sho-w  you  but  his  book. 

\_Conjures. 

Per  omnes  deos  irifernales,  Belcephon  !^ 

Enter  Hostess  tcith  a  shoulder  of  mutton  on  a 
spit,  and  a  Devil. 

Miles.  Oh,  master,  ceaso  your  conjuration,  or 
you  spoil  all ;  for  here's  a  she-devil  come  with  a 
shoulder  of  mutton  on  a  spit :  you  have  maiTed 
the  devil's  supper ;  but  no  doubt  he  thinks  our 
college  fare  is  slender,  and  so  hath  sent  you  his 
cook  with  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  to  make  it 
exceed. 

Hostess.  Oh,  wliere  am  I,  or  what's  become  of 
me.' 

Bacon.  What  art  thoix .' 

Hostess.  Hostess  at  Henley,  Mistress  of  the 
EcU. 

Bacon.  How  cam'st  thou  here .' 

Hostess.  As  I  was  in  the  kitchen  'mongst  the 
maids. 
Spitting  the  meat  'gainst  supper  for  my  guess,* 
A  motion  moved  me  to  look  forth  of  door : 
Ko  sooner  had  I  pried  into  the  yard. 
Eat  straight  a  whirlwind  hoisted  me  from  thence 
And  moimted  me  aloft  unto  the  clouds. 
As  in  a  trance  I  thought  nor  feared  naught, 
Nor  know  I  where  nor  whither  I  was  ta'en, 
Nor  whei'e  I  am,  nor  what  these  persons  be. 

Bacon.  No  ?  Know  you  not  Master  Burden  ? 

Hostess.   Oh  yes,    good    sir,    he   is  my  daily 

guest 

What !  Master  Burden  ;  'twas  but  yesternight 
That  you  and  I  at  Henley  play'd  at  cards. 

Burd.  I  know  not  what  we  did.  A  pox  of  all 
conjuring  friars ! 

t'/em.  Now,  jolly  friar,  tell  us,  is  this  the  book 
That  Burden  is  so  careful  to  look  on? 

Bacon.  It  is.    But,  Burden,  tell  nie  now, 
Think'st  thou  that  Bacon's  necromantic  skill 
Cannot  perfonn  his  head  and  wall  of  brass, 
When  he  can  fetch  thine  hostess  in  such  post  ?  ^ 

Miles.  I'll  warrant  you,  master,  if  Master  Bur- 
den could  conjure  as  well  as  you,  he  would  have 
his  book  every  night  from  Henley  to  study  on  at 
Oxford. 

Mason.  Burden, 
What !  are  you  mated  *  by  this  frolic  friar .' — 
Look  how  he  droops ;  his  guilty  conscience 
Drives  him  to  'bash,*  and  makes  his  hostess  blush. 

Bacon.  Well,  mistress,  for  I  will  not  have  you 
miss'd. 
You  shall  to  Henley  to  cheer  up  your  guests 
'Pore  supper  'gin.     Burden,  bid  her  adieu ; 
Say  farewell  to  your  hostess  'fore  she  goes. — 
Sirrah,  away,  and  set  her  safe  at  home. 

Hostess.  Master  Burden,  when  shall  we  see  you 
at  Henley  ? 

Burd.  The  devil  take  thee  and  Henley  too. 

\^Exeu7it  Hostess  and  Devil. 

Miles.  Mastei-,  shall  I  make  a  good  motion  ? 

Bacon.  What's  that  ? 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  now  that  my  hostess  is  gone 
to  provide  supper,  conjure  up  another  spirit,  and 
send  Doctor  Burden  flying  after. 

Bacon.  Thus,  rulers  of  our  academic  state. 
You  have  seen  the  friar  frame  his  art  by  proof  ; 
And  as  the  college  called  Brazen-nose 


*  '  By  all  the  infernal  deities,  Belcephon ! ' 

2  guess  was  often  used  for  guests  by  our  early  ■vyiiters, 
^  post — speed ;  post-haste  we  now  say. 

*  mated — confounded;  same  as  mate  in  checkmate. 

*  '6asA— abash ;  i.e.  to  feel  abashed  or  affronted. 


Is  under  him,  and  he  the  master  there. 
So  surely  shall  this  head  of  brass  be  fram'd. 
And  yield  forth  sti-ange  and  imcouth  aphorisms; 
And  hell  and  Hecate  shall  fail  the  friai-, 
But  I  will  circle  England  round  with  brass. 
Miles.  So  be  it  et  nunc  et  semjKr;^  amen. 

[_Exennt. 

Enter  Margaret  and  Joan  ;  Thomas,  Eichaud, 
and  other  Clowns ;  and  Lacy  disguised  in  country 
apparel. 

Thorn.  By  my  troth,  Margaret,  here's  a  weather 
is  able  to  make  a  man  call  his  father  'whoreson.' 
If  this  weather  hold,  we  shall  have  hay  good^ 
cheap,  and  butter  and  cheese  at  Harleston  will 
bear  no  price. 

Mar.  Thomas,  maids  v.'hen  they  come  to  see 
the  fair 
Count  not  to  make  a  cope  '  for  dearth  of  hay : 
AVhen  we  have  turn'd  our  butter  to  the  salt, 
And  set  our  cheese  safely  upon  the  racks. 
Then  let  our  fathers  prize  it  as  they  please. 
We  country  sluts  of  merry  Fressingfield 
Come  to  buy  needless  naughts  to  make  us  fine, 
And  look  that  youngmen  should  be  frank  this  day, 
And  court  us  with  such  fairings  as  they  can. 
PhcEbus  is  blythe,  and  frolic  looks  from  heaven, 
As  when  he  courted  lovelj^  Semele, 
Swearing  the  pedlars  shall  have  empty  packs, 
If  that  fair  weather  may  make  chapmen  buy. 

Lacy.  But,  lovely  Peggy,  Semele  is  dead. 
And  therefore  Pha3bus  from  his  palace  pries, 
And,  seeing  such  a  sweet  and  seemly  saint, 
Shows  all  his  glories  for  to  court  yourself. 

Mar.  This  is  a  fairing,  gentle  sir,  indeed, 
To  soothe  me  up  with  such  smooth  flattery ; 
But  learn  of  me,  your  scoff's  too  broad  before. — 
Well,  Joan,  our  beauties  must  abide  their  jests  ; 
We  serve  the  turn  in  jolly  Fressingfield. 

Joan.  Margaret, 
A  farmer's  daughter  for  a  farmer's  son : 
I  warrant  you,  the  meanest  of  us  both 
Shall  have  a  mate  to  lead  us  from  the  church. 

'[All  this  while  Lacy  whispers  Margaret 

in  the  ear. 

But,  Thomas,  what's  the  news?  what!  in  a  dump? 

Give  me  your  hand,  we  are  near  a  pedlar's  shop ; 

Out  with  your  purse,  we  must  have  fairings  now. 

Thorn.  Faith,  Joan,  and  shall:  I'll  bestow  a 
fairing  on  you ;  and  then  we  will  to  the  tavern, 
and  snap  off  a  pint  of  wine  or  two. 

Mar.  Whence  are  you,  sir? — of  Suffolk?  for 
your  terms 
Are  finer  than  the  common  sort  of  men. 

Lacy.  Faith,  lovely  girl,  I  am  of  Beccles  by. 
Your  neighbom-,  not  above  six  miles  from  hence, 
A  farmer's  son,  that  never  was  so  quaint 
But  that  he  could  do  courtesy  to  such  dames. 
But  trust  me,  Margaret,  I  am  sent  in  charge 
From  him  that  revell'd  in  your  father's  house, 
And  fill'd  his  lodge  with  cheer  and  venison, 
'Tired  in  green :  he  sent  you  this  rich  i^urse, 
His  token  that  he  help'd  you  run  your  cheese. 
And  in  the  milkhouse  chatted  with  yourself. 

Mar.  To  me  ?     You  forget  yourself. 

Lacy.  Women  are  often  weak  in  memory. 

Mar.  Oh,  pardon,  sir,  I  call  to  mind  the  man : 
'Twere  little  manners  to  refuse  his  gift. 
And  yet  I  hope  he  sends  it  not  for  love  ; 
For  we  have  little  leisure  to  debate  of  that. 

Joan.  What!  Margaret,  blush  not:  maids  must 
have  their  loves. 


1  'both  now  and  ever.' 

2  good — very. 

2  cope — a  bargain  or  purchase ;  from  same  root  as  chop, 
cheap,  chap. 


82 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Tliom.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  she  looks  pale  as  if 
she  were  augry. 

Rich.  Sirrah,  are  yoii  of  Beccles  ?  I  pray,  how 
doth  goodman  Cob  ?  My  father  bought  a  horse  of 
him. — I'U  tell  you,  Margaret,  'a^  were  good  to  be 
a  gentleman's  jade;  for  of  all  things  the  foul  hild- 
ing  2  coiild  not  abide  a  dung-cart. 

Mar.  [asi(£e.]  How  different  is  this  farmer  from 
the, rest, 
That  erst^  as  yet  have  pleas'd  my  wandering  sight ! 
His  words  are  witty,  quicken VI  with  a  sniile,^ 
His  courtesy  gentle,  smelling  of  the  court; 
Facile  and  debonair  in  all  his  deeds  ; 
Proportion'd  as  was  Paris,  when  in  grey  * 
He  courted  CEnou  in  the  vale  by  Troy. 
Great  lords  have  come  and  pleaded  for  my  love  : 
Who  but  the  Keep'r's  lass  of  Pressiugfiekl.^ 
And  yet  methiuks  this  farmer's  jolly  son 
Passeth  the  proudest  that  hath  pleas'd  mine  eye. 
But,  Peg,  disclose  not  that  thou  art  in  love, 
And  show  as  yet  no  sign  of  love  to  him, 
Although  thou  well  wouldst  wish  him  for  thj' 

love: 
Keep  that  to  thee  till  time  doth  serve  thy  turn. 
To  show  the  grief  wherein  thy  heart  doth  bum. — 
Come,  Joan  and  Thomas,  shall  we  to  the  fair  ? — 
You,  Beccles  man,  will  not  forsake  us  now  ? 

Lacy.  Not  whilst  I  may  have  such  quaint* 
girls  as  you.  [held. 

Mar.  Well,  if  you  chance  to  come  by  Fressing- 
Make  but  a  step  into  the  Keeper's  lodge. 
And  such  poor  fare  as  woodmen  can  afford, 
Butter  and  cheese,  cream  and  fat  venison, 
You  shall  have  store,  and  welcome  therewithal. 

Lacy.  Gramercies,6  Peggy ;  look  for  me  ere  long. 

\Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Henry  the  Third,  ilie  Emperor,  the 
King  of  Castile,  Elinor,  and  Vandermast. 

K.  Hen.  Great  men  of  Europe,  monarchs  of  the 
west, 
Eing'd  with  the  walls  of  old  Oceanus, 
Whose  lofty  surges '  like  the  battlements 
That  compass'd  high-built  Babel  in  with  towers. 
Welcome,  my  lords,  welcome,  brave  western  kings. 
To  England's  shore,  whose  promontory-cleeves  * 
Show  Albion  is  another  little  world ; 
Welcome  says  English  Henry  to  you  all ; 
Chiefly  unto  the  lovely  Elinor, 
Who  dar'd  for  Edward's  sake  cut  through  the  seas, 
And  ventiu-e  as  Agenor's  damsel  through  the  deep. 
To  get  the  love  of  Henry's  wanton  son. 

K.  of  Cast.   England's   rich    monarch,   brave 
Plantagenet, 
The  Pyren  Mounts  swelling  above  the  clouds, 
That  ward  the  wealthy  Castile  in  with  walls, 
Could  not  detain  the  beauteous  Elinor ; 
But  hearing  of  the  farue  of  Edward's  youth, 
She  dar'd  to  brook  Neptunus'  haughty  pride, 
And  bide  the  brunt  of  froward  .35olus : 
Then  may  fair  England  welcome  her  the  more. 


1  'a — he. 

^  hilding — abase,  menial  ■\vrctch,  a  term  of  contempt 
often  used  by  old  writers;  possibly  from  hinderling, 
a  provincial  word  signifying  degenerate,  or  from  Anglo- 
Saxon,  hyldan,  to  bend. 

^  erst  generally  means  formerly,  but  is  here  equivalent 
to  ere,  or  hitlierto. 

■•  grey  '  was  the  phrase  for  a  homely  shepherd's  garb,' 
equivalent  to  the  Scotch  homespun  "hodden  grey."' 

— Rev.  J.  MiTFORD. 

*  quaint,  which,  according  to  some,  comes  from  old 
Fr.  coint,  pretty,  affable,  Lat.  comptvs,  trimmed,  here 
means,  trim,  neat. 

^  Gramercies,  from  Fr.  grande  merci,   means,   many 
thanlcs,  much  obliged. 
'  This,  perhaps,  sliould  be  surge  is. 

•  promontory-cleeves — See  note  2,  p.  79, 1st  col. 


Elm.  After  that  English  Henry  by  his  lords 
Had  sent  Prince  Edward's  lovely  counterfeit,' 
A  present  to  the  Castile  Elinor, 
The  comely  portrait  of  so  brave  a  man. 
The  virtuous  fame  discoursed  of  his  deeds, 
Edward's  courageous  resolution. 
Done  at  the  Holy  Land  'fore  Damas'  walls, 
Led  both  mine  eye  and  thoughts  in  equal  links, 
To  like  so  of  the  English  monarch's  son, 
That  I  attempted  perils  for  his  sake. 

Emp.  Where  is  the  prince,  my  lord  ? 

K.  Hen.  He  posted  down,  not  long  since,  from 
the  court. 
To  Suffolk  side,  to  merry  Framlingham, 
To  sport  himself  amongst  my  fallow  deer: 
From  thence,  by  packets  sent  to  Hampton  House, 
We  hear  the  prince  is  ridden,  with  his  lords, 
To  Oxford,  in  the  acaddmy  there 
To  hear  dispute  amongst  the  learned  men. 
But  we  will  send  forth  letters  for  my  son, 
To  will  him  come  from  Oxford  to  the  court. 

Emp.  Nay,  rather,  Henry,  let  us,  as  we  be, 
Eide  for  to  visit  Oxford  with  our  train. 
Fain  would  I  see  your  universities, 
And  what  learn'd  men  your  academy  yields. 
From  Hapsburg  have  1  brought  a  learned  clerk 
To  hold  dispute  with  English  orators : 
This  doctor,  surnam'd  Jacques  Vandermast, 
A  German  born,  pass'd  into  Padua, 
To  Florence  and  to  fair  Bologna, 
To  Paris,  Eheims,  and  stately  Orleans, 
And,  talking  there  with  men  of  art,  put  down 
The  chiefest  of  them  all  in  aphorisms, 
111  magic,  and  the  mathematic  rules  : 
Now  let  us,  Henry,  try^him  in  your  schools. 

K.  Hen.  He  shall,  my  lord;  this  motion  likes 
me  well. 
We'U  progress  straight  to  Oxford  with  our  trains, 
And  see  what  men  our  academy  brings. — 
And,  wonder  Vandermast,  welcome  to  me: 
In  Oxford  shaft  thou  find  a  jolly  friar, 
Call'd  Friar  Bacon,  England's  only  flower: 
Set  him  but  nonplus  in  his  magic  spells. 
And  make  him  yield  in  mathematic  rules, 
And  for  thy  glory  I  will  bind  thy  brows, 
Not  with  a  poet's  garland  made  of  bays. 
But  with  a  coronet  of  choicest  gold. 
Whilst'"'  then  we  set  to  Oxford  with  our  troops, 
Let's  in  and  banquet  in  our  English  court. 

[Exeunt, 

Enter  Ealph  Simnell  in  Prince  Edward's 
apparel;  and  Prince  Edward,  Warren, 
and  Ermsby,  disguised. 

Ralph.  Where  be  these  vagabond  knaves,  that 
they  attend  no  better  on  their  master .' 

P.  Edio.  If  it  please  your  honour,  we  are  all 
ready  at  an  inch. 

Ralph.  Sirrah  Ned,  I'll  have  no  more  post- 
horse  to  ride  on :  I'll  have  another  fetch.s 

Erms.  I  pray  you,  how  is  that,  my  lord  ? 

Ralph.  MaiTy,  sir,  I'll  send  to  the  Isle  of  Ely 
for  four  or  five  dozen  of  geese,  and  I'll  have  them 
tied  six  and  six  together  with  whip-cord:  now 
upon  their  backs  will  I  have  a  fair  field-bed  with 
a  canopy ;  and  so,  when  it  is  my  pleasure,  I'll 
flee  into  what  place  I  please.     This  will  be  easy. 

War.  Your  honour  hath  said  well:  but  shall 
we  to  Brazen-nose  College  before  we  pull  off  our 
boots  ? 

Erms.  Warren,  well  motion'd ;  we  will  to  the 
friar 
Before  we  revel  it  within  the  town. — 


1  counterfeit — portrait. 

-  Whilst,  i&c. — Until  we  set  out. 

3  fetch — stratagem  or  contrivance. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


83 


Kalpli,  see  you  keep  your  countenance  liko  a 
prince. 

Ralph.  "Wherefore  have  I  such  a  company  of 
cutting  I  knaves  to  wait  upon  me,  but  to  keep  and 
defend  my  countenance  against  all  mine  enemies? 
Have  you  not  good  swords  and  bucklers  ? 

Erms.  Stay,  who  comes  here  ? 

War.  Some  scholar  ;  and  we'll  ask  him  where 
Friar  Bacon  is. 

Enter  Friar  Bacon  and  Miles. 

Bacon.  Why,  thou  arrant  dunce,  shall  I  never 
make  thee  a  good  scholar .''  Doth  not  all  the 
town  cry  out  and  say.  Friar  Bacon's  siibsizer  is 
the  greatest  blockhead  in  all  Oxford  ?  Why,  thou 
canst  not  speak  one  word  of  true  Latin. 

Jliles.'No,  sir?  yet,  what  is  this  else?  Ego 
sum  tuus  homo,  '  I  am  your  man : '  I  warrant  you, 
sir,  as  good  Tully's  phrase  as  any  is  in  Oxford. 

Bacon.  Come  on,  sirrah ;  what  part  of  speech 
is  Ego? 

Miles.  Ego,  that  is  'I ; '  marry,  nomen  substantivo." 

Bacon.  How  prove  you  that  ? 

Miles.  Why,  sir,  let  him  prove  himself  an  a^ 
will,  I  can  be  heard,  felt,  and  understood. 

Bacon.  0  gross  dunce !  [Becds  hivi. 

P.  Edio.  Come,  let  us  break  off  this  dispute 
between  these  two. — Sirrah,  where  is  Brazen- 
nose  College  ? 

Miles.  Not  far  from  Coppersmith's  Hall. 

P.  Edw.  What !  dost  thou  mock  me  ? 

Miles.  Not  I,  sir;  but  what  would  you  at 
Brazen-nose  ? 

Erms.  Marry,  we  would  speak  with  Friar  Bacon. 

Miles.  Whose  men  be  j'ou  ? 

Erms.  Marry,  scholar,  here's  our  master. 

Ralph.  Sirrah,  I  am  the  master  of  these  good 
fellows;  mayst  thou  not  know  me  to  be  a  lord 
by  my  reparrel  ?  * 

Miles.  Then  hei'e's  good  game  for  the  hawk ; 
for  here's  the  master-fool  and  a  covey  of  cox- 
combs. One  wise  man,  I  think,  would  spring  you 
aU. 

P.  Edw.  Gog's  wounds  !  Warren,  kill  him. 

War.  Why,  Ned,  I  think  the  devil  be  in  my 
sheath ;  I  cannot  get  out  my  dagger. 

Erms.  Nor  I  mine.  Swones,^  Ned,  I  think  I 
am  bewitched. 

Miles.  A  company  of  scabs  !^  the  proudest  of 
you  all  draw  your  weapon,  if  he  Q,sin.—\_Aside.'] 
See  how  boldly  I  speak,  now  my  master  is  by. 

P.  Edw.  I  strive  in  vain;    but  if  my  sword 
be  shut 
And  conjui-'d  fast  by  magic  in  my  sheath, 
Villain,  here  is  my  fist. 

\_Strikes  Miles  a  hox  on  the  ear. 

Miles.  Oh,  I  beseech  you  conjure  his  hands  too, 
that  he  may  not  lift  his  arms  to  his  head,  for  he 
is  light-fingered ! 

Ralp)h.  Ned,  strike  him ;  I'll  warrant  thee  by 
mine  honoui*. 

Bacon.  What!  means  the  English  prince  to 
wrong  my  man  ? 

P.  Edw.  To  whom  speak'st  thou? 

Bacon.  To  thee. 

P.  Edw.  Who  art  thou  ? 

Bacon.  Could  you  not  judge  when  all  your 
swords  grew  fast. 
That  Friar  Bacon  was  not  far  from  hence  ? 
Edward,  King  Henry's  son  and  Prince  of  Wales, 


1  cutting — swaggering.         -  'Noun  substantive.' 

2  an  a — if  he.  *  reparrel — apparel. 

*  &v:one%  or  zwounds,  and  Gog's  wounds^  both  mean 
the  same  thing,  viz.  God's  wounds,  a  common  form  of 
oath  in  Greene's  time. 

«  See  note  2,  p.  78,  2d  col. 


Thy  fool  disguis'd  cannot  conceal  thyself: 
I  know  both  Ermsby  and  the  Sussex  Earl, 
Else  Friar  Bacon  had  but  little  skill. 
Thou  com'st  in  post  from  mei'ry  Fressingfield, 
Fast-fancied''  to  the  Keeper's  bonny  lass, 
To  crave  some  succour  of  the  jolly  friar : 
And  Lacy,  Earl  of  Lincoln,  hast^thou  left 
To  treat-  fair  Margaret  to  allow  thy  loves; 
But  friends  are  men,  and  love  can  bailie  lords; 
The  earl  both  woos  and  courts  her  for  himself. 

War.  Ned,  this  is  strange;  the  friar  knoweth  all. 

Erms.  Apollo  could  not  utter  more  than  this. 

P.  Edw.  I  stand  amaz'd  to  hear  this  jolly  friar 
Tell  even  the  very  secrets  of  my  thoughts. — 
But,  learned  Bacon,  since  thou  know'st  the  cause 
Why  I  did  post  so  fast  from  Fressingfield, 
Help,  friar,  at  a  pinch,  that  I  may  have 
The  love  of  lovely  Margaret  to  myself, 
And,  as  I  am  true  Prince  of  Wales,  I'll  give 
Living  and  lands  to  strength  thy  college-state.' 

War.  Good  friar,  help  the  prince  in  this. 

Ralph.  Why,  servant  Ned,  will  not  the  friar  do 
it  ?  Were  not  my  sword  glued  to  my  scabbard 
by  conjuration,  I  would  cut  off  his  head,  and 
make  him  do  it  by  force. 

Miles.  In  faith,  my  lord,  your  manhood  and 
your  sword  is  all  alike;  they  are  so  fast  conjured 
that  we  shall  never  see  them. 

Erms.  What!  doctor,  in  a  dump!   tush,  help 
the  prince. 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  liberal  he  will  prove. 

Bacon.  Crave  not  such  actions  greater  dumps 
than  these  ? 
I  will,  my  lord,  strain  out  my  magic  spells  ; 
For  this  day  comes  the  earl  to  Fressingfield, 
And  'fore  that  night  shuts  in  the  day  with  dark, 
They'll  be  betrothed  each  to  other  fast. 
But  come  with  me ;  we'll  to  my  study  straight, 
And  in  a  glass  prospective  I  will  show 
What's  done  this  day  in  merry  Fressingfield. 

P.  Ediv.  Gramercies,  Bacon ;  I  will  quite  thy  pain. 

Bacon.  But  send  your  train,  my  lord,  into  the 
town: 
My  scholar  shall  go  bring  them  to  their  inn ; 
Meanwhile  we'll  see  the  knavery  of  the  earl. 

P.  Edw.    Warren,   leave  me: — and,   Ermsby, 
take  the  fool ; 
Let  him  be  master,  and  go  revel  it, 
Till  I  and  Friar  Bacon  talk  awhile. 

War.  We  will,  my  lord. 

Ralph.  Faith,  Ned,  and  I'll  lord  it  out  till  thou 
comest.  I'll  be  Prince  of  Wales  'over  all  the 
black-pots  in  Oxford. 

\_Exeunt  Warren,  Ermsby,  Balph  Simnell, 
and  Miles. 

Friar  Bacon  and  Prince  Edavard  go  into  the 

study. 

Bacon.  Now,  frolic*  Edward,  welcome  to  my 
cell; 
Here  tempers  Friar  Bacon  many  toys. 
And  holds  this  jjlace  his  consistory-court. 
Wherein  the  devils  plead  homage  to  his  words. 
Within  this  glass  prospective  thou  shalt  see 
This  day  what's  done  in  merry  Fressingfield 
'Twixt  lovely  Peggy  and  the  Lincoln  Earl. 
P.  Edii).    Friar,    thou  glad'st  me :  now  shall 
Edward  try 
How  Lacy  meaneth  to  his  sovereign  lord. 
Bacon.  Stand  there  and  look  directly  in  the 
glass. 


1  Fast-fancied — held  fast  by  fancy. 
-  treat — entreat. 

3  thy  college-state — probably  means   the  state  of  thy 
college. 
*  frolic — gay,  merry ;  Ger.  frohlkh — gay,  joyful. 


84 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Enter  Maegaeet  and  Feiar  Buxgay. 

What  sees  my  lord  ? 

P.  Echo.  I  see  the  Keepei-'s  lovely  Inss  appear, 
As  brightsome  as  the  paramour '  of  Mars, 
Only  attended  by  a  jolly  friar. 

Bacon.  Sit  still,  and  keep  the  crystal  in  your 
eye. 

Mar.  But  tell  me,  Friar  Bungay,  is  it  true  - 
That  this  fair  courteous  country  swain, 
Who  says  his  father  is  a  farmer  nigh. 
Can  be  Lord  Lacy,  Earl  of  Lincolnshire  ? 

Bun.  Peggy,  'tis  true,  'tis  Lacy  for  my  life, 
Or  else  mine  art  and  cunning  both  do  fail. 
Left  by  Prince  Edward  to  procure  his  loves  ; 
For  he  in  green,  that  holp  you  run  your  cheese. 
Is  son  to  Henry,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Mar.  Be  what  he  will,  his  lure  is  but  for  lust: 
But  did  Lord  Lacy  like  poor  Margaret, 
Or  would  he  deign  to  wed  a  country  lass, 
Friar,  I  would  his  humble  handmaid  be. 
And  for  great  wealth  quite  ^  him  with  courtesy. 

Bun.  Why,  Margaret,  dost  thou  love  him  ? 

Mar.  His  personage,  like  the  pride  of  vaunting 
Troy, 
Might  well  avouch*  to  shadow  Helen's  rape :  * 
His  wit  is  quick  and  ready  in  conceit. 
As  Greece  afforded  in  her  chiefest  prime : 
Courteous,  ah  friar,  full  of  pleasing  smiles ! 
Trust  me,  I  love  too  much  to  tell  thee  more ; 
Suffice  to  me  he's  England's  paramour. 

Bun.  Hath  not  each  eye  that  view'd  thy  pleas- 
ing face 
Surnamfed  thee  Fair  Maid  of  Fressingfield? 

Mar.  Yes,  Bungay;  and  would  God  the  lovely 
earl 
Had  that  in  esse  that  so  many  sought. 

Bun.  Fear  not,  the  friar  will  not  be  behind 
To  show  his  cunning  to  entangle  love. 

P.  Edio.  I   think  the  friar  courts  the  bonny 
wench : 
Bacon,  methinks  he  is  a  lusty  churl. 

Bacon.  Now  look,  my  lord. 

Enter  Lacy  disguised  as  bejbre. 

P.   Edw.   Gog's  wounds,   Bacon,  here  comes 
Lacy ! 

Bacon.  Sit  still,  my  lord,  and  mark  the  comedy. 

Bun.  Here's  Lacy,  Margaret;  step  aside  awhile. 
\_Retires  with  Margaret. 

Lacy.  Daphne,  the  damsel  that  caught  Pho3bus 
fast. 
And  lock'd  him  in  the  brightness  of  her  looks, 
Was  not  so  beauteous  in  Apollo's  eyes 
As  is  fair  Mai-garet  to  the  Lincoln  Earl. 
Eecant  thee,  Lacy,  thou  art  put  in  trust : 
Edward,  thy  sovereign's  son,  hath  chosen  thee, 
A  secret  friend,  to  court  her  for  himself. 
And  dar'st  thou  wrong  thy  prince  with  treachei'y  ? 
Lacy,  love  makes  no  exception  of  a  friend, 
Nor  deems  it  of  a  prince  but  as  a  man. 
Honour  bids  thee  control  him  in  his  lust ; 
His  wooing  is  not  for  to  wed  the  girl. 
But  to  entrap  her  and  beguile  the  lass. 
Lacy,  thou  lov'st,  then  brook  not  such  abuse. 
But  wed  hex-,  and  abide  thy  prince's  frown  ; 
For  better  die  than  see  her  life  disgrac'd. 


>  paramour  of  Mars — i.  e.  Venus. 

2  'What  passes  between  Bungay  and  Margaret,  and 
afterwards  with  Lacy,  must  have  been  represented  on 
a  sort  of  inner  stage,  or  perhaps  at  the  back  of  the 
stage,  while  Edward  and  Bacon  were  in  front,  looking 
at  them  in  the  "glass  perspective.'"  —  Dodsley's  Old 
Plays  (ed.  1825). 

3  quite — requite.  ■•  avouch — answer. 
*  rape — another  reading  is  '  cape.' 


il/a?'.  Come,  friar,  I  will  shake  him  from  hia 
dumps. —  [Comes  for  Lcard. 

How  cheer  you,  sir?  a  penny  for  your  thought. 
You're  early  up,  pray  God  it  be  the  near.' 
What !  come  from  Beccles  in  a  morn  so  soon  ? 

Lacy.  Thus  watchful  are  such  men  as  live  in 
love. 
Whose  ej'es  brook  broken  slumbers  for  their 

sleep. 
I  tell  thee,  Peggy,  since  last  Harleston  fair 
My  mind  hath  felt  a  heap  of  passions. 

Mar.   A  trusty  man,  that   court  it  for  your 
friend : 
Woo  you  still  for  the  courtier  all  in  gi-een  ? 
I  marvel  that  he  sues  not  for  himself. 

Lacy.  Peggy, 
I  pleaded  first  to  get  your  grace  for  him ; 
But  when  mine  eyes  survey'd  your  beauteous 

looks, 
Love,  like  a  wag,  straight  div'd  into  my  heart, 
And  there  did  shrine  the  idea  of  yourself. 
Pity  me,  though  I  be  a  farmer's  son. 
And  measure  not  my  riches,  but  my  love. 

Mar.  You  are  veiy  hasty,  for  to  garden  well. 
Seeds    must  have  time  to   sprout  before   they 

spring. 
Love  ought  to  creep  as  doth  the  dial's  shade, 
For  timely-  ripe  is  i-otten  too-too  soon. 

Bun.  Deus  hie ;'^  room  for  a  merry  friar! 
What !  youth  of  Beccles,  with  the  Keeper's  lass  ? 
'Tis  well ;  but  tell  me,  hear  you  any  news  ? 

Ma7\  No,  friar ;  what  news  ? 

Bun.  Hear  you  not  how  the  pursuivants  do 
post 
With  proclamations  through  each  country-town  ? 

Lacy.  For  what,  gentle  friar  ?  Tell  the  news. 

Bu7i.  Dwell'st  thou  in  Beccles,  and  hear'st  not 
of  these  news  ? 
Lacy,  the  Earl  of  Lincoln  is  late  fled 
From  Windsor  court,  disguised  like  a  swain, 
And  lurks  about  the  country  here  unknown. 
Henry  suspects  him  of  some  treachery. 
And  therefore  doth  pi-oclaim  in  every  way. 
That  who  can  take  the  Lincoln  Earl  shall  have. 
Paid  in  the  exchequer  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Lacy.  The  Earl  of  Lincoln!   Friai-,  thou  art 
mad: 
It  was  some  other ;  thou  mistak'st  the  man. 
The  Earl  of  Lincoln !  why,  it  cannot  be. 

Mar.  Yes,  very  well,  my  lord,  for  you  are  he : 
The  Keeper's  daughter  took  you  prisoner. 
Lord  Lacy,  yield,  I'll  be  your  gaoler  once. 

P.  Edw.  How  familiar  they  be.  Bacon ! 

Bacon.  Sit  stOl,  and  mark  the  sequel  of  their 
loves. 

Lacy.  Then  am  I  double  prisoner  to  thyself. 
Peggj'',  I'  yield.     But  are  these  news  in  jest .' 

Mar.  In  jest  "with  you,  but  earnest  unto  me  ; 
For  why*  these  wrongs  do  wring  me  at  tho 

heart. 
Ah,  how  these  earls  and  noblemen  of  birth 
Flatter  and  feign  to  forge  i^oor  women's  ill ! 

Lacy.  Believe  me,  lass,  I  am  the  Lincoln  Earl : 
I  not  deny,  but,  'tir^d  thus  in  rags, 
I  liv'd  disguis'd  to  win  fair  Peggy's  love. 

Mar.  What  love  is  there  where  wedding  ends 
not  love .' 

Lacy.  1  meant,  fair  girl,  to  make  thee  Lacy's 
wife. 

Mar.  1  little  think  that  earls  will  stoop  so  low. 


1  i'ou're  early  vp,  pray  God  it  be  the  near — near,  i.e. 
nearer.  Dyce  thinks  this  an  allusion  to  the  proverb, 
'  Early  up  and  never  the  nearer.' 

■■2  timely— early.  *  '  God  be  here.' 

4  y.\)r  why — becauf  s. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


85 


Lac;/.  Say  sliall  I  make  thee  countess  ere  I 
6leep  ? 

Mar.  Handmaid  unto  the  earl,  so  please  him- 
self: 
A  wife  in  name,  but  servant  in  obedience. 

Lacy.  The  Lincoln  Countess,  for  it  shall  be  so. 
I'll  plight  the  bands,  and  seal  it  with  a  kiss. 

P.  Edic.  Gog's  wounds,  Bacon,  they  kiss !    I'll 
stab  them. 

Bacon.  Oh,  hold  your  hands,  my  lord,  it  is  the 
glass ! 

P.  Echo.  Choler  to  see  the 'traitors  gree  so  well 
Made  me  [to]  think  the  shadows  substances. 

Bacon.    Twere   a  long  poniard,  my  lord,   to 
reach  between 
Oxford  and  Fressingfield ;   but  sit  still  and  see 
more. 

Bun.  Well,  Lord  of  Lincoln,  if  your  loves  be 
knit, 
And  that  your  tongues  and  thoughts  do  both 

agree. 
To  avoid  ensuing  jars,  I'll  hamper  up  the  match. 
I'll  take  my  portace '  forth  and  wed  you  here  : 
Then  go  to  bed  and  seal  up  your  desires. 

Lacy.  Friar,    content. — Peggy,  how  like  you 
this .» 

Mar.  What  likes  my  lord  is  pleasing  unto  me. 

Bun.  Then  hand-fast  hand,  and  I  will  to  my 
book. 

Bacon.  What  sees  my  lord  now .' 

P.  Edw.  Bacon,  I  see  the  lovers  hand  in  hand. 
The  friar  ready  with  his  portace  there 
To  wed  them  both :  then  am  I  quite  imdone. 
Bacon,  help  now,  if  e'er  thy  magic  serv'd ; 
Help,  Bacon  ;  stop  the  marriage  now. 
If  devils  or  necromancy  may  suffice, 
And  I  will  give  thee  forty  thousand  crowns. 

Bacon.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  I'll  stop  the  jolly  friar 
For  mumbling  up  his  orisons  this  day. 

Lacy.  Why  speak'st  not,  Bungay?    Friar,  to 
thy  book. 

[Bungay  is  mute,  crying  '  Hud,  hud.' 

Mar.  How  look'st  thou,  friar,  as  a  man  dis- 
ti-aught .' 
Heft  of  thy  senses,  Bungay  ?  show  by  signs. 
If  thou  be  dumbj  what  passion  holdeth  thee. 

Lacy.  He's  dumb  indeed.    Bacon  hath   with 
his  devils 
Enchanted  him,  or  else  some  strange  disease 
Or  apoplexy  hath  possess'd  his  lungs : 
But,  Peggy,  what  he  cannot  with  his  book. 
We'll  'twixt  us  both  unite  it  up  in  heart. 

Mar.  Else  let  me  die,  my  lord,  a  miscreant. 

P.  Edw.  Why  stands  Friar  Bungay  so  amaz'd  ? 

Bacon.  I  have  struck  him   dumb,   my  lord; 
and,  if  your  honour  please, 
m  fetch  this  Bungay  straightway  from  Fress- 

ingfield. 
And  he  shall  dine  with  us  in  Oxford  here. 

P.  Edia.  Bacon,  do  that,  and  thou  contentest  me. 

Lacy.   Of  courtesy,  Margaret,  let  us  lead  the 
friar 
Unto  thy  father's  lodge,  to  comfort  him 
With   broths,  to  bring  him  from  this  hapless 
trance. 

Mar.  Or  else,  my  lord,  we  were  passing  unkind 
To  leave  the  friar  so  in  his  distress. 

Enter  a  Devil,  who  carries  q^  Bungay  on  his  lacTc. 

Oh,  help,  my  lord!  a  devil,  a  devil,  my  lord! 
Look  how  he  carries  Bungay  on  his  back ! 
Let's  hence,  for  Bacon's  spirits  be  abroad. 

[Exit  with  Lacy. 


'  portace,  also  portasse,  portesse,  porthose,  etc.— port- 
able prayer-book  or  breviary. 


P.  Edw.  Bacon,  I  laugh  to  see  the  jolly  friar 
Moimted  upon  the  devil,  and  how  the  earl 
Flees  with  his  bonny  lass  for  fear. 
As  soon  as  Bungay  is  at  Brazen-nose, 
And  I  have  chatted  with  the  merry  friar, 
I  will  in  post  hie  me  to  Fressiugfleld, 
And  'quite  these  wrongs  on  Lacy  ere't  be  long. 

Bacon.  So  be  it,  my  lord :  but  let  us  to  our 
dinner ; 
For  ere  we  have  taken  our  repast  awhile, 
We  shall  have  Bungay  brought  to  Brazen-nose. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Burdex,  Mason,  and  Clement. 

Mason.  Now  that  we  are  gather'd  in  the  Re- 
gent house, 
It  fits  us  talk  aliout  the  king's  repair, 
For  he,  trooped  with  all  the  western  kings, 
That  lie  alongst  the  Dantzic  seas  by  east, 
North  by  the  clime  of  frosty  Germany, 
The  Almaiu  monarch,  and  the  Saxon '  duke, 
Castile  and  lovely  Elinor  with  him. 
Have  in  their  jests-  resolv'd  for  Oxford  town. 

Burd.  We  must  lay  plots  of  stately  tragedies, 
Strange  comic  shows,  such  as  proud  Eoscius 
Vaunted  before  the  Roman  emperors. 

Clem.  To  welcome  all  the  western  potentates. 
But  more ;  the  king  by  letters  hath  foretold 
That  Frederick,  the  Almain  emperor. 
Hath  brought  with  him  a  German  of  esteem. 
Whose  surname  is  Don  Jaques  Vandermast, 
Skilful  in  magic  and  those  secret  arts. 

Mason.  Then  must  we  all  make  suit  unto  the 
friar. 
To  Friar  Bacon,  that  he  vouch  3  this  task. 
And  undertake  to  countervail  in  skill 
The  German;  else  there's  none  in  Oxford  can 
Match  and  dispute  with  learned  Vandermast. 

Burd.  Bacon,  if  he  will  hold  the  German  play, 
Will  teach  him  what  an  English  friar  can  do : 
The  devil,  I  thinlc,  dare  not  dispute  with  him. 

Clem.  Indeed,  Mas*  doctoi",  he  [dis]pleasur'd 
you. 
In  that  he  brought  your  hostess  with  her  spit, 
From  Henley,  posting  unto  Brazen-nose. 

Burd.  A  vengeance  on  the  friar  for  his  pains  ! 
But  leaving  that,  let's  hie  to  Bacon  straight,  , 
To  see  if  he  will  take  this  task  in  hand. 

Clem.  Stay,  what  rumour  is  this  ?     The  town 
is  up  in  a  mutiny :  what  hurly-burly  is  this  .' 
Enter  a  Constable,  with  Ralph  Simnell,  War- 

RE>f,  Erjisby,  all  three  disguised  as  before,  and 

Miles. 

Cons.  Nay,  masters,  if  you  were  ne'er  so  good, 
you  shall  before  the  doctors  to  answer  your  mis- 
demeanour. 

Burd.  What's  the  matter,  fellow  ? 

Cons.  Marry,  sir,  here's  a  company  of  rufflers,* 
that,  drinking  in  the  tavern,  have  made  a  great 
brawLand  almost  killed  the  vintner. 

3Rles.  Salve,^  Doctor  Burden ! 
This  lubberly  lurden," 


1  Saxon.    'Scocon' is  the  common  reading. 

-  jests  or  gests.  '  In  the  time  of  the  royal  progresses, 
the  Icing's  stages,  as  we  may  see  by  the  journals  of  tliem 
in  the  herald's  office,  were  called  his  gests,  from  the  old 
Fr.  word  giste,  diversorium.'— Nakes.  It  may  possibly, 
however,  mean  here  merely  doings,  from  Lat.  gero, 
gestum,  to  do. 

3  voitch — to  maintain,  undertake;  literally,  to  call 
upon,  to  defend. 

4  .j/rts— probably  an  abbreviation  for  Master. 

5  riiffler—a,  disturber,  a  lawless  violent  person. 
«  'Piail.' 

'  lurden  or  loiirden—a,  heavy,  lumpish,  lazy  fellow; 
Fr.  lourd,  heavy,  dull. 


86 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


lU-shap'd  and  ill-fac'd, 
Disdain'd  and  disgrac'd, 
What  he  tells  unto  vohis ' 
Mentitur  de  nobis. 

Burd.  Who  is  the  master  and  chief  of  this 
crew? 

Miles.  Ecce  asinum  mundi 
Figura  rotundi,^ 
Neat,  sheat,  and  fine, 
As  brisk  as  a  cup  of  wine. 

£u7'd.  What  are  you  ? 

Ralph.  I  am,  father  doctor,  as  a  man  would  say, 
the  bell-wether  of  this  company :  these  are  my 
lords,  and  I  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Clem.  Are  you  Edward,  the  king's  son  ? 

Ralph.  Sirrah  Miles,  bring  hither  the  tapster 
that  drew  the  wine,  and,  I  warrant,  when  they 
see  how  soundly  I  have  broke  his  head,  they'll 
Bay  'twas  done  by  no  less  man  than  a  prince. 

Mason.  I  cannot  believe  that  this  is  the  Prince 
of  Wales. 

War.  And  why  so,  sir  ? 

Mason.  For  they  say  the  prince  is  a  brave  and 
a  wise  gentleman. 

War.  Why,  and  think'st  thou,  doctor,  that  he 
is  not  so  ? 
Dar'st  thou  detract  and  derogate  from  him, 
Being  so  lovely  and  so  brave  a  youth  ? 

Erms.    Whose    face,    shining    with    many   a 
sugar'd  smile. 
Bewrays  that  he  is  bred  of  princely  race. 

Miles.  And  yet,  master  doctor, 
To  speak  like  a  proctor, 
And  tell  unto  you 
What  is  veriment  and  true ; 
To  cease  of  this  quarrel. 
Look  but  on  his  apparel ; 
Then  mark  but  my  talis, 
He  is  great  Prince  of  Walls, 
The  chief  of  our  gregis,^ 
Anijilius  regis :  * 
Then  'ware  what  is  done, 
For  he  is  Henry's  white  ^  son. 

Ralph.  Doctors,  whose  doting  nightcaps  are 
not  capable  of  my  ingenious  dignity,  know  that 
I  am  Edward  Plantagenet,  whom  if  you  dis- 
please, will  make  a  ship  that  shall  hold  all  your 
colleges,  and  so  carry  away  the  niniversity  with 
a  fair  wind  to  the  Bankside"  in  Southwark. — 
How  sayest  thou,  Ned  Warren,  shall  I  not  do  it  ? 

War.  Yes,  my  good  lord ;  and,  if  it  please  your 
lordship,  I  wUl  gather  up  all  your  old  pantofles,' 
and  with  the  cork  make  you  a  pinnace  of  five 
hundred  ton,  that  shall  serve  the  turn  marvellous 
well,  my  lord. 

Erms.  And  I,  my  lord,  will  have  pioneers 
to  undermine  the  town,  that  the  very  gardens 
and  orchards  be  carried  away  for  your  summer 
walks. 

Miles.  And  I,  with  scientia 
And  great  diligentia, 
Will  conjure  and  charm, 
To  keep  you  from  harm ; 
That  utrum  horum  mavis,^ 
Your  very  great  navis^^ 


*  voMs,  &c. — 'you  concerning  us  is  false.' 

2  '  Behold  the  ass  (with)  the  figure  of  the  round  world.' 

3  '  flock.'  *  '  son  of  the  king.' 

^  white  son.  White  was  formerly  used  as  a  term  of 
endearment. 

*  the  Bankside  was  a  part  of  the  turgh  of  Southwark, 
•where  were  once  four  public  theatres— the  Glohe,  the 
Swan,  the  Rose,  and  the  Hope;  it  was  also  a  noted 
haunt  of  fraU  women. 

'  pantofles — slippers ;  Fi".  pantovjle. 

*  '  Whichever  of  these  you  choose  or  prefer.' 

*  'ship.' 


Like  Barclay's  ship,"- 

From  Oxford  do  skip 

With  colleges  and  schools, 

Full-loaden  with  fools. 

Quid  diets  ad  hoc,- 

Worshipful  Domine  Dawcock .'  * 

Clem.   Why,   hare-brain'd   courtiers,  are  you 
drunk  or  mad. 
To  taunt  us  up  with  such  scurrility  ? 
Deem  you  us  men  of  base  and  light  esteem, 
To  bring  us  such  a  fop  for  Henry's  son  ? — 
Call  out  the  beadles  and  convey  them  hence 
Straight  to  Bocardo  :  ■»  let  the  roisters^  lie 
Close  clajot  in  bolts,  until  their  wits  be  tame. 

Erms.  Whj',  shall  we  to  prison,  my  lord  ? 

Ralph.  What  sayest,  Miles,  shall  I  honour  the 
prison  with  my  presence  ? 

Miles.  No,  no :  out  with  your  blades, 
And  hamper  these  jades ; 
Have  a  flurt"  and  a  crash. 
Now  play  i-evel-dash. 
And  teach  these  sacerdos 
That  the  Bocardos, 
Like  peasants  and  elves. 
Are  meet  for  themselves. 

Mason.  To  the  prison  with  them,  constable. 

War.  Well,  doctors,  seeing  I  have  sported  me 
With  laughing  at  these  mad  and  merry  wags, 
Know  that  Prince  Edward  is  at  Brazen-nose, 
And  this,  attired  like  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
Is  Ealph,  King  Henry's  only  lov^d  fool ; 
I,  Earl  of  Sussex,  and  this  Ermsby, 
One  of  the  privy  chamber  to  the  king; 
Who,  while  the  prince  with  Friar  Bacon  stays, 
Have  revell'd  it  in  Oxford  as  j'ou  see. 

Mason.  My  lord,  pardon  us,  we  knew  not  what 
you  were : 
But  courtiers  may  make  greater  'scapes   than 

these. 
Wilt  please  your  honour  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 

Wai:  I  will,  master  doctor,  and  satisfy  the 
vintner  for  his  hurt ;  only  I  must  desire  you  to 
imagine  him  all  this  forenoon  the  Prince  of 
Wales. 

Mason.  I  will,  sir. 

Ralph.  And  upon  that  I  will  lead  the  way; 
only  I  will  have  Miles  go  befoi-e  me,  because  I 
have  heard  Henry  saythat  wisdom  must  go  be- 
fore majesty.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Pkince  Edward  with  his  poniard  in  his 
hand,  Lacy,  and  Margaret. 

P.  Edw.    Lacy,   thou  canst  not  shroud  thy 

traitorous  thoughts. 
Nor  cover,  as  did  Cassius,  all  thy  wiles ; 
For  Edward  hath  an  eye  that  looks  as  far 
As  Lynceus  from  the  shores  of  Grascia. 
Did  not  I  sit  in  Oxford  by  the  friar. 
And  see  thee  court  the  maid  of  Fressingfield, 
Sealing  thy  flattering  fancies  with  a  kiss .' 
Did  not  proud  Bungay  draw  his  portace '  forth, 

1  Barclay's  ship.  The  common  reading  is  'Bartlet's 
ship'  It  is  probably  either  a  printer's  error,  or  Miles  is 
meant  to  err  from  ignorance.  Miles  alludes  to  Theshyp 
of  Folys  of  the  Worlde,  translated  out  of  Laien,  Frenche, 
and  Doche,  into  Enrjlysshe  Tonge,  by  Alexander  Barclay 
Preste.    London,  1509. 

2  '  What  say  you  to  that.' 

3  Domine  Dawcock.  An  expression  borrowed  from 
Skelton,  whose  style  is  here  imitated. — Dycb. 

■•  Bocardo  was  the  name  of  the  old  north  gate  of  Ox- 
ford, formerly  used  as  a  prison.  Dyce  thinks  it  was  so 
called  from  some  allusion  to  the  Aristotelian  syllogism 
in  Bocardo. 

5  roisters — wild,  lawless,  roystering  fellows;  rioters. 

"  flurt.  To  Jlitrt  or  flirt  is  to  snap  the  fingers  de- 
risively, to  mock. 

''  portace— Sae  note  1,  p.  85,  1st  col. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


87 


And  joinmg  hand  in  hand  had  married  you, 
If  Friar  Bacon  had  not  struck  him  dumb, 
And  moimted  him  npon  a  spirit's  bade, 
That  -we  might,  chat  at  Oxford  with  the  friar  ? 
Traitor,  what  answer'st  ?  is  not  all  this  true  ? 

Lacy.  Ti-uth  all,  my  lord;  and  thus  I  make  reply. 
At  Harleston  fair,  there  courting  for  your  grace, 
Whenas  mine  eye  survej^'d  her  curious  shape, 
And  drew  the  beauteous  glory  of  her  looks 
To  dive  into  the  centre  of  my  heai't, 
Love  taught  me  that  your  honour  did  but  jest, 
That  princes  were  in  fancy  but  as  men ; 
How  that  the  lovely  maid  of  Fressiugfield 
Was  fitter  to  be  Lacj^'s  wedded  wife 
Than  concubine  unto  the  Prince  of  AVales. 

P.  Edw.  Injurious  Lacy,  did  I  love  thee  more 
Than  Alexander  his  Hephsestion  ? 
Did  I  unfold  the  passions  of  my  love, 
And  lock  them  in  the  closet  of  thy  thoughts  ? 
Wert  thou  to  Edward  second  to  himself, 
Sole  friend,  and  partner  of  his  secret  loves  ? 
And  could  a  glance  of  fading  beauty  break 
Th'  enchained  fetters  of  such  private  friends? 
Base  coward,  false,  and  too  effeminate 
To  be  corrival  with  a  prince  in  thoughts ! 
From  Oxford  have  I  posted  since  I  din'd, 
To  quite  a  traitor  'fore  that  Edward  sleep. 

Mar.  'Twas  I,  my  lord,  not  Lacy  stept  awry ; 
For  oft  he  sued  and  courted  for  yourself. 
And  still  woo'd  for  the  courtier  all  in  green  ; 
But  I,  whom  fancy  made  but  over-fond, 
Pleaded  myself  with  looks  as  if  I  lov'd  ; 
I  fed  mine  eye  with  gazing  on  his  face. 
And  still  bewitch'd  lov'd  Lacy  with  my  looks ; 
My  heart  with  sighs,  mine  eyes  pleaded  with  tears. 
My  face  held  pity  and  content  at  once, 
And  more  I  could  not  cipher-out  by  signs. 
But  that  I  lov'd  Lord  Lacy  with  my  heart. 
Then,  worthy  Edward,  measure  with  thj'  mind 
If  women's  favours  mil  not  force  men  fall. 
If  beauty,  and  if  darts  of  piercing  love, 
Are  not  of  force  to  bury  thoughts  of  friends. 

P.  Edw.  I  tell  thee,  Peggy,  I  will  have  thy  loves : 
Edward  or  none  shall  conquer  Margaret. 
In  frigates  bottom'd  with  rich  Sethin  planks, 
Topt  with  the  loftj''  firs  of  Lebanon, 
Stemm'd  and  incas'd  with  burnish'd  ivory, 
And  overlaid  with  plates  of  Persian  wealth, 
Like  Thetis  shaft  thou  wanton  on  the  waves, 
And  draw  the  doljahins  to  thy  lovely  eyes, 
To  dance  lavoltas  '  in  the  purple  streams : 
Sirens,  with  harps  and  silver  psalteries, 
Shall  wait  with  music  at  thy  frigate's  stem. 
And  entertain  fair  Margaret  with  their  lays. 
England  and  England's  wealth  shall  wait  on  thee ; 
Britain  shall  bend  unto  her  prince's  love, 
And  do  due  homage  to  thine  excellence, 
If  thou  wilt  be  but  Edward's  Margaret. 

3Iai:  Pardon,  my  lord :  if  Jove's  great  royalty 
Sent  me  such  presents  as  to  Danae ; 
If  Phoebus,  tu-ed  -  in  Latona's  webs, 
Came  courting  from  the  beauty  of  his  lodge ; 
The  dulcet  tunes  of  frolic  Mercury, 
Nor  all  the  wealth  heaven's  treasury  affords, 
Should  make  me  leave  Lord  Lacy  or  his  love. 

P.  Edw.  I  have  learn'd  at  Oxford,  then,  this 
point  of  schools, — 
Ahlata  causa,  toUitur  effectus:^ 
Lacy,  the  cause  that  Margaret  cannot  love 
Nor  fix  her  liking  on  the  English  prince ; 
Take  him  away,  and  then  th'  effects  will  fail. 


*  lavoltas— a,  lavolta  was  a  dance  fot  two  persons,  who 
whirled  quickly  round,  face  to  face,  each  leaping  alter- 
nately; Ital.  volta;  from  Latin,  volvo,  volutum,  to  roll. 

*  tired.    Perhaps  this  should  be  '  tirfed.' 

'  'The  cause  being  removed,  the  etfect  will  fail.' 


Villain,  prepare  thyself  ;  for  I  will  bathe 
My  poniard  in  the  bosom  of  an  earl. 
Lacy.  Eather  than  live,  and  miss  fair  Margaret's 
love, 
Prince  Edward,  stop  not  at  the  fatal  doom. 
But  stab  it  home :  end  both  my  loves  and  life. 
Mar.  Brave    Prince   of   Wales,   honour'd   for 
royal  deeds, 
'Tweresin  to  stain  fair  Venus'  courts  with  blood; 
Love's  conquest  ends,  my  lord,  in  courtesy ; 
Spare  Lacy,  gentle  Edward ;  let  me  die. 
For  so  both  you  and  he  do  cease  your  loves. 
P.  Edw.  Lacy  shall  die  as  traitor  to  his  lord. 
Lacy.  I  have  deserv'd  it,  Edward  ;  act  it  well. 
Mar.  What  hopes  the  prince  to  gain  by  Lacy's 
death  ? 

P.  Edw.    To  end  the  loves  'twixt    him  and 
Margaret. 
Mar.    Why,   thinks    King    Henry's   son  that 
Margaret's  love 
Hangs  in  th'  uncertain  balance  of  proiid  time  ? 
That  death  shall  make  a  discord  of  our  thoughts  ? 
No,  stab  the  earl,  and,  'fore  the  morning  sun 
Shall  vaunt '  him  thrice  over  the  lofty  east, 
Margaret  will  meet  her  Lacy  in  the  heavens. 
Lacy.  If  aught  betides  to  lovely  Margaret 
That  wrongs  or  wrings  her  honour  from  content, 
Europe's  rich  wealth  nor  England's  monarchy 
Should  not  allure  Lacy  to  over-live. 
Then,  Edward,  short  my  hfe,  and  end  her  loves. 
31ar.  Piid  2  me,  and  keep  a  friend  worth  many 
loves. 

Lacy.  Nay,  Edward,  keep  a  love  worth  many 
friends. 

Mar.  An'  if  thy  mind  be  such  as  fame  hath 
blaz'd. 
Then,  princely  Edward,  let  us  both  ^bide 
The  fatal  resolution  of  thy  rage : 
Banish  thou  fancy,  and  embrace  revenge. 
And  in  one  tomb  knit  both  ovtr  carcases, 
AVhose  hearts  were  linked  in  one  perfect  love. 
P.  Edw.  [aside.']  Edward,  art  thou  that  famous 
Prince  of  Wales, 
Who  at  Damasco  beat  the  Saracens, 
And  brought'st  home  triumph  on  thy  lance's 

point  ? 
And  shall  thy  plumes  be  pull'd  by  Venus  down  ? 
Is"t  princely  to  dissever  lovei's'  leagues  ? 
Leave,  Ned,  and  make  a  virtue  of  this  fault, 
And  further  Peg  and  Lacy  in  their  loves : 
So  in  subduing  fancy's  passion. 
Conquering    thyself,    thou    gett'st    the    richest 

spoil. 

Lacy,  rise  up.    Fair  Peggy,  here's  my  hand  : 
The   Prince   of   Wales  hath  conquer'd  all    his 

thoughts. 
And  all  his  loves  he  yields  unto  the  earl. 
Lacy,  enjoy  the  maid  of  Fressiugfield; 
Make  her  thy  Lincoln  Countess  at  the  church, 
And  Ned,  as  he  is  true  Plantagenet, 
Will  give  her  to  thee  frankly  for  thy  wife. 

Lacy.  Humbly  I  take  her  of  my  sovereign, 
As  if  that  Edward  gave  me  England's  right, 
And  rich'd  me  with  the  Albion  diadem. 

Mar.  And  doth  the  English  prince  mean  true  ? 
Will  he  vouchsafe  to  cease  his  former  loves, 
And  yield  the  title  of  a  country  maid 
Unto  Lord  Lacy  ? 
P.  Edw.  I  will,  fair  Peggy,  as  I  am  true  lord. 
3Iar.  Then,  lordly  sir,  whose  conquest  is  as 
great, 
In  conquering  love,  as  Ctesar's  victories, 
Margaret,  as  mild  and  humble  in  her  thoughts 


1  vaunt — display,  show. 

2  Rid — get  rid  of. 


S8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


A  s  was  Aspasia  unto  Cjtus'  self, 

Yields  thanks,  and,  next  Lord  Lacy,  doth  enshrine 

Edward  the  second  secret  in  her  heart. 

P.  Edw. — Gramercy,  Peggy. — Now  that  vows 
are  past, 
And  that  yonr  loves  are  not  to  be  revolt, 
Once,  Lacy,  friends  again.     Come,  we  will  post 
To  Oxford ;  for  this  day  the  king  is  there, 
And  brings  for  Edward  Castile  Elinor. 
Peggy,  I  must  go  see  and  view  my  wife  : 
I  pray  God  I  like  her  as  I  loved  thee. 
Tieside,  Lord  Lincoln,  we  shall  hear  dispute 
'Twixt  Friar  Bacon  and  learn'd  Vandermast. 
Peggy,  we'll  leave  you  for  a  week  or  two. 

Mar.  As  it  please  Lord  Lacy :  but  love's  foolish 
looks 
Think  footsteps  miles  and  minutes  to  be  hours. 

Lacy.  I'll  hasten,  Peggy,  to  make  short  return. — 
But  please  yoiu'  honour  go  unto  the  lodge. 
We  shall  have  butter,  cheese,  and  venison  ; 
And  yesterday  I  brought  for  Margaret 
A  lusty  bottle  of  neat  claret  wine : 
Thus  can  we  feast  and  entertain  your  grace. 

P.  Edw.  'Tis  cheer.  Lord  Lacy,  for  an  emperor, 
If  he  respect  the  person  and  the  place. 
Come,  let  us  in ;  for  I  will  all  this  night 
Eide  post  until  I  come  to  Bacon's  cell.      [Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Henry,  the  Emperor,  the  King  of 
Castile,  Elinor,  Vandermast,  and  Bungay. 

Emp.  Trust    me,   Plantagenet,  these    Oxford 
schools 
Are  richly  seated  near  the  river-side : 
The  mountains  full  of  fat  and  fallow  deer. 
The  battling  i  pastures  lade  with  kine  and  flocks, 
The  town  gorgeous  with  high-built  colleges, 
And  scholars  seemly  in  their  grave  attire. 
Learned  in  searching  principles  of  art. — 
What  is  thy  judgment,  Jaques  Vandermast  ? 

Van.  That    lordly  are  the  buildings  of    the 
town. 
Spacious  the  rooms,  and  full  of  pleasant  walks  ; 
But  for  the  doctors,  how  that  they  be  learned, 
It  may  be  meanlj',  for  aught  I  can  hear. 

Bun.  I   tell    thee,   German,    Hapsburg    holds 
none  such. 
None  read  so  deep  as  Oxenford  contains. 
There  are  within  our  academic  state 
Men  that  may  lecture  it  in  Germany 
To  all  the  doctors  of  your  Belgic  schools. 

K.  Hen.   Stand  to  him,  Bungay,  charm  this 
Vandermast, 
And  I  will  use  thee  as  a  royal  king. 

Van.  Wherein  dar'st  thou  dispute  with  me  ? 

Bun.  In  what  a  doctor  and  a  friar  can. 

Van.  Before  rich  Europe's  worthies  put  thou 
forth 
The  doubtful  question  unto  Vandermast. 

Bun.  Let  it  be  this :  Whether  the  spirits  of 
pyromancy  2  or  geomaney  be  most  predominant 
in  magic  ? 

Van.  I  say,  of  pyromancy. 

Bun.  And  I,  of  geomaney. 

Van.  The  cabalists  that  write  of  magic  spells, 
As  Hermes,  Melchie,^  and  Pythagoras, 
Affirm  that,  'mongst  the  quadruplicity 
Of  elemental  essence,  terra*  is  but  thought 
To  be  a. puncium^  squared  to  the  rest ; 


'  taiffin^— battening,  fattening,  increasing. 

"^pyromancy  is  comiiosed  of  two  Greek  words,  mean- 
ing divination  by  fire;  and  geomaney,  from  Gr.  ge,  tlie 
earth,  means  divination  by  figures  on  tlie  earth. 

3  ifekhie,  probably  meant  for  Makhus  (Syro-Phccni- 
cian  Mekch.  Iting),  the  original  name  of  Poii^hyrius,  a 
philosoplier  of  tlie  third  cent.  a.d. 

*  '  the  earth.'  »  '  point.' 


And  that  the  compass  of  ascending  elements 

Exceed  in  bigness  as  they  do  in  height ; 

Judging  the  concave  circle  of  the  sun 

To  hold  the  rest  in  his  circumference. 

If,  then,  as  Hermes  says,  the  fire  be  greatest, 

Purest,  and  only  giveth  shape  to  spirits. 

Then  must  these  dasmones  that  haunt  that  place 

Be  every  way  superior  to  the  rest. 

Bun.  I  reason  not  of  elemental  shapes, 
Nor  tell  I  of  the  concave  latitudes. 
Noting  their  essence  nor  their  quality. 
But  of  the  spirits  that  pyromancy  calls, 
And  of  the  vigour  of  the  geomantic  fiends. 
I  tell  thee,  German,  magic  haunts  the  ground. 
And  those  strange  necromantic  spells. 
That  work  such  shows  and  wondering  in  the 

world. 
Are  acted  bj'  those  geomantic  spirits 
That  Hermes  calleth  terrse  filii.^ 
The  fiery  spirits  are  but  transparent  shades, 
That  lightly  pass  as  heralds  to  bear  news  ; 
But  earthly  fiends,  clos'd  in  the  lowest  deep, 
Dissever  mountains,  if  they  be  but  charg'd. 
Being  more  gross  and  massy  in  their  power. 

Van.  Rather  these  earthly  geomantic  spirits 
Are  dull  and  like  the  place  where  they  remain  ; 
For  when  proud  Lucifer  fell  from  the  heavens, 
The  spirits  and  angels  that  did  sin  with  him, 
Ketaiu'd  their  local  essence  as  their  faults, 
All  subject  under  Luna's  continent. 
They  which  offended  less  htmg  in  the  fire, 
And  second  faults  did  rest  within  the  air ; 
But  Lucifer  and  his  proud-hearted  fiends 
Were  thrown  into  the  centre  of  the  earth, 
Having  less  undei'standing  than  the  rest, 
As  having  greater  sin  and  lesser  grace. 
Therefore  such  gross  and  earthly  spirits  do  serve 
For  jugglers,  witches,  and  vile  sorcerers  ; 
Whereas  the  pyromantic  genii 
Are  mighty,  swift,  and  of  far-reaching  power. 
But  grant  that  geomaney  hath  most  force  ; 
Bungay,  to  please  these  mighty  potentates. 
Prove  by  some  instance  what  thy  art  can  do. 

Bun.  I  will. 

Emp.  Now,  English  Harry,  here  begins  the 
game ; 
We  shall  see  sport  between  these  learned  men. 

Van.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Bun.  Show  thee  the  tree,  leav'd  with  refinod 
gold. 
Whereon  the  fearful  dragon  held  his  seat, 
That  watch'd  the  garden  call'd  Hesperides, 
Subdu'd  and  won  by  conquering  Hercules. 

Here  Bungay  conjures,  and  the  tree  appears 
with  the  dragon  shooting  Jire. 

Van.  Well  done ! 

K.  Hen.  What  say  you,  royal  lordings,  to  my 
friar  ? 
Hath  he  not  done  a  point  of  cunning  skill  ? 

Van.  Each  scholar  in  the  necromantic  spells 
Can  do  as  much  as  Bungay  hath  perform'd. 
But  as  Alcmena's  bastard  raz'd  this  tree. 
So  will  I  raise  him  up  as  when  he  liv'd. 
And  cause  him  pull  the  dragon  from  his  seat. 
And  tear  the  branches  piecemeal  from  the  root. — 
Hercules  !  Prodi,  prodi,'^  Hercules ! 

Hercules  appears  in  his  lion's  s7:in. 

Her.  Quis  me  vult  ? ' 

Van.  Jove's  bastard  son,  thou  Libyan  Hercules, 
Pull  off  the  sprigs  from  off  th'  Hesperian  tree. 
As  once  thou  didst  to  win  the  golden  fruit. 


1  '  sons  of  earth.'  ^  '  Come  forth,  come  forth." 

*  '  Who  wants  me  ? ' 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


89 


Her.  Fiat.i  [Begins  to  break  the  branches. 

Van.  Now,  Bungay,  if  thou  canst  by  magic 
chann 
The  fiend,  appearing  like  great  Hercules, 
From  pulling  down  the  branches  of  the  tree. 
Then  art  thou  worthy  to  be  counted  learned. 

Bun.  I  cannot. 

Van.    Cease,    Hercules,    until    I    give    tliee 
charge. — 
Mighty  commander  of  this  English  isle, 
Henry,  come  from  the  stout  Plantagenets, 
Bungay  is  learn'd  enough  to  be  a  friar ; 
But  to  compare  with  Jaques  Vaudermast, 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  must  go  seek  their  cells 
To  find  a  man  to  match  him  in  his  art. 
I  have  given  non-plus  to  the  Paduans, 
To  them  of  Sien,  Florence,  and  Bologna, 
Eheims,  Louvaiu,  and  fair  Rotterdam, 
Frankfort,  Lutrech,'  and  Orleans  : 
And  now  must  Henrj',  if  he  do  me  right, 
Crown  me  with  laurel,  as  they  all  have  done. 

Enter  Bacon. 

Bacon.  All  hail  to  this  royal  company. 
That  sit  to  hear  and  see  this  strange  dispute  ! — 
Bungay,  how  stand'st  thou  as  a  man  amaz'd  ? 
What !  hath  the  German  acted  more  than  thou  ? 

Van.  What  art  thou  that  question'st  thus .' 

Bacon.  Men  call  me  Bacon. 

Van.  Lordly  thou  look'st,  as  if  that  thou  wert 
learn'd ; 
Thy  countenance  as  if  science  held  her  seat 
Between  the  circled  arches  of  thy  brows. 

K.  Hen.   Now,   monarchs,   hath  the   Gennan 
found  his  match. 

Emp.  Bestir  thee,  Jaques,  take  not  now  the 
foil,3 
Lest  thou  dost  lose  what  foretime  thou  didst  gain. 

Van.  Bacon,  wilt  thou  dispute  ? 

Bacon.  No, 
Unless  he  were  more  learn'd  than  Vandermast : 
For  yet,  tell  me,  what  hast  thou  done  .' 

Van.  Eais'd  Hercules  to  ruinate  that  tree 
That  Bungay  mounted  by  his  magic  spells. 

Bacon.  Set  Hercules  to  work. 

Van.  Now,  Hercules,  I  charge  thee  to  thy  task ; 
Pull  off  the  golden  branches  from  the  root. 

Mer.  I  dare  not.     Seest  thou  not  great  Bacon 
here, 
Whose  frown  doth  act  more  than  thy  magic  can .' 

Van.  By  all  the  thrones,  and  dominations, 
Virtues,  powers,  and  mighty  hierarchies, 
1  charge  thee  to  obey  to  Vandermast. 

Her.  Bacon,  that  bridles  headstrong  Belcephon, 
And  rules  Asmenoth  guider  of  the  north. 
Binds  me  from  yielding  unto  Vandermast. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  Vandermast!  have  you  met 
•with  your  match  ? 

Va7i.  Never  before  was't  known  to  Vandermast 
That  men  held  devils  in  such  obedient  awe. 
Bacon  doth  more  than  art,  or  else  I  fail. 

Emp.  Why,  Vandennast,  art  thou  overcome .' — 
Bacon,  dispute  with  him,  and  try  his  skill. 

Bacon.   I   came    not,   monarchs,   for  to  hold 
dispute 
With  such  a  novice  as  is  Vandermast ; 
I  came  to  have  your  royalties  to  dine 
With  Friar  Bacon  here  in  Brazen-nose : 
And,  for  this  German  troubles  but  the  place. 
And  holds  this  audience  with  a  long  suspence, 
ril  send  him  to  his  academy  hence. — 
Thou  Hercules,  whom  Vaudermast  did  raise. 


• '  Let  it  be  done.' 

2  Lutrerh.     Pi-obably  Utrecht  is  meant. 

*  foil—dtieaX,  failure. 


Ti-ansport  the  German  unto  Hapsburg  straight, 
That  he  may  learn  by  travail,  'gainst  the  spring. 
More  secret  dooms  and  aphorisms  of  art. 
Vanish  the  tree,  and  thou  away  with  him  ! 
[Exit  Hercules  with  Vandermast  and  the  tree. 
Emp.  Why,  Bacon,  whither  dost  thou  send  him  ? 
Bacon.  To  Hapsburg :  there  your  highness  at 
return 
Shall  find  the  German  in  his  study  safe. 
K.  Hen.  Bacon,  thou  hast  honuur'd  England 
with  thy  skill. 
And  made  fair  Oxford  famous  by  thine  art : 
I  will  be  English  Henry  to  thj'self. 
But  tell  me,  shall  we  dine  with  thee  to-day? 
Bacon.  With  me,  my  lord ;  and  while  I  fit  my 
cheer, 
See  where  Prince  Edward  comes  to  welcome  you. 
Gracious  as  the  moming-star  of  heaven.      [Exit. 

Enter  Vrvsc^  Edward,  Lacy,  Warren,  Erjisby. 

Emp.  Is  this  Prince  Edward,   Henry's  royal 

son .' 
How  martial  is  the  figure  of  his  face ! 
Yet  lovely  and  beset  with  amorets.i 
K.  Hen.  Ned,  where  hast  thou  been  ? 
P.  Edw.   At   Framlingham,  my  lord,   to  try 

your  bucks 
If  they  could  scape  the  teasers  or  the  toil. 
But  hearing  of  these  lordly  potentates 
Landed,  and  progress'd  up  to  Oxford  town, 
I  posted  to  give  entertain  to  them : 
Chief  to  the  Almain  monarch ;  next  to  him. 
And  joint  with  him,  Castile  and  Saxony 
Are  welcome  as  they  may  be  to  the  English  coui't. 
Thus  for  the  men :  but  see,  Venus  appears, 
Or  one 

That  overmatch eth  Venus  in  her  shape ! 
Sweet  Elinor,  beauty's  high-swelling  pride, 
llich  nature's  glory  and  her  Vv'ealth  at  once. 
Fair  of  all  fairs,  welcome  to  Albion; 
Welcome  to  me,  and  welcome  to  thine  own, 
If  that  thou  deign'st  the  welcome  from  myself. 
Elin.  Martial  Plantagenet,  Henry's  high-minded 

son, 
The  mark  that  Elinor  did  count  her  aim, 
I  lik'd  thee  'fore  I  saw  thee  :  now  I  love, 
And  so  as  in  so  short  a  time  I  may ; 
Yet  so  as  time  shall  never  break  that  so. 
And  therefore  so  accept  of  Elinor. 
K.  of  Cast.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  this  couple  will 

agree, 
If  love  may  creep  into  their  wanton  eyes  : — 
And  therefore,  Edward,  I  accept  thee  here. 
Without  suspence,  as  my  adopted  son. 
K.  Hen.  Let  me  that  joy  in  these  consorting 

greets. 
And  glory  in  these  honours  done  to  Ned, 
Yield  thanks  for  all  these  favours  to  my  son. 
And  rest  a  true  Plantagenet  to  all. 

Enter  Miles  with  a  cloth  and  trenchers  and  salt. 

Miles.  Salvete,  omnes  rerjes,^ 
That  govern  yoiu'  greges  * 
In  Saxony  and  Spain, 
In  England  and  in  Almain! 
For  all  this  fi-olic  rabble 
Must  I  cover  the  table 
With  trenchers,  salt,  and  cloth  ; 
And  then  look  for  your  broth. 

Emp.  What  pleasant  fellow  is  this  ? 

K.  Hen.  'Tis,    my  lord,  Doctor  Bacon's   poor 
scholar. 


1  amorets — looks  of  love. 

2  '  flocks.' 


*  '  Hail,  all  kings.' 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


90 


Miles.  \_as[de7\  My  master  liath  made  me  sewer  ^ 
of  these  great  lord's ;  and,  God  knows,  I  am  as 
serviceable  at  a  table  as  a  sow  is  under  an  ajjple- 
tree.  'Tis  no  matter;  their  cheer  shall  not  be 
great,  and  therefore  what  skills  ^  where  the  salt 
stand,  before  or  behind  ?  {Exit. 

K.  of  Cast.  These  scholars  know  more  skill  in 
axioms, 
How  to  use  quips  and  sleights  of  sophistry, 
Than  for  to  cover  courtly  for  a  king. 

Re-enter  Miles  %o'dh  a  mess  of  pottage  and  broth ; 
and,  after  him,  Bacon. 

Miles.  Spill,  su-  ?  why,  do  you  think  I  never 
carried  twopenny  chop  before  in  my  life .' — 
By  your  leave,  nobile  decus,^ 
For  here  comes  Doctor  Bacon's ^ecMS,* 
Being  in  his  full  age 
To  carry  a  mess  of  pottage. 

Bacon.  Lordings,  admire  ^  not  if  your  cheer  be 
For  we  must  keep  our  academic  fare  ;  [this. 

No  riot  where  philosophy  doth  reign : 
And  therefore,  Henry,  place  these  potentates,- 
And  bid  them  fall  unto  their  frugal  cates." 

Emp.  Presumptuous  friar !  what !  scoff  'st  thou 
at  a  king  ? 
What!  dost  thou  taunt  us  with  thy  peasani's  fare, 
And  give  us  cates  fit  for  country  swains  ? — 
Henry,  proceeds  this  Jest  of  thy  consent. 
To  twit  us  with  a  pittance  of  such  price  ? 
Tell  me,  and  Frederick  will  not  grieve  thee  long. 

K.  Hen.  By  Heniy's  honour,  and  the  royal  faith 
The  English  monarch  beareth  to  his  friend, 
I  knew  not  of  the  friar's  feeble  fare, 
Nor  am  I  pleas'd  he  entertains  you  thus. 

Bacon.  Content  thee,  Frederick,  for  I  show'd 
thee  cates. 
To  let  thee  see  how  scholars  use  to  feed ; 
How  little  meat  refines  our  English  wits. — 
MUes,  take  away,  and  let  it  be  thy  dinner. 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  I  will. 
This  day  shall  be  a  festival-day  with  me  ; 
For  I  shall  exceed  in  the  highest  degree.      [Exit. 

Bacon.  I  tell  thee,  monarch,  all  the  German 
Could  not  afford  thy  entertainment  such,     [peers 
So  royal  and  so  full  of  majesty. 
As  Bacon  will  present  to  Fredei'ick. 
The  basest  waiter  that  attends  thy  cups 
Shall  be  in  honours  greater  than  thyself  ; 
And  for  thy  cates,  rich  Alexandi-ia  drugs,' 
Fetch'd  by  carvels  *  from  JSgypt's  richest  streights. 
Found  ia  the  wealthy  strand  of  Africa, 
Shall  royahze  the  table  of  my  king ; 
Wines  richer  than  th'  Jilgyptian  com-tesan  ^ 
Quaff  'd  to  Augustus'  kingly  countemiatch, 
Shall  be  carous'd  in  English  Henry's  feast ; 
Candy  shall  yield  the  richest  of  her  canes ; 


1  sewer  was  an  ofScial  who  set  on  and  removed  the 
dishes  at  a  feast;  perhaps  from  sew,  sue,  to  follow ;  old 
Fr.  sewer,  squire. 

2  skills — signifies.  The  seats  at  tahle  above  the  salt- 
cellar were  assigned  to  the  more  distinguished  guests; 
the  seats  helow  it,  to  those  of  inferior  rank. 

3  'noble  ornament  or  dignity.' 

*  pecus  means  a  herd  or  single  head  of  cattle  or  sheep, 
also  a  beast  or  brute,  literally  or  figuratively. 

*  admire — wonder. 

*  cates  or  acates — provisions,  delicacies;  old  Fr.  acater; 
Fr.  acheter,  to  buy,  provide. 

'  drugs— horn  the  same  root  as  dry,  means  originally 
and  literally,  dried  herbs,  &c.,  not  necessarily  for 
medicine. 

8  carvel  or  caravel.  '  A  knid  of  light  round  ship,  with 
a  square  poop,  rigg'd  and  fitted  out  like  a  galley,  hold- 
ing about  six  score  or  seven  score  tun.' — Kersey  in  Nares. 
Fr.  caravelle,  Span,  carahda,  fi  om  Lat.  carahus,  Gr.  kara- 
bos,  a  small  wicker  vessel  covered  witli  hides. 

8  .Egyptian  courtesan — Cleopatra  no  doubt  is  meant. 


Persia,  down  her  Volga '  by  canoes. 
Send  down  the  secrets  of  her  spicery ; 
The  Afric  dates,  mirahioles-  of  Spain, 
Conserves  and  suckets  ^  from  Tiberias, 
Cates  from  Judasa,  choicer  than  the  lamp 
That  fired  Rome  with  sparks  of  gluttony,* 
Shall  beautify  the  board  for  Frederick: 
And  therefore  grudge  not  at  a  friar's  feast. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Lambert  and  Seklsby  ivith  the  Keeper. 

Lam.  Come,  frolic  Keeper  of  our  liege's  game, 
Whose  table  spread  hath  ever  venison 
And  jacks  of  vnne  to  welcome  passengers, 
Know  I'm  in  love  with  jolly  Margaret, 
That  overshines  our  damsels  as  the  moon 
Darkeneth  the  brightest  sparkles  of  the  night. 
In  Laxfield  here  my  land  and  living  lies : 
I'll  make  thy  daughter  jointer  of  it  all, 
So  thou  consent  to  give  her  to  my  wife  ; 
And  I  can  spend  five  hundred  marks  a  year. 

Ser.  I  am  the  lands-lord.  Keeper,  of  thy  holds, 
By  copy  *  all  thy  living  lies  in  me  ; 
Laxfield  did  never  see  me  raise  my  due : 
I  will  enfeoff  fair  Margaret  in  all, 
So  she  will  take  her  to  a  lusty  squire. 

Keej).  Now,  courteous  gentles,  if  the  Keeper's 

gii'l 
Hath  pleas'd  the  liking  fancy  of  yoti  both. 
And  with  her  beauty  hath  subdu'd  your  thoughts, 
'Tis  doubtful  to  decide  the  question. 
It  joys  me  that  such  men  of  great  esteem 
Should  lay  their  liking  on  this  base  estate. 
And  that  Jier  state  should  grow  so  fortunate 
To  be  a  wife  to  meaner  men  than  you :  s 
But  sith  such  squires  will  stoop  to  Keeper's  fee, 
I  will,  to  avoid  displeasure  of  you  both. 
Call  Slargaret  forth,  and  she  shall  make  her  choice. 

Lam.  Content,  Keeper ;  send  her  unto  us. 

[Exit  Keeper. 
Why,  Serlsby,  is  thy  wife  so  lately  dead, 
Are  all  thy  loves  so  lightly  passed  over. 
As  thou  canst  wed  before  the  year  be  out  ? 

Ser.  I  live  not,  Lambert,  to  content  the  dead, 
Nor  was  I  wedded  but  for  life  to  her : 
The  grave  ends  and  begins  a  married  state. 

Enter  Margaeet. 

Lam.  Peggy,  the  lovely  flower  of  all  towns, 
Suffolk's  fair  Helen,  and  rich  England's  star. 
Whose  beauty,  temper'd  with  her  hiiswifery. 
Makes  England  talk  of  merry  Fressingfield ! 

Ser.  I  cannot  trick  it  u-p  with  poesies. 
Nor  paint  my  passions  with  comparisons, 
Nor  tell  a  tale  of  Phcebus  and  his  loves : 
But  this  believe  me, — Laxfield  here  is  mine. 
Of  ancient  rent  seven  hundi-ed  pounds  a  year, 
And  if  thou  canst  but  love  a  country  sqmre, 
I  will  enfeoff  thee,  Margaret,  in  all : 
I  cannot  flatter ;  tiy  me,  if  thou  please. 

Mar.  Brave  neighboui-ing  squires,  the  stay  of 
Suffolk's  cHme, 


1  Persia,  down  her  Volga,  &c. — '  This,'  observes  my 
friend,  Mr.  W.  N.  Lettsom,  'is  much  as  if  France  were 
to  send  claret  and  burgundy  down  her  Thames.' — DrCE. 

2  Probably  miraholans,  or  dried  jjlums,  are  meant. 

3  suckets — dried  sweetmeats  for  sucking. 

*  Cates  from  Judxa,  choicer  than  the  lamp 
Thatjired  Home  with  sparks  of  gluttony. — 
Dyce  thinks  this  a  mutilated  passage.  The  Rev.  J.  Mit- 
ford  {Gent.  Mag.  for  March  1833,  p.  217)  alters  '  lamp ' 
to  '  balm.'  'Balm,'  he  says,  '  or  the  exudation  of  the 
Balsamum,  was  the  only  export  of  Judaa  to  Kome ;  and 
the  balm  was  peculiar  to  Judaja.' 

5  By  copy,  &c.    This  evidently  means  that  the  keeper 
held  his  lands  by  coiiyhold  from  his  landlord  Serlsby. 
I      6  xhis  passage  is  obscure,  probably  it  is  corrupted. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


91 


A  Keeper's  daughter  is  too  base  in  gree  ' 

To  iiiatcli  with  meu  accounted  of  such  worth : 

But  might  I  not  displease,  I  would  replj'. 

Lam.  Say,  Peggy ;  naught  shall  make  us  dis- 
content. 

Mar.  Then,  gentles,  note  that  love  hath  little 
stay, 
Nor  can  the  flames  that  Vemis  sets  on  fire 
Be  kindled  but  by  fancy's  motion: 
Then  pardon,  geutles,  if  a  maid's  reply 
Be  doubtful,  while"  1  have  debated  with  myself. 
Who,  or  of  whom,  love  shall  constrain  me  like. 

Ser.  Let  it  be  me;  and  trust  me,  Margaret, 
The  meads  environ'd  with  the  silver  streams, 
Whose  battling^  pastures  fatten  all  my  flocks. 
Yielding  forth  fJeeces  stapled  with  such  wool 
As  Lemnster  cannot  jneld  more  finer  stuff. 
And  forty  kine  with  fair  and  burnish'd  heads, 
With  strouting*  dugs  that  paggle*  to  the  ground. 
Shall  serve  thy  dairy  if  thou  wed  with  me. 

Lam.  Let  pass  the  country  wealth,  as  flocks  and 
kine, 
And  lands  that  wave  with  Ceres'  golden  sheaves, 
Pilling  my  barns  with  plenty  of  the  fields ; 
But,  Peggy,  if  thou  wed  thyself  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  have  garments  of  embroidered  silk, 
Lawns  and  rich  networks  for  thy  head  attire  : 
Costly  shall  be  thy  fair  habiliments. 
If  thou  wilt  be  but  Lambert's  loving  wife. 

Mar.  Content  you,  gentles,  you  have  proffer'd 
fair, 
And  more  than  fits  a  coimtry  maid's  degree : 
But  give  me  leave  to  counsel  me  a  time, 
For  fancy  blooms  not  at  the  first  assault ; 
Give  me  but  ten  days'  respite,  and  I  will  reply, 
Which  or  to  whom  mj'self  affectionates. 

Ser.  Lambert,  I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  importunate  ; 
Such  beauty  fits  not  such  a  base  esquire : 
It  is  for  Serlsby  to  have  Margaret. 

Lam.  Think'st  thou  with  wealth  to  overreach 
me .' 
Serlsbj',  I  scorn  to  brook  thy  country  braves  :" 
I  dare  thee,  coward,  to  maintain  this  wrong, 
At  dint  of  rapier,  single  in  the  field. 

Ser.    I'll    answer,    Lambert,    what    I    have 
avouch'd. — 
Margaret,  farewell ;  another  time  shall  serve. 

{Exit. 

Lam.  I'll  follow. — Peggy,  farewell  to  thyself ; 
Listen  how  well  I'll  answer  for  thy  love.    \_Exit. 

Mar.  How  fortune  tempers  lucky  haps  with 
frowns, 
And  wrongs  me  with  the  sweets  of  my  delight ! 
Love  is  my  bliss,  and  love  is  now  my  bale. 
Shall  I  be  Helen  in  my  froward  fates, 
As  I  am  Helen  in  my  matchless  hue, 
And  set  rich  Suffolk  with  my  face  afire  ? 
If  lovely  Lacy  were  but  with  his  Peggy, 
The  cloudy  darkness  of  his  bitter  frown 
Would  check  the  pride  of  these  aspiring  squires. 
Before  the  term  of  ten  days  be  expir'd, 
Whenas  they  look  for  answer  of  their  loves. 
My  lord  will  come  to  merry  Fressingfield, 
And  end  their  fancies  and  their  follies  both : 
TiU  when,  Peggy,  be  blithe  and  of  good  cheer. 

Enter  a  Post  with  a  letter  and  a  lag  of  gold. 

Post.  Fan-  lovely  damsel,  which  way  leads  this 
path? 
How  might  I  post  me  unto  Fressingfield.' 
Which  footpath  leadeth  to  the  Keeper's  lodge  ? 

I  gree — degree.  ^  loUUe — i.e.  while  I  debate. 

3  battling.    See  note  1,  p.  88. 

*  strouting — same  as  strutting,  i.e.  swollen  or  puffed 
out. 
^  paggle — probaWy  run  out  or  drop  the  milk. 
•^  iraucs— boasts  or  challenges. 


2Iar.  Your  way  is  ready,   and  this  path  is 
right : 
]\Iyself  do  dwell  hereby  in  Fressingfield ; 
And  if  the  Keeper  bo  the  man  you  seek, 
I  am  his  daughter  :  may  I  know  the  cause  ? 

Post.  Lovely,  and  once  beloved  of  my  lord, — 
No  mai-vel  if  his  eye  were  lodg'd  so  low, 
When  brighter  beauty  is  not  in  the  heavens, — 
The  Lincoln  Earl  hath  sent  you  letters  here. 
And,   with  them,    just  an    hundred  pounds  in 
gold.  [^Gives  letter  and  bag. 

Sweet,  bonny  wench,  read  them,  and  make  reply. 

ISIar.  fhe  scrolls  that  Jove  sent  DauaS, 
Wrapt  in  rich  closures  of  fine  burnish'd  gold. 
Were  not  more  welcome  than  these  lines  to  me. 
Tell  me,  whilst  that  I  do  unrip  the  seals, 
Lives  Lacy  well .'  how  fares  my  lovely  lord  ? 

Post.  Well,  if  that  wealth  may  make  men  to 
live  well. 

31ar.  [_reads.']  The  blooms  of  the  almond-tree 
groiu  hi  a  night  cmd  vanish  in  a  morn;  the  flies 
heemerx,'^  fair  Peggg,  take  life  with  the  sun,  and 
die  loith  the  dew;  fancy  that  sHirpeth  in  with  a 
gaze,  goeth  out  tviih  a  loink ;  and  too  timely'^  loves 
have  ever  the  shortest  length.  I  tvrite  this  as  thy 
grief  and  my  folly  who  at  Fressingfield  loved  that 
2chich  time  hath  taught  me  to  be  but  mean  dainties: 
eyes  are  dissemblers,  and  fancy  is  but  queasy  ;^ 
therefore  hnow,  Margaret,  1  have  chosen  a  Sixmish 
lady  to  be  my  wife,  chief  waiting-woman  to  the 
Princess  Elinor  ;  a  lady  fair,  and  no  less  fair  than 
thyself,  honourable  and  icealthy.  In  that  I  forsake 
thee,  I  leave  thee  to  thine  own  liking ;  and  for 
thy  dowry  I  have  sent  thee  an  hundred  pounds  ; 
and  ever  assure  thee  of  my  favour,  which  shall 
avail  thee  and  thine  much. 

FareioeU.  Not  thine,  nor  his  mm, 

Edivard  Lacy. 

Fond  Ate,*  doomer  of  bad-boding  fates. 
That  wrapp'st  proud  fortune  in  thy  snaky  locks, 
Didst  thou  enchant  my  birthday  with  such  stars 
As  lighten'd  mischief  from  their  infancy  ? 
If  heavens  had  vow'd,  if  stars  had  made  decree, 
To  show  on  me  their  froward  influence, 
If  Lacy  had  but  lov'd,  heavens,  hell,  and  all, 
Could  not  have  wrong'd  the  patience  of  my  mind. 
Post.  It  grieves  me  damsel  5    but  the  earl  is 
^  forc'd 
To  love  the  lady  by  the  king's  command. 
Mar.  The  wealth  combin'd  within  the  English 

shelves, 
Europe's  commander,  nor  the  English  king. 
Should  not  have  moved  the  love  of  Peggy  from 

her  lord. 
Post.  What  answer  shall  I  return  to  my  lord  ? 
Mar.  Fii-st,  for  thou  cam'st  from  Lacy  whom  I 

lov'd, — 
Ah,  give  me  leave  to  sigh  at  every  thought ! — 
Take  thou,  my  friend,  the  hundred  pounds  he 

sent; 
For  Margaret's  resolution  craves  no  dower : 
The  world  shall  be  to  her  Jis  vanity ; 
Wealth,  trash;  love,  hate;  pleasure,  despair: 
For  I  will  straight  to  stately  Framlingham, 
And  in  the  abbey  there  be  shorn  a  nun. 
And  yield  my  loves  and  liberty  to  God. 
Fellow,  I  give  thee  this,  not  for  the  news. 
For  those  be  hateful  unto  Margaret, 
But  for  thou'rt  Lacy's  man,  once  Margaret's  love. 


i  lixmerx — better  known  as  t\\Qephemerx  or  day-flies. 
-  timely — -earl)'. 

3  queasy — squeamish  or  fastidious. 
*  Ate — a  Greek  goddess,  whose  character  resembled 
that  of  Nemesis. 


92 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Post.  What  I  have  heard,  what  passions  I  have 
seeu, 
I'll  make  i-eport  of  them  unto  the  earl. 

]\[ar.  Say  that  she  joys  his  fancies  be  at  rest, 
And  prays  that  his  misfortunes  may  be  hers. 

[Exeunt. 

Fkiar  Bacon  is  discovered  in  his  cell,  lying  oti  a 
bed,  with  a  iv/iite  stick  in  one  hand,  a  hooh  in 
the  other,  and  a  lamp  lighted  beside  him;  and 
the  Brazen  Head,  and  Miles  with  iceapons  by 
him. 

Bacon.  Jlilcs,  where  are  you  ? 

Miles.  Here,  sir. 

Bacon.  How  chance  you  tarry  so  long? 

Miles.  Think  you  tliat  the  watching  of  the 
Brazen  Head  craves  no  furnitiare  ?  I  warrant 
you,  sir,  I  have  so  armed  myself  that  if  all  your 
devils  come,  I  will  not  fear  them  an  inch. 

Bacon.  Miles, 
Thou  know'st  that  I  have  divfed  into  hell. 
And  sought  the  darkest  palaces  of  fiends  ; 
That  with  my  magic  spells  great  Belcephon 
Hath  left  his  lodge  and  kneelfed  at  my  cell ; 
The  rafters  of  the  earth  rent  from  the  poles, 
And  three-formed  Luna  hid  her  silver  looks, 
Trembling  iipon  her  concave  continent, 
Wlaen  Bacon  read  upon  his  magic  book. 
With  seven  years'  tossing  necromantic  charms, 
Poring  upon  dark  Hecat's  principles, 
I  have  framed  out  a  monstrous  head  of  brass. 
That  by  the  enchanting  forces  of  the  devil. 
Shall  tell  out  strange  and  uncouth  aphorisms. 
And  girt  fair  England  with  a  wall  of  brass. 
Bungay  and  I  have  watch'd  these  threescore  days. 
And  now  our  vital  spirits  crave  some  rest; 
If  Argus  liv'd  and  had  his  hundred  eyes, 
They  could  not  over-watch  Phol^etor's  night. 
Now,  Miles,  in  thee  rests  Friar  Bacon's  weal; 
The  honour  and  renown  of  all  his  life 
Hangs  in  the  watching  of  this  Brazen  Head  ; 
Therefore  I  charge  thee  by  the  immortal  God, 
That  holds  the  souls  of  men  within  his  fist. 
This  night  thou  watch ;  for  ere  the  morning-star 
Sends  out  his  glorious  glister  on  the  north, 
The  head  will  speak  :  then.  Miles,  upon  thy  life, 
Wake  me ;  for  then  by  magic  art  I'll  work 
To  end  my  seven  years'  task  with  excellence. 
If  that  a  wink  but  shut  thy  watchful  eye, 
Then  farewell  Bacon's  glory  and  his  fame ! 
Draw  close  the  curtains.  Miles :  now,  for  thy  life. 
Be  watchful,  and —  [Falls  asleep. 

Miles.  So  !  I  thought  you  woiald  talk  yourself 
asleep  anon ;  and  'tis  no  marvel,  for  Bungay  on 
the  days,  and  he  on  the  nights,  have  watched 
just  these  ten  and  fifty  days.  Now  this  is  the 
night,  and  'tis  my  task,  and  no  more.  Now, 
Jesus,  bless  me,  what  a  goodly  head  it  is!  and  a 
nose !  you  talJt  of  nos  autem  glorificare  ,•'  but 
here's  a  nose  tliat  I  warrant  may  be  called  nos 
autem  populare,"  for  the  people  of  the  parish. 
Well,  I  am  furnished  with  weapons  :  now,  sir,  I 
wiU  set  me  down  by  a  post,  and  make  it  as  good 
as  a  watchman  to  wake  me,  if  I  chance  to  slum- 
ber. I  thought,  Goodman  Head,  I  would  call 
you  out  of  your  memento.  Passion  o'  God,  I 
have  almost  broke  my  pate!  [A  great  noise.'] 
Up,  Miles,  to  your  task;  take  your  bi'own-bill^ 


'  nos  autem,  &c. — literally,  '  forsooth  to  glorify  us,' 
vos  being  a  pun  on  nose;  in  another  play,  Greene  speaks 
cf  nose  glorificam,  a  glorious  nose. 

'■*  nos  autem  populare,  '  a  popular  or  common  nose, 
forsooth.' 

3  brown-hill— &  sort  of  halbert,  with  a  hooked  point, 
formerly  borne  by  foot  soldiers  and  -watchmen. 


in  your  hand  ;  here's  some  of  your  master's  hob- 
goblins abi'oad. 

The  Brazen  Head.  Time  is. 

Miles.  Time  is !  Why,  Master  Brazen  Head, 
have  yoTi  such  a  capital  nose,  and  answer  you 
with  syllables,  'Time  is?'  Is  this  all  my  master's 
cunning,  to  spend  seven  years'  study  about  '  Time 
is  ?  '  Well,  sir,  it  may  be  we  shall  have  some 
better  orations  of  it  anon :  well,  I'll  watch  you 
as  narrowly  as  ever  you  were  watched,  and  I'll 
play  with  you  as  the  nightingale  with  the  slow- 
worm  ;  I'll  set  a  prick  against  my  breast.  Now 
rest  there.  Miles.  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me,  I 
have  almost  killed  myself !  [A  great  noise.'\  Up, 
Miles  !  list  how  they  rumble. 

The  Brazen  Head.  Time  was. 

Miles.  Well,  Friar  Bacon,  you  have  spent  your 
seven  years'  study  well,  that  can  make  your 
head  speak  but  two  words  at  once,  '  Time  was.' 
Yea,  marry,  time  was  when  my  master  was  a 
wise  man ;  but  that  was  before  he  began  to  make 
the  Brazen  Head.  You  shall  lie  while^  your  arse 
ache,  an  your  head  speak  no  better.  Well,  I  will 
watch,  and  walk  up  and  down,  and  be  a  peripa- 
tetian,^  and  a  philosopher  of  Aristotle's  stamp, 
[A  great  noise!]  What !  a  fresh  noise  ?  Take 
thy  pistols  in  hand.  Miles. 

The  Brazen  Head.    Time  is  past. 

[A  lightning  flashes  forth,  and  a  hand  appears, 
that  breaks  doion  the  Head  with  a  hammer. 

Ifiles.  Master,  master,  up!  hell's  broken  loose; 
your  head  sjjeaks;  and  there's  such  a  thunder 
and  lightning,  that  I  warrant  all  Oxford  is  up 
in  arms.  Out  of  your  bed,  and  take  a  brown-bill 
in  your  hand ;  the  latter  day  is  come. 

Bacon.  Miles,  I  come.     [Eises  and  comes  Jbr- 
wai'd.]     Oh,  passing  warily  watch'd ! 
Bacon  will  make  thee  next  himself  in  love. 
When  spake  the  head  ? 

Miles.  When  spake  the  head  !  Did  not  you  say 
that  he  should  tell  strange  principles  of  piiilo- 
sophy?  Why,  sir,  it  speaks  but  two  words  at  a 
time. 

Bacon.  Why,  villain,  hath  it  spoken  oft  ? 

Miles.  Oft!' ay,  marry,  hath  it,  thrice;  but  in 
all  those  three  times  it  hath  uttered  but  seven 
words. 

Bacon.  As  how  ? 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  the  first  time  he  said  '  Time 
is,'  as  if  Fabius  Commentator  should  have  pro- 
nounced a  sentence ;  he  said,  '  Time  was ; '  and 
the  third  time,  with  thunder  and  lightning,  as 
•in  great  choler,  he  said,  '  Time  is  past.' 

Bacon.  'Tis  past  indeed.    Ah,  villain !  time  is 
past: 
My  life,  my  fame,  my  glory,  all  are  past. — 
Bacon, 

The  turrets  of  thy  hope  are  ruin'd  down, 
Thy  seven  years'  study  lieth  in  the  dust : 
Thy  Brazen  Head  lies  broken  through  a  slave 
That  watch'd,  and  would  not  when  the  head  did 
What  said  the  head  first  ?  [will. — 

Miles.  Even,  sir,  '  Time  is.' 

Bacon.  Villain,  if  thou  hadst  call'd  to  Bacon 
then. 
If  thou  hadst  watch'd,  and  wak'd  the  sleepy  friar, 
The  Brazen  Head  had  utter'd  aphorisms, 
And  England  had  been  circled  round  with  brass: 
But  proud  Asmenoth,  ruler  of  the  north. 
And  Demogorgon,  master  of  the  fates. 
Grudge  that  a  mortal  man  should  work  so  much. 


'  white — until. 

2  peripatetian~a  walker  about;  in  allusion  to  the 
Peripatetic  philosophers. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


93 


Hell  trembled  at  my  deep-commandiDg  spells, 
Fiends  frown'd  to  see  a  man  their  over-match  ; 
Bacon  might  boast  more  than  a  man  might  boast. 
But  now  the  braves '  of  Bacon  have  an  end, 
Europe's  conceit  of  Bacon  hath  an  end, 
His  seven  years'  practice  sorteth  to  ill  end : 
And,  villain,  sith  my  glory  hath  an  end, 
I  will  appoint  thee  fatal  to  some  end. 
Villain,  avoid !  get  thee  from  Bacon's  sight ! 
Vagrant,  go  roam  and  range  about  the  world, 
And  perish  as  a  vagabond  on  earth ! 

Miks.  Why,  then,  sir,  you  forbid  me  your 
service  ? 

Bacon.  My  service,  villain  !  with  a  fatal  curse. 
That  direful  plagues  and  mischief  fall  on  thee. 

Miles.  'Tis  no  matter,  I  am  against  you  with 
the  old  proverb.  The  more  the  fox  is  cursed, 
the  better  he  fares.  God  be  with  you,  sir:  I'll 
take  but  a  book  in  my  hand,  a  wide-sleeved 
gown  on  my  back,  and  a  crowned  cap  on  my 
head,  and  see  if  I  can  want  promotion. 

Bacon.    Some  fiend  or  ghost  haunt  on  thy 
weary  steps, 
Until  they  do  transport  thee  quick  to  hell : 
For  Bacon  shall  have  never  merry  day, 
To  lose  the  fame  and  honour  of  his  head. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Empeeoe,  the  King  of  Castile,  King 
Henry,  Elinor,  Prince  Edward,  Lacy, 
and  Kalph  Simnell. 

Envp.  Now,  lovely  prince,  the  prince  of  Albion's 
How  fare  the  Lady  Elinor  and  you  ?         [wealth, 
What,  have  you  courted  and  found  Castile  fit 
To  answer  England  in  equivalence? 
Will't  be  a  match  'twixt  bonny  Nell  and  thee  ? 

P.  Edw.  Should  Paris  enter  in  the  courts  of 
Greece, 
And  not  lie  fetter'd  in  fair  Helen's  looks  ? 
Or  Phcebus  'scape  those  piercing  amorets^ 
That  Daphne  glanced  at  his  deity  ? 
Can  Edward,  then,  sit  by  a  flame  and  freeze. 
Whose  heat  puts  Helen  and  fair  Daphne  down  ? 
Now,  monarchs,  ask  the  lady  if  we  gree. 

K.  Hen.    What,   madam,   hath  my  son  found 
grace  or  no  ? 

Elin.  Seeing,  my  lord,  his  lovely  counterfeit,^ 
And  hearing  how  his  mind  and  shape  agreed, 
I  came  not,  troop'd  with  all  this  warlOie  train. 
Doubting  of  love,  but  so  affectionate. 
As  Edward  hath  in  England  what  he  won  in 
Spain.* 

K.  of  Cast.  A  match,  my  lord;  these  wantons 
needs  must  love: 
Men  must  have  wives,  and  women  will  be  wed : 
Let's  haste  the  daj'^  to  honour  up  the  rites. 

Ralph.  Sirrah  Harry,  shall  Ned  marry  Nell  ? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  Ealph  :  how  then  ? 

Ralph.  Marry,  Harry,  follow  my  counsel:  send 
for  Friar  Bacon  to  marry  them,  for  he'll  so  conjure 
him  and  her  with  his  necromancy,  that  they  shall 
love  together  like  pig  and  lamb  whilst  they  live. 

K.  of  Cast.  But  hearest  thou,  Kalph,  art  thou 
content  to  have  Elinor  to  thy  lady  ? 

Ralph.  Ay,  so  she  will  promise  me  two  things. 

K.  of  Cast.  What's  that,  Kalph  ? 

Ralph.  That  she  will  never  scold  with  Ned, 
nor  fight  with  me. — Sirrah  Harry,  I  have  put  her 
down  with  a  thing  unpossible. 

K.  Hen.  What's  that,  Ralph  ? 

Ralph.  Why,  Harry,  didst  thou  ever  see  that 
a  woman  could  both  hold  her  tongue  and  her 


1  hraves — vaunts.  ^  amorets — loving  looks. 

3  counterfeit — portrait. 

*  As  JSdward  hath  in  England  what  he  icon  in  Spain. 
-Dyce  thinks  this  line  corrupted. 


hands?  no:  biit  when  egg-pies  grow  on  applo- 
trees,  then  will  thy  grey  mare  prove  a  bag-piper. 

Emp.  What  say  the  Lord  of  Castile  and  the 
Earl  of  Lincoln,  that  they  are  in  such  earnest 
and  secret  talk  ? 

A',  of  Cast.  I  stand,  my  lord,  amazfed  at  his  talk, 
How  he  discourseth  of  the  constancy 
Of  one  surnam'd,  for  beauty's  excellence. 
The  Fair  Maid  of  merry  Fressingfield. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  true,  my  lord,  'tis  wondrous  for 
to  hear; 
Her  beauty  passing  Mars's  paramour. 
Her  virgin's  right  as  rich  as  Vesta's  was. 
Lacy  and  Ned  have  told  me  miracles. 

K.  of  Cast.  What  says  Lord  Lacy  ?  shall  she 
be  his  wife? 

Lacy.  Or  else  Lord  Lacy  is  tmfit  to  live. — 
May  it  please  your  highness  give  me  leave  to  jiost 
To  Fressingfield,  I'll  fetch  the  bonny  girl, 
And  prove,  in  true  appearance  at  the  court. 
What  I  have  vouched  often  with  my  tongue. 

K.  Hen.  Lacy,  go  to  the  'querry  of  my  stable, 
And  take  such  coursers  as  shall  fit  thy  turn : 
Hie  thee  to  Fressingfield,  and  bring  home  the  lass; 
And,  for  her  fame  tlies  through  the  English  coast. 
If  it  may  please  the  Lady  Elinor, 
One  day  shall  match  j'our  excellence  and  her. 

Elin.  We  Castile  ladies  are  not  very  coy; 
Tour  highness  may  command  a  greater  boon : 
And  glad  were  I  to  grace  the  Lincoln  Earl 
With  beiug  partner  of  his  marriage-day. 

P.  Edw.  Gramercy,  Nell,  for  I  do  love  the  lord. 
As  he  that's  second  to  myself  in  love. 

Raljih.  You  love  her? — Madam  Nell,  never 
believe  him  you,  though  he  swears  he  loves  you. 

Elin.  Why,  Ralph  ? 

Ralph.  Why,  his  love  is  like  unto  a  tapster's 
glass  that  is  broken  with  every  touch;  for  he 
loved  the  fair  maid  of  Fressingfield  once  out  of 
all  ho.' — Nay,  Ned,  never  wink  upon  me ;  I  care 
not,  I. 

K.  Hen.  Ealph  tells  all ;  you  shall  have  a  good 
secretary  of  him. — 
But,  Lacy,  haste  thee  post  to  Fi'essingfield ; 
For  ere  thou  hast  fitted  all  things  for  her  state, 
The  solemn  marriage-day  will  be  at  hand. 

Lacy.  I  go,  my  lord.  \_Exlt. 

Emp.  How  shall  we  pass  this  day,  my  lord? 

K.  Hen.  To  horse,  my  lord;  the  day  is  passing 
fair, 
We'll  fly  the  partridge,  or  go  rouse  the  deer. 
Follow,  my  lords;  you  shall  not  want  for  sport. 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter  to  Friar  Bacon  in  his  cell,  Friar  Bungay. 

Bun.  What  means  the  friar  that  frolick'd  it 
of  late, 
To  sit  as  melancholy  in  his  cell 
As  if  Ije  had  neither  lost  nor  won  to-day? 

Bacon.  Ah,  Bungay,  my  Brazen  Head  is  spoil'd, 
M3'  glory  gone,  my  seven  years'  study  lost ! 
The  fame  of  Bacon,  bruited  through  the  world, 
Shall  end  and  perish  with  this  deep  disgrace. 

Bun.  Bacon  hath  built  foundation  of  his  fame 
So  surely  on  the  wings  of  true  report. 
With  acting  strange  and  uncouth  miracles. 
As  this  cannot  infringe  what  he  deserves. 

Bacon.  Bungay,  sit  down,  for  by  prospective 
skill 
I  find  this  day  shall  fall  out  ominous : 
Some  deadly  act  shall  'tide  me  ere  I  sleep; 
But  what  and  wherein,  little  can  I  guess. 


I  ont  of  all  ho — out  of  all  boimds  or  measure;  pro- 
bably from  the  notion  of  calling  in  or  restraining  a 
sporting  dog  or  hawk,  with  a  call  or  ho,  or  from  calling 
after  a  person  to  stop  him. — Nakes. 


94 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Bun-  My  mind  is  heavy,  "whatsoe'er  shall  hap. 
[Knocking  loilhin. 
Bacon.  AVho's  that  knocks  ? 
Bun.  Two  scholars  that  desire  to  speak  with 

you. 
Bacon.  Bid  them  come  in. 

Enter  two  Scholars. 

Now,  my  youths,  what  would  you  have  ? 

First  Schol.  Sir,  we  are  Suffolk  men  and  neigh- 
bouring friends ; 
Our  fathers  in  their  countries  lusty  squires  ; 
Their  lauds  adjoin :  in  Cratfield  mine  doth  dwell, 
And  his  in  Laxfield.     We  are  college-mates, 
Sworn  brothers,  as  our  fathers  live  as  friends. 

Bacon.  To  what  end  is  all  this  .' 

Second  Schol.  Hearing  your  worship  kept  with- 
in your  cell 
A  glass  i^rospective,  wherein  men  might  see 
Whatso  their  thoughts  or  hearts'  desire  could 

wish. 
We  come  to  know  how  that  our  fathers  fare. 

Bacon.  My  glass  is  free  for  every  honest  man. 
Sit  down,  and  you  shall  see  ere  long,  how 
Or  in  what  state  your  friendly  fathers  live. 
Meanwhile,  tell  me  your  names. 

First  Schol.  Mine  Lambert. 

Second  Schol.  And  mine  Serlsby. 

Bacon.  Bungay,  I  smell  there  will  be  a  tragedy. 

Enter  Labibert  a7id  Serlsby  with  rapiers  and 

daggers.'^ 
Lam.   Serlsby,  thou  hast  kept  thine  hour  like 
a  man : 
Thou'rt  worthy  of  the  title  of  a  squire, 
That  durst,  for  proof  of  thy  affection 
And  for  thy  mistress'  favour,  prize-  thy  blood. 
Thou  know'st  what  words  did  pass  at  Fressiug- 

field, 
Such  shameless  braves  as  manhood  cannot  brook : 
Ay,  for  I  scorn  to  bear  such  piercing  taunts. 
Prepare  thee,  Serlsby ;  one  of  us  will  die. 
Ser.  Thou  seest  I  single  thee  the  field,* 
And  what  I  spake,  I'll  maintain  with  my  sword : 
Stand  on  thy  guard,  I  cannot  scold  it  out. 
An  if  thou  kill  me,  think  I  have  a  son. 
That  lives  in  Oxford  in  the  Broadgates-hall, 
Who  will  revenge  his  father's  blood  with  blood. 
Lam.  And,  Serlsby,  I  have  there  a  lusty  boy. 
That  dares  at  weapon  buckle  with  thy  sou. 
And  lives  in  Broadgates  too,  as  well  as  thine  : 
But  draw  thy  rapier,  for  we'll  have  a  bout. 
Bacon.  Now,  lusty  younkers,  look  within  the 
glass. 
And  tell  me  if  you  can  discern  your  sires. 

First  Schol.  Serlsby,  'tis  hard ;  thy  father  offers 
wrong. 
To  combat  with  my  father  in  the  field. 
Second  Schol.  Lambert,  thou  lies^  my  father's 
is  th'  abuse. 
And  thou  shalt  find  it,  if  my  father  harm. 
Bun.  How  goes  it,  sirs  ? 
Fii-st  Schol.  Our  fathers  are  in  combat  hard  by 

Fressingfield. 
Bacon.  Sit  still,  my  friends,  and  see  the  event. 
Lam.    Why  stand'st  thou,  Serlsby  ?    doubt'st 
thou  of  thy  life  ? 
A  veney,*  man  1  fair  Margaret  craves  so  much. 


1  The  fathers  of  the  two  scholars  are  seen  in  tlie 
same  way  as  Edward  beheld  Lacy,  Bungay,  and  Mar- 
garet in  the  glass — viz.  at  the  hack  of  the  stage. — 
DODSLEY  (ed.  1825). 

2  prize — risk  in  combat. 

3  Ttiou  seest,  &c. — Dyce  reads  this  line,  Tliou  seest  J 
single  [meet]  tliee  [in]  the  field. 

*  veney — a  venue  or  bout,  from  Fr.  venue,  a  coming  on. 


Ser.  Then  this  for  her. 

First  Schol.  Ah,  well  thrust ! 

Second  Schol.  But  mark  the  ward. 

[Lambert  and  Serlsbi'  stab  each  other. 

Lam.  Oh,  I  am  slain  !  [Dies. 

Ser.  And  I, — Lord  have  mercy  on  me !    [Dies. 

Fir.it  Schol.   My  father  slain! — Serlsby,- ward 
that. 

Second  Schol.  And  so  is  mine! — Lambert,  I'll 
quite  thee  well. 

[The  Two  Scholars  stab  each  other,  and  die. 

Bun.  0  strange  stratagem ! 

Bacon.   See,  friai',  where  the  fathers  both  lie 
dead ! — 
Bacon,  thy  magic  doth  effect  this  massacre  : 
This  glass  prospective  worketh  many  woes ; 
And  therefore  seeing  these  brave  lusty  Brutes, 
These  friendly  j'outlis,  did  perish  by  thine  art, 
End  all  thy  magic  and  thine  art  at  once. 
The  poniard  that  did  end  the  fatal  lives. 
Shall  break  the  cause  efiiciati  of  their  woes. 
So  fade  the  glass,  and  end  with  it  the  shows 
That  necromancy  did  infuse  the  crystal  with. 

[Breaks  the  glass. 

Bun.  What  means  learn'd  Bacon  thus  to  break 
his  glass  ? 

Bacon.  I  tell  thee,  Bungay,  it  repents  me  sore 
That  ever  Bacon  meddled  in  this  art. 
The  hours  I  have  spent  in  pyromantic  spells. 
The  fearful  tossing  in  the  latest  night, 
Of  papers  full  of  necromantic  charms. 
Conjuring  and  adjuring  devils  and  fiends, 
With  stole  and  alb  and  strange  pentageron ; 
The  wresting  of  the  holy  name  of  God, 
As  Sother,  Eloim,  and  Adonai, 
Alpha,  Mauoth,  and  Tetragrammaton, 
With  praying  to  the  fivefold  powers  of  heaven, 
Are  instances  that  Bacon  must  be  danin'd 
For  using  devils  to  countervail  his  God. — 
Yet,  Bacon,  cheer  thee,  drown  not  in  despair: 
Sins  have  their  salves,  repentance  can  do  much : 
Think  Mercy  sits  where  Justice  holds  her  seat. 
And  from  those  wounds  those  bloody  Jews  did 

pierce. 
Which  by  thy  magic  oft  did  bleed  afresh, 
From  thence  for  thee  the  dew  of  mercy  drops, 
To  wash  the  wrath  of  high  Jehovah's  ire. 
And  make  thee  as  a  new-born  babe  from  sin. — 
Bungaj',  I'll  spend  the  remnant  of  my  life 
In  pure  devotion,  praying  to  my  God 
That  He  would  save  what  Bacon  vainly  lost. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Margaret  in  nun's  apparel,  the  Keeper,  and 
their  Friend. 

Keeper.  Margaret,  be  not  so  headstrong  in  these 
vows : 
Oh,  bury  not  such  beauty  in  a  cell. 
That  England  hath  held  famous  for  the  hue ! 
Thy  father's  hair,  like  to  the  silver  blooms 
That  beautify  the  shrubs  of  Africa, 
Shall  fall  before  the  dated  time  of  death, 
Thus  to  forego  his  lovely  Margaret. 

Mar.  Ah !  father,  when  the  harmony  of  heaven 
Soundeth  the  measures  of  a  lively  faith, 
The  vain  illusions  of  this  flattering  world 
Seem  odious  to  the  thoughts  of  Margaret. 
I  lovfed  once, — Lord  Lacy  was  my  love  ; 
And  now  I  hate  myself  for  that  I  lov'd, 
And  doted  more  on  him  than  on  my  God, — 
For  this  I  scourge  myself  with  sharp  rejDents. 
But  now  the  touch  of  such  aspiring  sins 
Tells  me  all  love  is  lust  but  love  of  heaven  ; 
That  beauty  used  for  love  is  vanity  : 
The  world  contains  naught  but  alluring  baits, 

'  ^ci'aJ— efficient. 


ROBERT  GREENE. 


95 


Pride,  flattery,  and  inconstant  thoughts. 
To  shun  the  pricks  of  death  I  leave  the  world. 
And  vow  to  meditate  on  heavenly  bliss, 
To  live  in  Framlingham  a  holy  nun. 
Holy  and  pure  in  conscience  and  in  deed ; 
And  for  to  wish  all  maids  to  learn  of  me 
To  seek  heaven's  joy  before  earth's  vanity. 

Friend.  And  will  you,  then,  Margaret,  be  shorn 
a  nun,  and  so  leave  us  all  ? 

Mar.  Now  farewell  world,  the  engine  of  allwoe  I 
Farewell  to  friends  and  father !  Welcome  Christ ! 
Adieu  to  dainty  robes !  this  base  attire 
Better  befits  an  humble  mind  to  God 
Than  all  the  show  of  rich  habiliments. 
Love,  0  love !  and,  with  fond  love,  farewell 
Sweet  Lacy,  whom  I  loved  once  so  dear ! 
Ever  be  well,  but  never  in  my  thoughts, 
Lest  I  offend  to  think  on  Lacy's  love  : 
But  even  to  that,  as  to  the  rest,  farewell ! 

Enter  Lacy,  "Wareex,  and  Erjisby,  hooted  and 
spurred. 

Lacy.    Come    on^   my  wags,   we're   near  the 
Keeper's  lodge. 
Here  have  I  oft  walk'd  in  the  watery  meads, 
And  chatted  with  my  lovely  Margaret. 
War.  Sirrah  Ned,  is  not  this  the  Keeper? 
Lacy.  'Tis  the  same. 

Erm.  The  old  lecher  hath  gotten  holy  mutton' 
to  him ;  a  nun,  my  lord. 

Lacy.  Keeper,   how  far'st  thou?    holla,  man, 
what  cheer  ? 
How  doth  Peggj',  thy  daughter  and  my  love  ? 
Keeper.  Ah,  good  my  lord !  Oh,  woe  is  me  for 
■Peggy ! 
See  where  she  stands  clad  in  her  nun's  attire, 
Ready  for  to  be  shorn  in  Framlingham  : 
She  leaves  the  world  because  she  left  your  love. 
Oh,  good  my  lord,  persuade  her  if  you  can! 
Lacy.  Why,  how  now,  Margaret  I  what!  a  mal- 
content ? 
A  nun  ?  what  holy  father  taught  you  this, 
To  task  yourself  to  such  a  tedious  life 
As  die  a  maid?  'twere  injury  to  me. 
To  smother  up  such  beauty  in  a  cell. 

Mar.  Lord  Lacy,  thinking  of  my  former  'miss,- 
How  fond^  the  prime  of  wanton  years  were  spent 
In  love  (oh,  fie  upon  that  fond  conceit, 
Whose  hap  and  essence  hangeth  in  the  eye !), 
I  leave  both  love  and  love's  content  at  once, 
Betaking  me  to  Him  that  is  true  love. 
And  leaving  all  the  world  for  love  of  Him. 
Lacy.  Whence,  Peggy,   comes  this  metamor- 
phosis ? 
What !  shorn  a  nun,  and  I  have  from  the  court 
Posted  with  coursers  to  convey  thee  hence 
To  Windsor,  where  our  marriage  shall  be  kept! 
Thy  wedding-robes  are  in  the  tailor's  hands. 
Come,  Peggy,  leave  these  peremptory  vows. 
Mar.  Did  not  my  lord  resign  his  interest, 
And  make  divorce  'twixt  Margaret  and  him  ? 

Lacy.  'T  was  but  to  tiy  sweet  Peggy's  constancy. 
But  wiU  fair  Margaret  leave  her  love  and  lord  ? 
Mar.  Is  not  heaven's  joy  before  earth's  fading 
bliss, 
And  life  above  sweeter  than  life  in  love  ? 
Lacy.  "Why,  then,  Margaret  will  be  shorn  a  nun  ? 
Mar.  Margaret 
Hath  made  a  vow  which  may  not  be  revok'd. 
War.  We  cannot  stay,  my  lord ;  an  if  she  be 
so  strict. 


1  mutton— a.  tenu  at  the  time  often  applied  to  a  pros- 
titute. 

2  'miss — amiss,  i.e.  fault. 

2  fond,  i.e.  fondhj— foolishly,  vainly;  old  Eng.  fonne, 
Scotch /on,  to  be  foolish. 


Our  leism-e  grants  us  not  to  woo  afresb^ 
Erms.  Choose  you,  fair  damsel,  yet  the  choice 
is  yours, — 
Either  a  solemn  nunnery  or  the  court, 
God  or  Lord  Lacy :  which  contents  you  best, 
To  be  a  nun,  or  else  Lord  Lacy's  wife  ? 

Lacy.   A   good  notion. — Peggy,  your  answer 
must  be  short. 

31ar.  The  flesh  is  frail :  my  lord  doth  know  it 
well, 
That  when  he  comes  with  his  enchanting  face, 
Whate'er  betide,  I  cannot  say  him  nay. 
Off  goes  the  habit  of  a  maiden's  heart. 
And,  seeing  fortune  will,  fair  Framlingham, 
And  all  the  show  of  holy  nuns  farewell ! 
Lacy  for  me,  if  he  will  be  my  lord. 

Lacy.  Peggy,  thy  lord,  thy  love,  thy  husband. 
Trust  me,  by  tnith  of  knighthood,  that  the  king 
Stays  for  to  marry  matchless  Elinor, 
Until  I  bring  thee  richly  to  the  court, 
That  one  day  may  both  marry  her  and  thee. — 
How  say's  thou.  Keeper?  art  thou  glad  of  this  ? 

Keep.  As  if  the  English  king  had  given 
The  park  and  deer  of  Fressingfield  to  me. 

Erm.  1  pray  thee,  my  Lord  of  Sussex,  why  art 
thou  in  a  brown  study  ? 

War.  To  see  the  nature  of  women ;  that  be 
they  never  so  near  God,  yet  they  love  to  die  in  a 
man's  anus. 

Lacy.  What  have  you  fit  for  breakfast?     We 
have  hied 
And  posted  all  this  night  to  Fressingfield. 

3Iar.  Butter  and  cheese,  and  umbles^  of  a  deer. 
Such  as  poor  keepers  have  within  their  lodge. 

Lacy.  And  not  a  bottle  of  wine  ? 

Mar.  We  '11  find  one  for  my  lord. 

Lacy   Come,  Sussex,  let  us  in:  we  shall  have 
more, 
For  she  speaks  least,  to  hold  her  promise  sure. 

^Exeunt. 
Enter  a  Devil. 

Devil.  How  restless  are  the  ghosts  of  hellish 
sprites, 
When  every  charmer  with  his  magic  spells 
Calls  us  from  ninefold-trenched  Phlegethon, 
To  scud  and  over-scour  the  earth  in  post 
Upon  the  speedy  wings  of  swiftest  winds ! 
Now  Bacon  hath  raised  me  from  the  darkest  deep, 
To  search  about  the  world  for  Miles  his  man, 
For  Miles,  and  to  torment  his  lazy  bones 
For  careless  watching  of  his  Brazen  Head. 
See  where  he  comes  :  Oh,  he  is  mine. 

Enter  Miles  in  a  gmcn  and  a  corner-cap. 

Miles.  A  scholar,  quoth  you!  marry,  sir,  I 
would  I  had  been  made  a  bottle-maker  when  I 
was  made  a  scholar;  for  I  can  get  neither  to  be 
a  deacon,  reader,  nor  schoolmaster,  no,  not  the 
clerk  of  a  parish.  Some  call  me  dunce  ;  another 
saith,  my  head  is  as  full  of  Latin  as  an  egg's  full 
of  oatmeal :  thus  I  am  tormented,  that  the  devil 
and  Friar  Bacon  haunt  me. — Good  Lord,  here's 
one  of  my  master's  devils !  I'll  go  speak  to  him. 
^-What,  Master  Ph;tus,  how  cheer  you  ? 

Dev.  Dost  thou  know  me? 

Miles.  Know  you,  sir!  why,  are  not  you  one 
of  my  master's  devils,  that  were  wont  to  come  to 
my  master,  Doctor  Bacon,  at  Brazen-nose  ? 

Dev.  Yes,  marry,  am  I. 

Miles.  Good  Lord,  Master  Plutus,  I  have  seen 
you  a  thousand  times  at  my  master's,  and  yet  I 
had  never  the  manners  to  make  you  drink.  But, 
sir,  I  am  glad  to  see  how  conformable  you  are  to 


1  unibles — i.e.  the  inward  parts  of  a  deer,  a  hunting 
term ;  of  these  was  umhle  pie  made. 


96 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


the  statute. — I  waiTant  you,  he's  as  yeomanly  a 
man  as  you  shall  see :  mark  you.  masters,  here's 
a  plain  honest  man,  without  welt  or  guard.' — 
But,  I  pray  you,  sir,  do  you  come  lately  from 
hell? 

Dev.  Ay,  marry :  how  then  ? 

Miles.  Faith,  'tis  a  place  I  have  desired  long  to 
see:  have  you  not  good  tippliug-houses  there? 
May  not  a  man  have  a  lusty  fire  there,  a  pot  of 
good  ale,  a  pair-  of  cards,  a  swinging  piece  of 
chalk,  and  a  brown  toast  that  will  clap  a  white 
waistcoat  on  a  cup  of  good  drink  ? 

Dev.  All  this  you  may  have  there. 

Miles.  You  are  for  me,  friend,  and  I  am  for 
you.  JBut,  I  pray  you,  may  I  not  have  an  office 
there  ? 

Bev.  Yes,  a  thousand  :  what  Avouldst  thou  be  ? 

Miles.  By  my  troth,  sir,  in  a  place  where  1  may 
profit  myself.  I  know  hell  is  a  hot  place,  and 
men  are  marvellous  dry,  and  much  drink  is  spent 
there;  I  would  be  a  tapster. 

Dev.  Thou  shalt. 

Miles.  There's  nothing  lots ^  me  from  going 
with  you,  but  that  'tis  a  long  journey,  and  I  have 
never  a  horse. 

Dev.  Thou  shalt  ride  on  my  back. 

Miles.  Now  surely  here's  a  courteous  devil, 
that,  for  to  pleasure  his  friend,  will  not  stick  to 
make  a  jade  of  himself. — But  I  pi'ay  you,  good- 
man  friend,  let  me  move  a  question  to  you. 

Dev.  What's  that? 

Miles,  i  pray  you,  whether  is  your  pace  a  trot 
or  an  amble  ? 

Dev.  An  amble. 

Miles.  'Tis  well ;  but  take  heed  it  be  not  a 
trot :  but  no  matter,  I'll  prevent  it. 

[_Ptits  on  sjnu's. 

Dev.  What  dost  ? 

Miles.  Marry,  friend,  I  put  on  my  spurs  ;  for  if 
I  find  your  pace  cither  a  trot  or  else  uneasy,  I'll 
put  you  to  a  false  gallop ;  I'll  make  you  feel  the 
benefit  of  my  spurs. 

Dev.  Get  up  upon  my  back. 

[Miles  mounts  on  the  Devil's  back. 

Miles.  0  Lord,  here's  even  a  goodly  marvel, 
when  a  man  rides  to  hell  on  the  devil's  back ! 

\_Exeunt,  the  devil  roaring. 

Enter  the  Emperor  tvith  a  pointless  sioord  ;  next 
the  King  of  Castile  carrying  a  sword  with  a 
point ;  Lacy  carrying  the  globe ;  Prince  Ed- 
ward ;  Warren  carrying  a  rod  of  gold  luith  a 
dove  on  it ;  Ermsby  with  a  croion  and  sceptre ; 
Princess  Elinor  with  Margaret  Countess  of 
Lincoln  on  her  left  hand;  King  Heni{y,  Bacon, 
and  Lords  attending. 

P.  Edw.  Great  potentates,  earth's  miracles  for 
state, 
Think  that  Prince  Edward  humbles  at  your  feet, 
And,  for  these  favours,  on  his  martial  sword 
He  vows  perpetual  homage  to  yom'selves, 
Yielding  these  honours  unto  Elinor. 

K.  Hen.  Gramercies,  lordings;  old  Plan tagenet, 
That  rules  and  sways  the  Albion  diadem, 
With  tears  discovers  these  conceived  joys, 
And  vows  requital,  if  his  men-at-arms. 
The  wealth  of  England,  or  due  honours  done 
To  Elinor,  may  quite  his  favourites. 
But  all  this  while  what  say  you  to  the  dames 
That  shine  like  to  the  crystal  lamps  of  heaven  ? 

Emp.  If  bat  a  third  were  added  to  these  two, 
They  did  surpass  those  gorgeous  images 
That  gloried  Ida  with  rich  beauty's  wealth. 

•  welt  or  guard.     Wells  are  borders  or  edging,  guards 

trimmings  (ir  facings, 
-^air— pack.  ^  lets — hinders. 


3far.  'Tis  I,  my  lords,  who  humbly  on  mykneo 
Must  yield  her  orisons  to  mighty  Jove 
For  lifting  up  his  handmaid  to  this  state ; 
Bi'ought  from  her  homely  cottage  to  the  court. 
And  grac'd  with  kings,  princes,  and  emperors, 
To  whom  (next  to  the  noble  Lincoln  Earl) 
I  vow  obedience,  and  such  humble  love 
As  may  a  handmaid  to  such  mighty  men. 
P.  Elin.   Thou  martial  man  that  wears   the 
Almain  crown. 
And  you  the  western  potentates  of  might. 
The  Albion  princess,  English  Edward's  wife. 
Proud  that  the  lovely  star  of  Fressingfield, 
Fair  Margaret>,  Countess  to  the  Lincoln  Ear], 
Attends  on  Elinor, — gramercies,  lord,  for  her, — 
'Tis  I  give  thanks  for  Margaret  to  you  all. 
And  rest  for  her  due  bounden  to  yourselves. 

K.  Hen.  Seeing  the  marriage  is  solemnised. 
Let's  march  in  triumph  to  the  royal  feast. — 
But  why  stands  Friar  Bacon  hero  so  mute? 

Bacon.  Kcpentant  for  the  follies  of  my  youth, 
That  magic's  secret  mysteries  misled, 
And  joyful  that  Ids  royal  marriage 
Portends  such  bliss  unto  this  matchless  realm. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  Bacon, 
What  strange  event  shall  happen  to  this  land  ? 
Or  what  shall  grow  from  Edward  and  his  queen  ? 
Bacon.  I  find  i  by  deep  prescience  of  mine  art, 
Which  once  1  temper'd  in  my  secret  cell. 
That  here  where  Brute-  did  build  his  Troj'uovant, 
From  forth  the  royal  garden  of  a  king 
Shall  fiourish  out  so  rich  and  fair  a  bud. 
Whose   brightness  shall   deface   proud  Phoebus' 

flower, 
And  overshadow  Albion  with  her  leaves. 
Till  then  Mars  shall  be  master  of  the  field. 
But  then  the  stormy  threats  of  wars  shall  cease : 
The  horse  shall  stamf)  as  careless  of  the  pike. 
Drums  shall  be  turn'd  to  timbrels  of  delight ; 
With  wealthy  favours  plenty  shall  enrich 
The  strand  that  gladded  wandering  Brute  to  see, 
And  peace  from  heaven  shall  harbom-  in  these 

leaves 
That  gorgeous  beautify  this  matchless  flower : 
Apollo's  heliotropion  then  shall  stoop. 
And  Venus'  hj-acinth  shall  vail  ^  her  top ; 
Juno  shall  shut  her  gilliflowers  up. 
And  Pallas'  bay  sliall  'bash  her  brightest  green ; 
Ceres'  carnation,  in  consort  with  those. 
Shall  stoop  and  wonder  at  Diana's  rose. 
K.  Hen.  This  prophecy  is  mystical. — 
But,  glorious  commanders  of  Europa's  love, 
That  make  fair  England  like  that  wealthy  isla 
Circled  with  Gihon  and  first  Euphrates, 
In  royalizing  Henry's  Albion 
With  presence  of  your  princely  mightiness, — 
Let's  march :  the  tables  all  are  spread, 
And  viands,  such  as  England's  wealth  affords, 
Are  ready  set  to  furnish  out  the  boards. 
You  shall  have  welcome,  mighty  potentates  : 
It  rests  to  furnish  up  this  royal  feast. 
Only  your  hearts  be  frolic ;  for  the  time 
Craves  that  we  taste  of  naught  but  jouissance :  * 
Thus  glories  England  over  all  the  west. 

\_Exeunf,  omnes. 
Omne  tulit  punctuin  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci.^ 

'  I  find,  &c. — an  obvious  comi)liment  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, but  not  half  so  fulsome  and  extravagant  as  many 
at  the  conclusion  of  plays  acted  previous  to  her  death. 
— DODSLEY  (cd.  1825). 

-  Brutus,  grandson  of  jEneas,  the  fabulous  founder  of 
New  Troy  or  London. 

3  vail— Xowai- \  Fr.  avaler,  to  descend,  let  down,  aval, 
down ;  Lat.  ad,  to,  vallis,  a  valley. 

*  jouissance,  Fr. — enjoyment. 

5  Omme  tulit,  &c. — Green's  favourite  motto,  from 
Horace's  Ars  Poet.,  343.  '  He  who  mixes  the  uscfuJ 
with  the  agreeable  carries  the  apiilause  of  all.' 


CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE. 


[The  materials  for  a  biography  of  Christopher  ]\Iarlowe  are  even  scantier  than  in  the  case  of 
the  three  dramatists  -whom  we  have  previously  noticed.  The  facts  of  his  life  can  be  told  in 
a  very  few  words.  He  was  the  son  of  John  Marlowe,  a  shoemaker,  and  was  born  at  Canter- 
bury in  February  1563-4.  Probably  through  the  influence  of  Sir  Eoger  Man  wood,  a  Kentish 
gentleman,  and  Chief  Baron  of  the  Exchequer,  Marlowe  was  admitted  to  the  King's  School 
at  Canterbury  ;  after  remaining  at  which  for  a  number  of  years,  he  proceeded  to  Cambridge, 
matriculating  as  Pensioner  of  Benet  College,  March  17,  1580-1.  Here  he  took  his  degree  of 
B.A.  in  1583,  and  that  of  M.A.  in  1587,  jwevious  to  which  he  had  probably  Avritten  his 
tragedy  of  Tamherlaine  the  Great.  It  must  have  been  shortly  after,  if  not  some  time 
previous  to  1587,  that  Marlowe  went  to  London,  where,  according  to  an  early  biographer, 
his  first  connection  with  the  ch-ama  was  as  an  actor.  This  vocation,  however,  he  had  ere 
long  to  resign,  as,  according  to  a  curious  ballad  entitled  The  Atheist's  Tragedie,  written 
shortly  after  Marlowe's  death,  and  of  which  he  is  the  hero, 

*  He  brake  his  leg  in  one  lewd  scene, 
When  in  his  early  age. ' 

From  this  time  till  his  early  and  sad  death  in  1593,  he  gained  his  livelihood  entirely  by  his 
pen,  writing  di-amas,  poems,  and  translations.    In  the  words  of  the  ballad  above-mentioned — 

'  A  poet  was  he  of  repute, 

And  wrote  full  many  a  play ; 
K"ow  strutting  in  a  silken  suit. 
Then  begging  by  the  way. ' 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  gave  himself  up  unrestrainedly  to  the  riotous  living,  indulged 
in  by  so  many  of  his  contemporaries,  spending  his  time  and  his  money  in  the  company  of 
such  wild  spirits  as  Peele,  Greene,  and  Nash.  In  the  burial  register  of  the  parish  church  of 
St.  Nicholas,  Deptford,  is  the  following  entry  : — '  Christopher  Marlow,  slaine  by  ffrancis 
Archer,  the  1  of  June,  1593.'  The  manner  of  his  death  is  told  by  William  Vaughan,  in 
The  Golden  Grove  (a.d.  1600).  'It  so  happened,  that  at  Deptford,  a  little  village  about 
three  miles  from  London,  as  he  (Marlowe)  meant  to  stab  with  his  poignard  one  named 
Ingram  (Archer)  that  had  invited  him  thither  to  a  feast,  and  was  then  playing  at  tables  ;  he 
(Archer)  quickly  perceiving  it,  so  avoided  the  thrust,  that  withal  drawing  out  his  dagger  for 
his  own  defence,  he  stabbed  this  Marlowe  into  the  eye  in  such  sort,  that  his  brains  coming 
out  at  the  dagger's  point,  he  shortly  after  died.'  Another  authority  says  that  it  was 
Marlowe's  own  dagger  which  Archer  turned  agamst  him  ;  and  from  ]\Ieres's  Wifs  Treasimj 
we  learn  that  Archer  was  '  a  bawdy  serving  man,  a  rival  of  his  lewd  love. '  JLarlowe  appears 
to  have  paid  little  heed  to  the  warning  of  his  former  companion  Greene,  whose  wretched 
death  occurred  only  a  year  before.  Appended  to  Greene's  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  is  an  address, 
*  To  those  gentlemen,  his  quondam  acquaintance,  who  spend  their  wits  in  making  plays. ' 
As  throwing  some  light  on  Marlowe's  life  and  character,  we  shall  quote  here  the  part  which 
refers  to  him  : — 

'  If  Avofull  experience  may  mooue  you,  gentlemen,  to  beware,  or  vnheard-of  wretchednes 
intreat  you  to  take  heed,  I  doubt  not  but  you  will  look  backe  with  sorrow  on  your  time  past. 


98 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


and  endeuour  with  repentance  to  spend  that  which  is  to  come.  Wonder  not  (for  with  thee 
will  I  first  beginne),  thou  famous  gracer  of  tragedians  [i.  e.  Marlowe],  that  Green,  who  hath 
said  with  thee,  like  the  foole  in  his  heart,  "  There  is  no  God,"  should  now  giue  glorie  vnto 
his  greatnesse  ;  for  penetrating  is  his  power,  his  hand  lyes  heauy  vpon  me,  He  hath  spoken 
vnto  me  with  a  voyce  of  thunder,  and  I  haue  felt  He  is  a  God  that  can  punish  enemies. 
Why  should  thy  excellent  wit,  his  gift,  he  so  blinded  that  thou  shouldest  giue  no  glory  to 
the  giuer  ?  Is  it  pestilent  Machiuilian  policie  that  thou  hast  studied  ?  0  peevish  follie  ! 
what  are  his  rules  but  meere  confused  mockeries,  able  to  extirpate  in  small  time  the  genera- 
tion of  mankinde  ?  for  if  sic  volo,  sic  iubeo,  holde  in  those  that  are  able  to  commaund,  and  if 
it  be  lawfull  Jas  et  nefas,  to  doo  any  thing  that  is  beneficiall,  onely  tyrants  should  possesse 
the  earth,  and  they,  striuing  to  exceed  in  tiranny,  should  ech  to  other  be  a  slaughterman, 
till,  the  mightyest  outlining  all,  one  stroke  were  left  for  Death,  that  in  one  age  man's  life 
should  end.  The  brocher'  of  this  dyabolicall  atheisme  is  dead,  and  in  his  life  had  neuer  the 
felicitie  he  aymed  at,  but,  as  he  beganne  in  craft,  lined  in  feare,  and  ended  in-  dispaire. 
Quaminscrutahilia  sunt  Dei  judicial  This  murderer  of  many  brethren  had  his  conscience 
seared  like  Cayne  ;  this  betrayer  of  Him  that  gaue  his  life  for  him  inherited  the  portion  of 
Judas ;  this  apostate  perished  as  ill  as  Julian :  and  wilt  thou,  my  friend,  be  his  disciple  ? 
Looke  vnto  mee,  by  him  perswaded  to  that  libertie,  and  thou  shalt  finde  it  an  infernall 
bondage.  I  know  the  least  of  my  demerits  merit  this  miserable  death  ;  but  wilfull  striuing 
against  knowne  truth  exceedeth  all  the  terrors  of  my  soule.  Deferre  not  (with  mee)  till  this 
last  point  of  extremitie ;  for  little  knowest  thou  how  in  the  end  thou  shalt  be  visited. ' 

Here  it  will  be  seen  that  Greene  charges  Marlowe  with  atheism.  The  same  charge  is 
repeated  by  Beau  in  his  Theatre  of  God's  Judgments  (1597),  who  also  asserts  that  he  Awote 
a  book  against  the  Trinity,  '  affirming  the  Holy  Bible  to  be  but  vain  and  idle  stories,  and  all 
religion  but  a  device  of  policy. '  Similar  charges  were  brought  against  him  by  contemporary 
and  immediately  succeeding  -Rrriters,  and  their  truth  has  generally  been  believed  in  to  a 
greater  or  less  extent  by  most  of  his  biographers.  What  weight  is  to  be  given  to  these 
assertions  it  is  impossible  now  to  say ;  but  altogether  the  evidence  leads  us  to  believe  that 
Marlowe  was  an  avowed  disbeliever  in  the  divine  authorship  of  the  Bible,  and  the  super- 
natural origin  of  Christianity,  and  that  he  rather  liked  to  parade  his  disbelief  in  an  offensive 
and  coarse  manner  ;  but  whether  he  professed  to  have  any  rational  ground  for  this  scepticism, 
or  whether  it  was  merely  the  result  of  bitterness,  conceit,  and  licentiousness,  we  cannot 
make  out.  He,  as  was  the  case  with  most  of  his  companions,  certainly  led  the  life  of  one 
who  neither  believed  in  God,  nor  respected  himself  nor  his  fellow-men  ;  but  whose  only 
creed  was  '  eat,  drinlc,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die.' 

Marlowe  appears  to  have  been  a  favourite  with  his  companions,  among  whom  he  was 
familiarly  known  as  '  Kit  Marlowe, '  and  even  by  his  contemporaries  his  surpassing  genius 
seems  to  have  been  recognised.  Peele,  in  the  prologue  to  the  Honour  of  the  Garter, 
apostrophizes  him  thus : — 

'  Unhappy  in  thine  end, 
Marley,  the  Muses'  darling  for  thy  verse, 
Fit  to  -wiite  passions  for  the  souls  below, 
If  any  wretched  souls  in  passion  speak. ' 

Marlowe's  di'amas,  like  those  of  most  of  his  contemporaries,  are  very  unequal  in  merit,  they 
are  wanting  in  coherence,  and  in  orderliness  and  definiteness  of  plan,  and  are  occasionally 
marked  by  bombast  and  silluiess.  As  a  whole,  however,  they  are  characterized  by  such 
extraordinary  vigour,  power,  and  passion,  so  great  boldness  and  exuberant  richness  of  imagi- 
nation, and  by  such  well-marked,  consistent,  and  striking  portraiture  of  character,  as  to 
entitle  him  in  these  respects  to  be  placed  above  all  his  contemporaries,  and  among  the 
very  few  who  were  second  to  Shakespeare.  Had  Marlowe  lived  longer,  and  given  his  high 
powers  fair  play — which  he  never  did — he  would  imdoubtedly,  in  the  words  of  Dyce, 
'  have  made  a  much  nearer  approach  in  tragedy  to  Shakespeare  than  has  yet  been  made 
by  any  of  his  countrymen.'     We  have  selected  from  Marlowe's  dramas  his  Edward  the 

1  '  Probably  Francis  Kennet,  A.M.,  of  Winmendham  in  Norfolk,  who  was  bred  at  Benet  College,  and  in  1589 
was  burnt  for  holding  detestable  opinions  concerning  Christ.' — Maxone. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE.  q^ 

Second,  written,  according  to  "VVarton,  in  the  year  1590,  and  first  printed  in  1598.  As 
a  -wliole  it  is  considered  the  most  perfectly  constructed  of  his  plays  ;  '  there  is  no  overdoing 
of  character,  no  tui-gidity  of  language.'  '  The  reluctant  pangs  of  abdicating  royalty,'  says 
Charles  Lamb,  'in  Edward,  furnished  hints  which  Shakespeare  scarce  improved  in  his 
Richard  II.  ;  and  the  death-scene  of  Marlowe's  king  moves  pity  and  terror  beyond  any 
scene  ancient  or  modern  with  which  I  am  acquainted. '  The  tragedy  of  Faustus,  probably 
written  about  1587  or  1588,  is  altogether  so  remarkable,  and  contains  passages  of  such  super-, 
abundant  power,  that  any  selection  from  Marlowe,  or  any  collection  of  specimens  of  the 
Elizabethan  drama,  would  be  altogether  defective  without  it.  "VVe  have  therefore  selected 
the  greater  part  of  it  for  publication,  from  the  earliest  known  edition,  that  of  1604,  amending 
it  in  a  few  places  from  that  of  1616  ;  even  this  early  edition,  however,  had  been  touched  up 
and  added  to  by  the  playwi-ights  of  the  time,  as  '  in  consequence  of  having  been  repeatedly 
performed,  it  had  somewhat  palled  upon  the  audience. '  The  words  of  Hazlitt  are  specially 
applicable  to  Faustus :  '  There  is  a  lust  of  power,  a  hunger  and  thirst  after  unrighteousness, 
a  glow  of  the  imagination,  unhallowed  by  anything  but  its  own  energies.  His  thoughts 
biu'n  within  him  like  a  furnace  with  bickering  flames,  or  throwing  out  black  smoke  and 
mists,  that  hide  the  dawn  of  genius,  or,  like  a  poisonous  mineral,  corrode  the  heart.  Faustus 
himself  is  a  rude  sketch,  but  it  is  a  gigantic  one.  This  character  may  be  considered  as  a 
personification  of  the  j)ride  of  will  and  eagerness  of  curiosity,  sublimed  beyond  the  reach  of 
fear  and  remorse.'  In  the  details  of  the  story,  Marlowe  followed  closely  the  prose  romance 
entitled  History  of  Doctor  Faustus,  published  some  time  before.  Besides  those  already 
mentioned,  the  other  dramas  attributed  to  Marlowe  are  The  Jew  of  Malta,  written  about 
1589,  but  not  published  till  1633  ;  The  Massacre  at  Paris,  written  not  long  before  the 
author's  death,  and  first  published  about  1596.  Marlowe  appears  also  to  have  commenced 
a  tragedy  entitled  Dido,  which  was  finished  for  the  stage  by  Nash,  after  his  death.  These 
are  all  the  di'amas  that  can  be  certainly  attributed  to  Marlowe,  although  it  is  not  improbable 
that  others  of  his  composition  have  either  been  lost  or  have  been  attributed  to  others. 
Marlowe  also  translated  Hero  and  Leander,  Ovid's  Elegies,  and  the  first  book  of  Lucan.] 


lOO 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


THE  TROUBLESOME  REIGN  AND  LAMENTABLE  DEATH 
OF  EDWARD  THE  SECOND,  KING  OF  ENGLAND : 

WITH  THE  TRAGICAL  FALL  OP  PROUD  MORTIMER:  AND 
ALSO  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  PEIRS  GAVESTON,  THE 
GREAT  EARL  OF  CORNWALL,  AND  MIGHTY  FAVOURITE 
OF  KING  EDWARD  THE  SECOND:^ 

AS  IT  WAS  PUBLICLY  ACTED  BY  THE  EIGHT  HONOURABLE  THE  EARL  OE 
PEMBROKE  HIS  SERVANTS. 

WKITTEN  BY  CHKI.    MARLOW,    GENT. 

Imjmnted  at  London  by  Richard  Bradoche,for  William  Jones,  divellingnear  Holhorn  conduit, 

at  the  sign  of  the  Gun.     1593. 


gramalis  ^crscnir. 


King  Edwakd  the  Second. 

Prince  Edward,  his  Son,  afterwards  King  Edward 

the  Third. 
Kent,  Brother  to  King  Edward  the  Second. 
Gaveston. 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
Bishop  of  Coventry. 
Bishop  of  Winchester. 
Warwick. 
Lancaster. 
Pembroke. 
Arundel. 
Leicester. 
Berkeley. 
Mortimer  the  elder. 
MoETijiER  the  younger,  his  Niphew. 
Spenser  the  elder. 
Spenser  the  younger,  his  Son. 
Baldock. 


Beaujiont. 
Trussel. 

GURNEY. 

Matrevis. 
Lightborn. 
Sir  John  of  Hainault. 
Levune. 
ElCE  AP  Howel. 
Abbot. 
Monks. 
Herald. 

Lords,   Poor  Men,  James,  Mower,   Champion, 
Messengers,  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

Queen  Isabella,  loife  to  King  Edioard  the  Second. 
Niece  to  King  Edwai-d  the  Second,  Daughttr  to 

the  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
Ladies. 


The  Scene  lies  in  England  and  France. 


Enter  Gaveston,  reading  a  letter. 

Gav.  My  father  is  deceased.     Come,  Gavestone, 
And  share  the  kingdom  luith  thy  dearest  friend. 
All,  words  that  make  me  surfeit  with  delight ! 
What  greater  bliss  can  hap  to  Gaveston 
Than  live  and  be  the  favourite  of  a  king  ! 
Sweet  prince,  I  come!  these,  these  thy  amorous 

lines  [France, 

Might   have  enforc'd  me  to   have   swum  from 
And,  like  Leander,  gasp'd  upon  the  sand. 
So   thou  wouldst   smile,  and  take  me  in  thine 

arms. 
The  sight  of  London  to  my  esil'd  eyes 
Is  as  Elysium  to  a  now*come  soul : 
Not  that  I  love  the  city  or  the  men, 
But  that  it  harbours  him  I  hold  so  dear, — 


1  The  action  of  this  play  includes  the  whole  of  the 
reign  of  Kdwanl  ii.,  commencing  with  the  recall  of 
Gaveston,  which  liappencd  before  the  funeral  of 
Edward  l. 


The  king,  upon  whose  bosom  let  me  die, 
And  with  the  world  be  still  at  enmity. 
What  need  the  arctic  p^ple  love  star-light, 
To  whom  the  sun  shines  both  by  day  and  night? 
Farewell  base  stooping  to  the  lordlv  peers! 
My  knee  shall  bow  to  none  but  to  the  Icing. 
As  for  the  multitude,  that  are  but  sparks, 
Eak'd  up  in  embers  of  their  poverty, — 
Tanti, ' — I'll  fawn  -  first  on  the  wind. 
That  glanceth  at  my  lips,  and  flieth  away. 

Enter  three  Poor  Men. 

But  how  now !  what  ai-e  these  ? 

Poor  Uen.    Such    as    desire    your  worship's 
service. 

Gav.  What  canst  thou  do  ? 


1  Tanli — compare  Fuimus  Troes,  1603 : 

'  No  kingly  menace  or  censorious  frowne 
Doe  1  regard.  Tanti  for  all  your  power.' 

Sig.  F  3— DrcE. 
*  fawn — Dodsley  reads  '  fan.' 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


ior 


First  P.  Man.  I  can  ride. 
Gav.  But  I  have  no  horse. — What  art  thou  ? 
Sec.  P.  Man.  A  traveller. 
Gav.  Let  me  see  :  thou  wouldst  do  well 
To   wait  at  my  trencher,   and  tell  me  lies  at 

dinner-time  ; 
And,  as  I  like  your  discoursing,  I'll  have  you. — 
And  what  art  thou  ? 

Third  P.  Man.    A  soldier,   that   hath  serv'd 
against  the  Scot.  ' 

Gav.  Why,  there  are  hospitals  for  such  as  you : 
I  have  no  war ;  and  therefore,  sir,  be  gone. 
Third  P.   Man.   Farewell ;   and  perish  by  a 
soldier's  hand. 
That  wouldst  reward  them  with  an  hospital ! 
Gav.  Ay,  ay,  these  words  of  his  move  me  as 
much 
As  if  a  goose  should  play  the  porcupine. 
And   dart  her  plumes,   thinking   to  pierce   my 

breast. 
But  yet  it  is  no  pain  to  speak  men  fair  ; 
I'll  flatter  these,  and  make  them  live  in  hope. — 

^Aside. 
You  know  that  I  came  lately  out  of  France, 
And  yet  I  have  not  view'd  my  lord  the  king  : 
If  I  speed  Avell,  I'll  entertain  you  all. 
All.  We  thank  your  worship. 
Gav.  1  have  some  business :  leave  me  to  myself. 
All.  We  will  wait  here  about  the  court. 
Gav.  Do.  [Exeunt  Poor  Men. 

These  are  not  men  for  me  ; 
I  must  have  Avauton  poets,  pleasant  wits. 
Musicians,  that  with  touching  of  a  string 
May  draw  the  pliant  king  which  way  1  please  : 
Music  and  poetry  i  is  his  delight ; 
Therefore  I'll  have  Italian  masks  by  night, 
Sweet  speeches,  comedies,  and  pleasing  shows  ; 
And  in  the  day,  when  he  shall  walk  abroad. 
Like  sylvan  nymphs  my  pages  shall  be  clad  ; 
My  men,  like  satyrs  grazing  on  the  lawns, 
Shall  with  their  goat-feet  dance  the  antic  hay  ;  * 
Sometime  a  lovely  boy  in  Dian's  shape, 
With  hair  that  gilds  the  water  as  it  glides, 
Crownets  ^  of  pearl  about  his  naked  arms, 
And  in  his  sportful  hands  an  olive  tree. 
To  hide  those  parts  which  men  delight  to  see, 
Shall  bathe  him  in  a  spring  ;  and  there,  hard  by. 
One  like  Actseon,  ■*  peeping  through  the  grove, 
Shall  by  the  angiy  goddess  be  transform'd. 
And  running  in  the  likeness  of  an  hart. 
By  yelping  hounds  puU'd  down,  shall  seem  to 

die : 
Such  things  as  these  best  please  his  majesty. — 
My  lord,  here  comes  the  king  and  the  nobles 
From  the  parliament.     I'll  stand  aside. 

[Retires. 


1  Music  and  poetry,  &e. — '  How  exactly  the  author,  as 
the  learned  Dr.  Huvd  observes,  has  painted  the  humour 
of  the  times,  which  esteemed  masks  and  shows  as  tlie 
highest  indulgence  that  could  be  provided  for  a  luxuii- 
ous  and  happy  monarch,  we  may  see  from  the  enter- 
tainment provided,  not  many  years  after,  for  the  recep- 
tion of  King  James  at  Althorp  in  Northamptonshire, 
where  tliis  very  design  of  Sylvan  Nymphs,  Saiy}-s,  and 
Actxoit,  was  executed  in  a  JIasque  by  Ben  Jonson. 
[Huvd's]  Moral  and  Political  Dialogues,  vol.  1,  p.  194,' 
— Dodslbt's  Old  flays. 

^  antic  hay — antic  here  means  grotesque,  fantastic, 
and  is  still  used  as  a  noun,  meaning  grotesque  capers; 
it  is  the  same  word  as  '  antique.'  Jlay  was  the  name  of 
a  round  country  dance ;  '  Shall  we  go  dance  the  haj-  ?  ' 
occurs  in  England's  Helicon;  and  mention  is  made  of  it 
in  Love's  Labour  Lost,  act  v.,  sc.  1. 

^  Crownet — the  diminutive  of  crown,  i.e.,  coronet. 

*  Actxon,  according  to  the  fable,  was  a  hunter  who 
was  transformed  by  Artemis  (Diana)  into  a  stag,  and 
torn  to  pieces  by  dogs,  for  peeping  at  the  goddess  and 
her  nymphs  bathing. 


Enter  Eing  Edw.AiID,  K3nt,  Laxcastsk.  i/'e  ehh.r 
MoETiMER,  the  ^yfiVi'igir  Moiitijuke,  Y! av.- 
wiCK,  PembrOxvE,  and  iiitendants, 

K.  Edw.  Lancaster ! 

Lan.  My  lord  ? 

Gav.  That  Earl  of  Lancaster  do  I  abhor. 

[Aside, 
K.  Edw.  Will  you  not  grant  me  this  ? — In  spite 
of  them 
I'll  have  my  will ;  and  these  two  Mortimers, 
That  cross  me  thus,  shall  know  I  am  displeas'd. 

[Aside. 
E.  Mor.  If  you  love  us,  my  lord,  hate  Gave- 

ston. 
Gav.  That  villain  Mortimer !    I'll  be  his  death. 

[Aside. 
T.   Mor.   Mine  uncle  here,  this  earl,    and   1 
myself, 
Were  sworn  to  your  father  at  his  death, 
That  he  sliould  ne'er  return  into  the  realm  : 
And  know,  my  lord,  ere  I  will  break  my  oath. 
This  sword  of  mine,  that  should  offend  your 

foes, 
Shall  sleep  within  the  scabbard  at  thy  need. 
And  rmderneath  thy  banners  march  who  will. 
For  Mortimer  will  hang  his  armour  up. 

Gav.  Mortdieu!  [Aside. 

K.  Edw.  Well,  Mortimer,   I'll  make  thee  rue 
these  words. 
Beseems  it  thee  to  contradict  thy  king  ? 
Frown'st  thou  thereat,  aspiring  Lancaster? 
The  sword  shall  plane  the  furrows  of  thy  brows. 
And  hew  these  knees  that  now  are  grown  so 

stiff. 
I  will  have  Gaveston  ;  and  you  shall  Icnow 
What  danger  'tis  to  stand  against  your  king. 
Gav.  Well  done,  Ned  !  [Aside. 

Lan.  My  lord,  why  do  you  thus  incense  your 
peers, 
That  naturally  would  love  and  honour  you, 
Ikit  for  that  base  and  obscure  Gaveston  ? 
Four  earldoms  have  I,  besides  Lancaster, — 
Derby,  Salisbury,  Lincoln,  Leicester ; 
These  will  I  sell,  to  give  my  soldiers  pay. 
Ere  Gaveston  shall  stay  within  the  realm  : 
Therefore,  if  he  be  come,  expel  him  straight. 
Kent.  Barons  and  earls,  your  pride  hath  made 
me  mute ; 
But  now  I'll  speak,  and  to  the  proof,  I  hope. 
I  do  remember,  in  my  father's  days. 
Lord  Percy  of  the  North,  being  highly  mov'd, 
Brav'd  Mowbray  in  presence  of  the  king  ; 
For  which,  had  not  his  highness  lov'd  him  well, 
He  should  have  lost  his  head  ;  but  with  his  look 
Th'  undaunted  spirit  of  Percy  was  appeas'd, 
And  Mowbray  and  he  were  reconcil'd  : 
Yet  dare  you  brave  the  king  unto  his  face. — 
Brother,  revenge  it,  and  let  these  their  heads 
Preach  upon  poles,  for  trespass  of  their  tongues. 
War.  Oh,  our  heads  ! 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  yours;    and  therefore  I  would 
wish  you  grant. 

War.  Bridle  thy  anger,  gentle  Mortimer. 
Y.   Mor.    I  cannot,   nor  I  will  not;    I  must 
speak. — 
Cousin,  our  hands,  I  hope,  shall  fence  our  heads. 
And  strike  off  his  that  makes  you  threaten  vts. — 
Come,  uncle,  let  us  leave  the  brain-sick  king, 
And  henceforth  parley  with  our  naked  swords. 
E.  Mor.  Wiltshire  hath  men  enough  to  save  our 

heads. 
War.  All  Warwickshire  will  love  i  him  for  my 
sake. 


*  love — Dyce  reads  '  leave.' 


IDi 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Lan.   And  northward  Lancaster  *  hath  many 

^rier  dj.-  -  '     ; 
Adieu,  niy  ]ord;;  f.nd  nithsv  chrtnge  your  mind, 
Or  look  to  see  the  throne,  where  you  should  sit. 
To  float  in  blood,  and  at  thy  wanton  head 
The  glozing^  head  of  thy  base  minion  thrown. 

[Exeunt  all  except  King  Edavaed,  Kent, 
Gaveston,  and  Attendants. 
K.  Edw.  I  cannot  brook  these  haughty  menaces; 
Am  I  a  king,  and  must  be  overrul'd? — 
Brother,  display  my  ensigns  in  the  field: 
I'll  bandy^  with  the  barons  and  the  earls, 
And  either  die  or  live  with  Gaveston. 

Gav.  I  can  no  longer  keep  me  from  my  lord. 

[  Comes  forward. 
K.  Edw.    What !    Gaveston !  welcome !     Kiss 
not  my  hand  : 
Embrace  me,  Gaveston,  as  I  do  thee. 
Why  should'st  thou  kneel  ?    Know'st  thou  not 

who  I  am .' 
Thy  friend,  thyself,  another  Gaveston : 
Not  Hj'las*  was  mourned  for  of  Hercules 
Than  thou  hast  been  of  me  since  thy  exile. 

Gav.  And,  since  I  went  from  hence,  no  soul  in 
hell 
Hath  felt  more  torment  than  poor  Gaveston. 
K.  Edw.  I  know  it. — Brother,  welcome  home 
my  friend. — 
Now  let  the  treacherous  Mortimers  conspire, 
And  that  high-miuded  Earl  of  Lancaster : 
I  have  my  wish,  in  that  I  joy=  thy  sight ; 
And  sooner  shall  the  sea  o'erwhelm  my  land 
Than   bear  the  ship  that  shall  transport   thee 

hence. 
I  here  create  thee  Lord  High  Chamberlain, 
Chief  Secretaiy  to  the  state  and  me, 
Earl  of  Cornwall,  King  and  Lord  of  Man. 

Gav.  My  lord,  these  titles  far  exceed  my  worth. 
Kent.    Brother,   the  least   of  these  may  well 
suffice 
For  one  of  greater  birth  than  Gaveston. 

K.  Edw.   Cease,  brother,  for  I  cannot  brook 
these  words. — 
Thy  worth,  sweet  friend,  is  far  above  my  gifts  : 
Therefore,  to  equal  it,  receive  my  heart. 
If  for  these  dignities  thou  bo  envied,^ 
I'll  give  thee  more  ;  for,  but  to  honoiir  thee, 
Is  Edward  pleas'd  with  kingly  regiment.^ 
Fear'st  thou  thy  person  ?    thou   shalt  have   a 

guard : 
Wantest  thou  gold?  go  to  my  treasiiry : 
Would' st  thou  be  lov'd  and  fear'd?   receive  my 

seal. 
Save  or  condemn,  and  in  our  name  command 
What  so  thy  mind  affects,  or  fancy  likes. 

Gav.  It  shall  suffice  me  to  enjoy  your  love  ; 
Which  whiles  I  have,  I  think  myself  as  great 
As  Ca3sar  riding  in  the  Eoman  street. 
With  captive  kings  at  his  triumphal  car. 

Enter  the  Bishop  of  Coventry. 

K.  Edw.  Whither  goes  my  Lord  of  Coventry 
so  fast  ? 


1  Lancaster — Old  eds.  '  Gaueston.' 

2  glazing — flattering. 

^  bandy — i.e.,  '  oppose  witli  all  my  force;  totisviribus 
se  opponere,  says  Skinner,  voce  bandy.' — Dodslex's  Old 
Plays. 

*  JJylas,  according  to  the  fable,  was  the  friend  and 
perhaps  the  son  of  Hercules ;  he  was  so  beautiful  that 
the  naiads  stole  him,  and  Hercules  tried  iu  vain  to  find 
him. 

^  joy— enjoy. 

*  envied — hated. 

'  regiment — rule,  government ;  Lat.  regimenlum,  regi- 
men, from  rego,  to  rule. 


Bisk,    of    Cov.     To    celebrate    your    father's 
exequies. 
But  is  that  wicked  Gaveston  retum'd  ? 
K.  Edw.  Ay,  priest,  and  hves  to  be  reveng'd 
on  thee. 
That  "wert  the  only  cause  of  his  exile. 

Gav.  'Tis  true  ;  and,  but  for  reverence  of  these 
robes, 
Thou  should'st  not  plod  one  foot  beyond  this 
place. 
Bish.  of  Cov.  I  did  no  more  than  I  was  bound 
to  do : 
And,  Gaveston,  unless  thou  be  reclaim'd, 
As  then  I  did  incense  the  parliament. 
So  will  I  now,  and  thou  shalt  back  to  France. 

Gav.^  Saving  your  reverence,  you  must  pardon 
me. 

K.  Edw.  Thi'ow  off  his  golden  mitre,  rend  his 
stole. 
And  in  the  channel^  christen  him  anew. 

Kent.  Ah,  brother,  lay  not  violent  hands  on 
him! 
For  he'll  complain  unto  the  see  of  Eome. 

Gav.  Let  him  complain  unto  the  see  of  hell : 
I'll  be  reveng'd  on  him  for  my  exUe. 
A'.  Edw.  No,  spare  his  Ufe,  but  seize  upon  his 
goods : 
Be  thou  lord  bishop,  and  receive  his  rents. 
And  make  him  serve  thee  as  thy  chaplain : 
I  give  him  thee ;  here,  use  him  as  thou  wilt. 
Gav.  He  shall  to  prison,  and  there  die  in  bolts. 
A'.  Edtu.  Ay,  to  the  Tower,  the  Fleet,  or  where 

thou  wilt. 
Bish.  of  Cov.  For  this  offence  be  thou  accurs'd 

of  God ! 
K.  Edw.  Who's  there .'     Convey  this  priest  to 

the  Tower. 
Bish.  of  Cov.  True,  true.' 
K.  Edw.  But,  in  the  mean  time,  Gaveston,  away. 
And  take  possession  of  his  house  and  goods. 
Come,  follow  me,  and  thou  shalt  have  my  guard 
To  see  it  done,  and  bring  thee  safe  again. 

Gav.  AVhat  should  a  priest  do  with  so  fair  a 
house  ? 
A  prison  may  best  beseem  his  holiness. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  on  one  side  the  elder  Moktijier  and  the 
younger  Mortimer;  on  the  other,  Warwick 
and  Lancaster. 

War.  'Tis  true,  the  bishop  is  in  the  Tower, 
And  goods  and  body  given  to  Gaveston ! 

Lan.    What !    will   they  tyrannize  upon  the 
church  ? 
Ah,  wicked  king!  accursed  Gaveston! 
This  ground,  which  is  corrupted  with  their  steps, 
Shall  be  their  timeless''  sepulchre  or  mine. 

Y.  Mor.    Well,  let  that  peevish  Frenchman 
guard  him  sure ; 
Unless  his  breast  be  sword-proof,  he  shall  die. 

E.  Mor.  How  now!  why  droops  the  Earl  of 
Lancaster  ? 

Y.  Mor.   Wherefore  is  Guy  of  Warwick  dis- 
content ? 

Lan.  That  villain  Gavestone  is  made  an  earl. 

E.  Mor.  An  earl ! 

War.  Ay,  and  besides,  Lord  Chamberlain  of  the 
realm. 
And  Secretai-y  too,  and  Lord  of  Man. 


1  Gav.,  &c,  —  'He  "lays  violent  hands"  upon  the 
bishop.'    See  p.  103,  1st  coL— Dodsley's  Old  Plays. 

2  channel — l^ennel  or  gutter. 

3  True,  true.  Altered  in  Dodsley  (ed.  1825)  to  'Do, 
do.'  Dyce  suggests  '  Frut,  prut '  (an  exclamation  of 
contempt). 

■*  timeless — untimely. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


103 


E.  Mor.  We  may  not  nor  we  will  not  suffer  this. 
Y.  Mor.  Why  post  we  not  from  hence  to  levy 

men? 
Lan.    'My  Lord  of  Cornwall'  now  at  every 
word ; 
And  happy  is  the  man  whom  he  vouchsafes, 
For  vailing'  of  his  bonnet  one  good  look. 
Thus,  arm  in  arm,  the  king  and  he  doth  march : 
Nay  more,  the  guard  upon  his  lordship  waits, 
And  all  the  court  begins  to  flatter  him. 

lVa2\  Thus  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the  king, 

He  nods,  and  scorns,  and  smiles  at  those  that 

pass. 

E.  Mor.  Doth  no  man  take  exceptions  at  the 

slave .' 

Lan.  All  stomach-  him,  but  none  dare  speak  a 

word. 
Y.  Mor.  Ah,  that  bewrays  their  baseness,  Lan- 
caster ! 
Were  all  the  earls  and  barons  of  my  mind. 
We'll'  hale  him  from  the  bosom  of  the  king. 
And  at  the  court-gate  hang  the  peasant  up. 
Who,  swoln  with  venom  of  ambitious  pride, 
Will  be  the  ruin  of  the  realm  and  us. 

War.   Here  comes  my  Lord  of   Canterbury's 

grace. 
Lan.  His  countenance  bewrays  he  is  displeas'd. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  an 

Attendant. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  First  were  his  sacred  garments 
rent  and  torn  ;■ 
Then  laid  they  violent  hands  upon  him ;  next. 
Himself  imiDrison'd,  and  his  goods  asseiz'd  : 
This  certify  the  Pope:  away,  take  horse. 

\_Exit  Attendant. 
Lan.  My  lord,  will  you  take  arms  against  the 
king? 

Archh.  of  Cant.  What  need  1  ?     God  himself  is 
up  in  arms 
Wlien  violence  is  offer'd  to  the  church. 

Y.  Mor.  Then  will  you  join  with  us,  that  be 
his  peers, 
To  banish  or  behead  that  Gavestou  ? 
Archb.  of  Cant.   What  else,  my  lords?   for  it 
concerns  me  near ; 
The  bishoprick  of  Coventry  is  his. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella. 

Y.  Mor.  Madam,  whither  walks  your  majesty 
so  fast? 

Q.  Isah.  Unto  the  forest,  gentle  Mortimer, 
To  live  in  grief  and  baleful  discontent; 
For  now  my  lord  the  king  regards  me  not, 
But  dotes  upon  the  love  of  Gaveston  : 
He  claps  his  cheeks,  and  hangs  about  his  neck. 
Smiles  in  his  face,  and  whispers  in  his  ears ; 
And,  when  I  come,  he  frowns,  as  Avho  should  say, 
'  Go  whither  thou  wilt,  seeing  I  have  Gaveston.' 

E.  Mor.  Is  it  not  strange  that  he  is  thus  be- 
witch'd  ? 

Y.  Mor.  Madam,  return  unto  the  coiu-t  again  : 
That  sly  inveigling  Frenchman  we'll  exile. 
Or  lose  our  lives ;  and  yet,  ere  that  day  come, 
The  king  shall  lose  his  crown ;  for  we  have  power, 
And  courage  too,  to  be  reveng'd  at  full. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  But  yet  lift  not  your  swords 
against  the  Idng. 

Lan.  No ;  but  we  will  lift  Gaveston  from  hence. 

War.  And  war  must  be  the  means,  or  he'll  stay 
still. 


1  vailing — lowering. 

-  stomach  meant  to  iDrook  or  resent;  here  it  means 
to  be  angry  at. 
^  We'll.    Dyce  reads 'We'd' here.    . 


Q.  Isah.  Then  let  him  stay ;   for,  rather  than 
my  lord 
Shall  be  oppress'd  with  civil  mutinies, 
I  will  endure  a  melancholy  life, 
And  let  him  frolic  '  with  his  minion. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  My  lords,  to  ease  all  this  but 
hear  me  speak : 
We  and  the  rest,  that  are  his  counsellors, 
Will  meet,  and  with  a  general  consent 
Confirm  his  banishment  with  our  hands  and  seals. 

Lan.  What  we  confirm  the  king  will  frustrate. 

Y.  Mor.  Then  may  we  lawfully  revolt  from  him. 

War.  But  say,  my  lord,  where  shall  this  meet- 
ing be  ? 

Archh.  of  Cant.  At  the  New  Temple. 

Y.  Mor.  Content. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  And,  in  the  meantime,  I'll  en- 
treat you  all 
To  cross  to  Lambeth,  and  there  stay  with  me. 

Lan.  Come,  then,  let's  away. 

Y.  Mor.  Madam,  farewell. 

Q.  Isah.  Farewell,  sweet  Mortimer;   and,  for 
my  sake. 
Forbear  to  levy  arms  against  the  king. 

Y.  Mor.  Ay,  if  words  will  serve ;  if  not,  I  must. 

[_Exeunt. 

Enter  Gaveston  and  Kent. 

Gav.  Edmund,  the  mighty  prince  of  Lancaster, 
That  hath  more  earldoms  than  an  ass  can  bear, 
And  both  the  Mortimers,  two  goodly  men, 
With  Guy  of  Warwick,  that  redoubted  knight, 
Are  gone  towards  Lambeth :  there  let  them  re- 
main. [Exeunt. 

Enter  Lancaster,  Warwick,  Pembroke,  the 
elder  Mortimer,  the  younger  Mortimer,  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  anrf  Attendants. 

Lan.  Here  is  the  form  of  Gaveston's  exile ; 
May  it  please  your  lordship  to  subscribe  your 
name. 
Archh.  of  Cant.  Give  me  the  paper. 
Lan.  Quick,  quick,  my  lord!  I  long  to  write 
my  name. 

War.    But  I  long  more  to  see  him  banish'd 
hence. 

Y.  Mor.    The  name  of   Mortimer  shall  fright 
the  king. 
Unless  he  be  declin'd  from  ^  that  base  peasant. 

Enter  King  Edward,  Gaveston,  and  Kent. 

K.  Edw.  What !  are  you  mov'd  that  Gaveston 
sits  here  ? 
It  is  our  pleasure ;  we  will  have  it  so. 
Lan.  Your  grace   doth  well  to  place  him  by 
your  side, 
For  nowhere  else  the  new  earl  is  so  safe. 
E.  Mor.  AVhat  man  of  noble  birth  can  brook 
this  sight  ? 
Quani  male  conveniunt!^ 
See  what  a  scornful  look  the  peasant  casts  ! 
Pern.  Can  kingly  lions  fawn  on  creeping  ants  ? 
War.  Ignoble  vassal,  that,  like  Phaeton, 
Aspir'st  unto  the  guidance  of  the  sun  ! 

Y.  Mor.  Their  downfall  is  at  hand,  their  forces 
down : 
We  will  not  thus  be  fac'd  and  over-peer'd. 

K.  Ed'io.  Lay  hands  on  that  traitor  Mortimer ! 
E.  Mor.  Lay  hands  on  that  traitor  Gaveston ! 
Kent.  Is  this  the  duty  that  you  owe  your  king  ? 
War.  We  know  our  duties  :  let  him  know  his 
peers. 


1  frolic — play  or  amuse  himself. 

"  declin' d  from — turned  or  estranged  from. 

•5  Quam,  itc. — 'how  badly  are  they  matched.' 


104 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


K.  Edvj.  WMtlier  will  you  bear  him  ?  stay,  or 
ye  shall  die. 

E.  Mor.  We  are  no  traitors ;  therefore  threaten 
not. 

Gav.  No,  threaten  not,  my  lord,  but  pay  them 
home. 
Were  I  a  king — 

Y.  Mor.  Thou  villain !  wherefore  talk'st  thou 
of  a  king, 
That  hardly  art  a  gentleman  by  birth  ? 

K.  Edio.  Were  he  a  peasant,  being  my  minion, 
I'll  make  the  proudest  of  you  stoop  to  him. 
Lan.   My  lord,  you  may  not   thus   disparage 
us — 
Away,  I  say,  with  hateful  Gaveston ! 
E.  Mor.  And  with  the,Earl  of  Kent  that  favours 
him. 

[Gaveston  and  Kent  are  removed. 
K.  Edw.  Nay,  then,  lay  violent  hands  upon 
your  king : 
Here,  Mortimer,  sit  thou  in  Edward's  throne  ; 
Warwick  and  Lancaster,  wear  you  my  crown. 
Was  ever  king  thus  overruled  as  I .'' 

Lan.  Learn,  then,  to  rule  us  better,  and   the 
realm. 

Y.  Mor.  What  we  have  done,  our  heart-blood 
shall  maintain. 

War.  Think  you  that  we  can  brook  this  up- 
start pride  ? 

K.  Edw.   Anger  and  wrathful  fury  stops  my 
speech. 

ArcJib.  of  Cant.    Why  are    you  moved  ?    be 
patient,  my  lord. 
And  see  what  wo  your  counsellors  have  done. 
Y.  Mor.  My  lords,  now  let  us  all  be  resolute. 
And  either  have  our  wills,  or  lose  our  lives. 
K.  Edw.  Meet  you  for  this,  proud  over- daring 
peers  ? 
Ere  my  sweet  Gaveston  shall  part  from  me, 
This  isle  shall  fleet '  upon  the  ocean. 
And  wander  to  the  unfrequented  Inde. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  You  know  that  I  am  legate  to 
the  Pope : 
On  your  allegiance  to  the  see  of  Eome, 
Subscribe,  as  we  have  done,  to  his  exile. 

Y.  Mor.  Curse  him,  if  he  refuse ;  and  then  may 
we 
Depose  him,  and  elect  another  king. 
K.  Edio.  Ay,  there  it  goes !  but  yet  I  will  not 
yield : 
Curse  me,  depose  me,  do  the  worst  you  can. 

Lan.    Then  linger  not,   my  lord,    but  do   it 
straight. 

Archh.  of  Cant,  Kemeniber  how  the  bishop  was 
abus'd : 
Either  banish  him  that  was  the  cause  thereof. 
Or  I  will  presently  discharge  these  lords 
Of  duty  and  allegiance  due  to  thee. 
K.  Edw.  It  boots  -  me  not  to  threat ;  I  must 
speak  fair : 
The  legate  of  the  Pope  will  be  obey'd. —    [Aside. 
My  lord,  you  shall  be  Cliaiiccllor  of  the  reahn ; 
Thou,  Lancaster,  High-Admiral  of  our  fleet; 
Young  Mortimer  and  his  uncle  shall  be  earls  ; 
And  you.  Lord  Warwick,  President  of  the  North ; 
And  thou  of  Wales.     If  this  content  you  not, 
Make  several  kingdoms  of  this  monarchy. 
And  share  it  equally  amongst  you  all, 
So  I  may  have  some  nook  or  corner  left, 
To  frolic  with  my  dearest  Gaveston. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  Nothing  shall  alter  us  ;  we  are 
resolved. 

Lan.  Come,  come,  subscribe. 


^  fleet — float;  Anglo-Saxon, ^eotan,  to  float. 
"2  boots  —  profits;   Anglo -Saxon,    liot,    compensation, 
betan,  to  cement,  from  the  same  root  as  Utter. 


Y.  Mor.  Why  should  you  love  him  whom  the 
world  hates  so  ? 

K.  Edw.   Because  he  loves  me  more  than  all 
the  world. 
Ah,  none  but  rude  and  savage-minded  men 
Would  seek  the  ruin  of  my  Gaveston  ! 
You  that  be  noble-born  should  pity  him. 

War.  You  that  are  princely-born  should  shake 
him  off : 
For  shame,  subscribe,  and  let  the  lown  i  depart. 

E.  Mor.  Urge  him,  my  lord. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  Are  you  content  to  banish  hira 
the  reahn  ? 

K.  Edw.  I  see  I  must,  and  therefore  am  content : 
Instead  of  ink,  I'll  write  it  with  my  tears. 

[Subscribes. 

Y.  Mor.  The  king  is  love-sick  for  Lis  minion. 

K.  Edw.  'Tis  done :  and  now  accursed  hand, 
fall  off! 

Lan.  Give  it  me :  I'll  have  it  publish'd  in  the 
streets. 

Y.  Mor.  I'll  see  him  presently  despatch'd  away. 

Archh.  of  Cant.  Now  is  my  heart  at  ease. 

War.  And  so  is  mine. 

Pern.  This  Avill  be  good  news  to  the  common 
sort. 

E.  Mor.  Be  it  or  no,  he  shall  not  linger  here. 
[Exeunt  Nobles. 

K.  Edw.  How  fast  they  run  to  banish  him  I 
love ! 
They  would  not  stir,  were  it  to  do  me  good. 
Why  should  a  king  be  subject  to  a  priest  ? 
Proud  Eome,  that  hatchest  such  imperial  grooms,* 
'\^^ith  these  thy  superstitious  tapei'-lights, 
Wherewith  thy  antichristian  churches  blaze, 
I'll  fire  thy  crazed  buildings,  and  enforce 
Thy  papal  towers  to  kiss  the  lowly  ground  ; 
With   slaughter'd   priests  may  Tiber's  channel 

swell. 
And  banks  rais'd  higher  with  their  sepulchres ! 
As  for  the  peers  that  back  the  clergy  thus. 
If  I  be  king,  not  one  of  them  shall  live. 

Enter  Gaveston. 

Gav.  My  Lord  I  hear  it  whisper'd  everywhere. 
That  I  am  banish'd  and  must  fly  the  land. 

A'.  Edw.  'Tis  true,  sweet  Gaveston :  Oh  were  it 
false ! 
The  legate  of  the  Pope  will  have  it  so, 
And  thou  must  hence,  or  I  shall  be  depos'd. 
But  I  will  reign  to  be  reveng'd  of  them ; 
And  therefore,  sweet  friend,  take  it  patiently. 
Live  where  thou  wilt,  I'll  send  thee  gold  enough ; 
And  long  thou  shalt  not  stay;  or,  if  thou  dost, 
I'll  come  to  thee :  my  love  shall  ne'er  decline. 

Gav.  Is  all  my  hope  turn'd  to  this  hell  of  grief  ? 

K.  Edw.  Kend  not    my  heart  with  thy  too- 
piercing  words: 
Thou  from  this  land,  I  from  myself  am  banish'd. 

Gav.    To    go   from   hence   gi-ieves   not    poor 
Gaveston ; 
But  to  forsake  you,  in  whose  gracious  looks 
The  blessedness  of  Gaveston  remains ; 
For  nowhere  else  seeks  he  felicity. 

K-  Edio.  And  only  this  torments  my  wretched 
soul, 
That,  whether  I  will  or  no,  thou  must  depart. 
Be  governor  of  Ireland  in  my  stead, 
And  there  abide  till  fortune  call  thee  home. 
Here,  take  my  j)icture,  and  let  me  wear  thine  : 
Oh  might  I  keep  thee  here,  as  I  do  this, 
Happy  were  I !  bvit  now  most  miserable. 

Gav.  'Tis  something  to  be  pitied  of  a  king. 


1  lown,  loon — tase  low  fellow,  still  used  in  Scotland. 
-  grooms — groom  originally  means  a  man ;    Anglo- 
Saxon,  gunut,  a  man ;  Dutch,  grom,  a  youth. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


105 


A'.  Edio.  Thou  shall  not  hence ;  I'll  hide  thee, 
Gaveston. 

Gav.  I  shall  be  found,  and  then  'twill  grieve 
me  more.  -^ 

K.  Edw.  Kind  words  and  mutual  talk  make  om- 
grief  greater : 
Therefore,  with  dumb  embracement,  let  us  part. 
Stay,  Gaveston  ;  I  cannot  leave  thee  thus. 

Gav.  For  every  look,  my  love  drops  down  a 
tear : 
Seeing  I  must  go,  do  not  renew  my  sorrow. 
K.  Edio.  The  time  is  little  that  thou  hast  to 
stay. 
And  therefore  give  me  leave  to  look  my  fill. 
But  come,  sweet  friend,  I'll  bear  thee  on  thy 
way. 
Gav.  The  peers  will  frown. 
K.  Edw.  I  pass  ^  not  for  their  anger.    Come, 
let's  go : 
Oh,  that  we  might  as  well  return  as  go! 

Enter  Edmund  [Eakl  of  Kent  and^  Queen 
Isabella. 

Q.  Tsah.  Whither  goes  my  lord  ? 

K.  Edw.  Fawn  not  on  me,  French  strumpet ; 
get  thee  gone ! 

Q.  Isab.  On  whom  but  on  my  husband  should 
I  fawn .'' 

Gav.  On    Mortimer;    with    whom,    ungentle 
queen — 
I  say  no  more— judge  you  the  rest,  my  lord. 

Q.  Isab.  In  saying    this,   thou    wrong'st    me, 
Gaveston : 
Is't  not  enough  that  thou  corrupt'st  my  lord, 
And  art  a  bawd  to  his  affections, 
But  thou  must  call  mine  honour  thus  in  question  ? 

Gav.  I  mean  not  so ;  your  grace  must  pardon 
me. 

K.  Edw.  Thou  art  too  familiar  with  that  Mor- 
timer, 
And  by  thy  means  is  Gaveston  exil'd : 
But  I  would  wish  thee  reconcile  the  lords. 
Or  thou  shalt  ne'er  be  reconcil'd  to  me. 

Q.  Isab.  Your  highness  knows,  it  lies  not  in  my 
power. 

K.  Edw.  Away,  then !    touch  me  not. — Come, 
Gaveston. 

Q.  Isab.  Villain,  'tis  thou  that  robb'st  me  of  my 
lord. 

Gav.  Madam,  'tis  you  that  rob  me  of  my  lord. 

K.  Edw.  Speak  not  unto  her:    let  her  droop 
and  pine. 

Q.  Isab.  Wherein,   my  lord,  have   I  deserv'd 
these  words.? 
Witness  the  tears  that  Isabella  sheds, 
Witness  this  heart,  that,  sighing  for  thee,  breaks, 
How  dear  my  lord  is  to  poor  Isabel ! 

K.  Edw.  And  witness  heaven  haw  dear  thou 
art  to  me ! 
There  weep ;  for,  till  my  Gaveston  be  repeal' d, 
Assure  tbyself  thou  com'st  not  in  my  sight. 

\_Exemit  King  Edward  atid  Gaveston. 

Q.  Isab.  Oh  miserable  and  distressed  queen ! 
Would,  when  1  left  sweet  France,  and  was  em- 

bark'd, 
That  charming  Circe,2  walking  on  the  waves, 
Had  chang'd  my  shape !  or  at  the  marriage-day 
The  cup  of  Hymen  had  been  full  of  poisou ! 
Or  with  those  arms,  that  twin'd  about  my  neck, 
I  had  been  stifled,  and  not  liv'd  to  see 
The  king  my  lord  thus  to  abandon  me  ! 
Like  frantic  Juno,  will  I  fill  the  earth 


1  pass — care. 

2  charming  Circe — charming  is  here  used  in  its  literal 
Bcnse,  mplying  one  who  charms  or  bewitches. 


With  ghastly  murmur  of  my  sighs  and  cries ; 
For  never  doted  Jove  on  Ganymede 
So  much  as  he  on  cursed  Gaveston : 
But  that  will  more  exasperate  his  wrath ; 
I  must  entreat  him,  I  must  speak  him  fair, 
And  be  a  means  to  call  home  Gaveston  ; 
And  yet  he'll  ever  doto  on  Gaveston ; 
And  so  am  I  for  ever  miserable. 

Enier  Lancaster,  Warw-ick,  Pejikroke,  the 
elder  Mortimer,  and  the  younger  Mortimer. 

Lan.  Look,  where  the   sister  of  tho  king  of 
France 
Sits  wringing  of  her  hands,  and  beats  her  breast ! 

War.  The  king,  I  fear,  hath  ill-entreated  '  her. 

Pem.  Hard  is  the   heart  that   injures  such  a 
saint. 

Y.  Mor.  I  know  'tis  'long  of   Gaveston    she 
weeps. 

E.  Mor.  Whj%  he  is  gone. 

r.  Mor.  Madam,  how  fares  your  grace  ? 

Q.  Isab.  Ah,  Mortimer,  now  breaks  the  king's 
hate  forth, 
And  he  confesseth  that  he  loves  me  not! 

}'.  Mor.  Ciy  quittance,  madam,  then,  and  love 
not  him. 

Q.  Isab.  No,  rather  will  I  die  a  thousand  deaths : 
And  yet  I  love  in  vain  ;  he'll  ne'er  love  me. 

La7i.  Fear  ye  not,  madam ;  now  his  minion's 
gone. 
His  wanton  humour  will  be  quickly  left. 

Q.  Isab.  Oh,  never,  Lancaster !  I  am  enjoin'd 
To  sue  unto  you  all  for  his  repeal : 
This  wills  my  lord,  and  this  must  I  perform. 
Or  else  be  banish'd  from  his  highness'  presence. 

Lan.  For  his  repeal,  madam !    he  comes  not 
back. 
Unless  the  sea  cast  up  his  shipwreck'd  body. 

War.  And  to  behold  so  sweet  a  sight  as  that. 
There's  none  here  but  would  run  his  horse  to 
death. 

Y.  Mor.  But,  madam,  would  you  have  us  call 
him  home  ? 

Q.  Isab.  Ay,  Mortimer ;  for,  till  he  be  restor'd, 
The  angry  king  hath  banish'd  me  the  court ; 
And  therefore,  as  thou  lov'st  and  tender' st  -  me. 
Be  thou  my  advocate  unto  these  peers. 

Y.  Mor.  What !  would  you  have  me  plead  for 
Gaveston  ? 

E.  Mor.  Plead  for  him  that  will,  I  am  resolv'd. 

Lan.  And    so   am    I,   my  lord:   dissuade  the 
queen. 

Q.  Isab.  Oh,  Lancaster,  let  him  dissuade  the  king ! 
For  'tis  against  my  will  he  should  return. 

War.  Then  speak  not  for  him ;  let  the  peasant  go. 

Q.  Isab.  'Tis  for  myself  I  speak,  and  not  for 
him. 

Pem.  No  speaking  will  prevail ;  and  therefore 
cease. 

Y.  Mor.  Fau-  queen,  forbear  to  angle  for  the 
fish 
Which,  being  caught,  strikes  him  that  takes  it 

dead ; 
I  mean  that  vile  torpedo,  Gaveston, 
That  now,  I  hope,  floats  on  the  Irish  seas. 

Q.  Isab.  Sweet  Mortimer,  sit  down  by  me  a 
while. 
And  I  will  tell  thee  reasons  of  such  weight 
As  thou  wilt  soon  subscribe  to  his  repeal. 

Y.  3Ior.  It  is  impossible :  but  speak  your  mind. 

Q.  Isab.  Then  thus ; — but  none  shall   hear  it 
but  ourselves.  \_Tcd!cs  to  Y.  Mor.  apart. 

Lan.  My  lords,  albeit  the  queen  win  Mortimer, 
Will  you  be  resolute,  and  hold  with  me  ? 

1  ill-entreated — ill-treated. 

2  tender'st — hast  a  tender  regard  for. 


io6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


E.  Mor.  Not  I,  against  my  nephew. 

Pem.  Fear  not ;  the  queen's  words  cannot  alter 
him. 

War.  No?    Do  but  mark  how  earnestly  she 
pleads ! 

Lan.  And  see  how  coldly  his  looks  make  denial! 

War.  She  smiles :  now,  for  my  life,  his  mind 
is  chang'd ! 

Lan.  I'll  rather  lose  his  friendship,  I,  than  grant. 

Y.  Mor.  Well,  of  necessity  it  must  be  so. 
My  lords,  that  I  abhor  base  Gaveston, 
I  hope  your  honours  make  no  question  ; 
And  therefore,  though  I  plead  for  his  repeal, 
'Tis  not  for  his  sake,  but  for  our  avail ;  ^ 
Nay,  for  the  realm's  behoof,  and  for  the  king's. 

Lan.  Fie,  Mortimer,  dishonour  not  thyself  ! 
Can  this  be  true,  'twas  good  to  banish  him  ? 
And  is  this  true,  to  call  him  home  again  ? 
Such  reasons  make  white  blaclv,  and  dark  night 
day. 

r.  Mor.  My  Lord  of    Lancaster,   mark    the 
respect.2 

Lan.  In  no  respect  can  contraries  be  true. 

Q.  Isab.  Yet,  good  my  lord,  hear  what  he  can 
allege. 

War.  All  that  he  speaks  is  nothing;  we  are 
resolv'd. 

Y.  Mor.  Do  you  not  wish  that  Gaveston  were 
dead? 

Pem.  I  would  he  were  ! 

Y.  Mor.  A^'hy,   then,   my  lord,   giye  me  but 
leave  to  speak. 

E.  Mor.  But,  nephew,  do  not  play  the  sophister. 

Y.  31  or.  This  which  i  urge  is  of  a  burning  zeal 
To  mend  the  king  and  do  our  country  good. 
Know  you  not  Gaveston  hath  stoi-e  of  gold,_ 
Which'may  in  Ireland  purchase  him  such  friends 
As  he  will  front  the  mightiest  of  us  all  ? 
And  whereas^  he  shall  live  and  be  belov'd, 
'Tis  hard  for  us  to  work  his  overthrow. 

War.  Mark  you  but  that,  my  Lord  of  Lancaster. 

Y.  3for.  But,  were  he  here,  detested  as  he  is. 
How  easily  might  some  base  slave  be  suborn'd 
To  greet  his  lordship  with  a  poniard. 
And  none  so  much  as  blame  the  murderer. 
But  rather  praise  him  for  that  brave  attempt, 
And  in  the  chronicle  enrol  his  name. 
For  purging  of  the  realm  of  such  a  plague ! 

Pem.  He  saith  true. 

La7i.  Ay,  but  how  chance  this  was  not  done 
before  ? 

Y.  Mor.  Because,  my  lords,  it  was  not  thought 
upon. 
Nay  more,  when  he  shall  know  it  lies  in  us 
To  banish  him,  and  then  to  call  him  home, 
'TwiU  make  him  vail*  the  top-flag  of  his  pride, 
And  fear  to  offend  the  meanest  nobleman. 

E.  Mor.  But  how  if  he  do  not,  nephew  ? 

Y.  Mor.  Then  may  we  with  some  colour  rise 
in  arms ; 
For,  howsoever  we  have  bome  it  out, 
'Tis  treason  to  be  up  against  the  king ; 
So  shall  we  have  the  people  on  our  side, 
Which,  for  his  father's  sake,  lean  to  the  king. 
But  cannot  brook  a  night-grown  mushroom, 
Such  a  one  as  my  Lord  of  Cornwall  is. 
Should  bear  us  down  of  the  nobility : 
And,  when  the  commons  and  the  nobles  join, 
'Tis  not  the  king  can  buckler^  Gaveston  ; 
We'll  pull  him  from  the  strongest  hold  he  hath. 
My  Lords,  if  to  perform  this  1  be  slack. 
Think  me  as  base  a  groom  as  Gaveston. 


1  avail — profit. 

"  respect — consideration  or  reason. 
3  tohereas — wliere.  *  vail — lower. 

^  buckler — shield. 


Lan.  On  that  condition  Lancaster  will  grant. 

War.  And  so.  will  Pembroke  and  I. 

E.  Mor.  And  I. 

Y.  Mor.  In  this  I  count  me  highly  gratified, 
And  Mortimer  will  rest  at  your  command. 

Q.  Isab.  And  when  this  favour  Isabel  forgets, 
Then  let  her  hve  abaudon'd  and  forlorn. 
But  see,  in  happy  time,  my  lord  the  king, 
Having  brought  the  Earl  of  Cornwall  on  his  way, 
Is  new  return'd.    This  news  will  glad  him  much:    ' 
Yet  not  so  much  as  me ;  I  love  him  more  I 

Than  he  can  Gaveston  :  would  he  lov'd  me 
But  half  so  much !  then  were  I  treble-blest. 

Re-enter  King  Edwakd  mourning. 

A.  Edw.  He's  gone,  and  for  his  absence  thus  I 
mourn : 
Did  never  sorrow  go  so  near  my  heart 
As  doth  the  want  of  my  sweet  Gaveston ; 
And,  could  my  crown's  revenue  bring  him  back, 
I  would  freely  give  it  to  his  enemies. 
And  think  I  gain'd,  having  bought  so  dear  a  friend. 

Q.  Isab.  Hark,  how  he  harps  upon  his  minion ! 

K.  Edw.  My  heart  is  as  an  anvil  unto  sorrow, 
Which  beats  upon  it  like  the  Cyclop's  hammers, 
And  with  the  noise  turns  up  my  giddy  brain. 
And  makes  me  frantic  for  my  Gaveston. 
Ah,  had  some  bloodless  Fmy  rose  from  hell. 
And  with  my  kingly  sceptre  struck  me  dead, 
When  I  was  forc'd  to  leave  my  Gaveston ! 

Lan.    Diablo  !  what  passions  call  you  these  ? 

Q.  Isab.  My  gi-acious  lord,  I  come  to  bring  you 
news. 

K.  Edw.   That  you  have  parled'  with  your 
Mortimer  ? 

Q.Isab.  That  Gaveston,  my  lord,  shall  be  repeal'd. 

A'.  Edio.  Eepeal'd !  the  news  is  too  sweet  to  be 
true. 

Q.  Isab.  But  will  you  love  me  if  you  find  it  so? 

K.  Edw.  If  it  be  so,  what  will  not  Edward  do  ? 

Q.  Isab.  For  Gaveston,  but  not  for  Isabel. 

K.  Edw.  For  thee,  fair  queen,  if  thou  lov'st 
Gaveston, 
I'll  hang  a  golden  tongue  about  thy  neck. 
Seeing  thou  hast  jjleaded  with  so  good  success. 

Q.  Isab.  No  other  jewels  hang  about  mj-  neck 
Than   these,  my  lord ;   nor  let  me  have  more 

wealth 
Than  I  may  fetch  from  this  rich  treasury. 
Oh,  how  a  kiss  revives  poor  Isabel ! 

A'.  Edio.  Once  more  receive  my  hand ;  and  let 
this  be 
A  second  marriage  'twixt  thyself  and  me. 

Q.  Isab.  And  may  it  prove  more  happy  than 
the  first ! 
My  gentle  lord,  bespeak  these  nobles  fair. 
That  wait  attendance  for  a  gracious  lools^ 
And  on  their  knees  salute  your  majesty. 

K.  Edio.  Com-ageous  Lancaster,  embrace  thy 
king; 
And,  as  gross  vapours  perish  by  the  sun, 
Even  so  let  hatred  with  thy  sovereign's  smile: 
Live  thou  with  me  as  my  companion. 

Lan.  This  salutation  overjoys  my  heart. 

K.  Edw.  Warwick  shall  be  my  chiefest  coun- 
sellor : 
These  silver  hairs  will  n^ore  adorn  my  court 
Than  gaudy  silks  or  rich  embroidery. 
Chide  me,  sweet  Warwicli,  if  I  go  astray. 

War.  Slay  me,  my  lord,  when  I  offend  your 
grace. 

K.  Edw.  In  solemn  triumphs  and  in  public  shows 
Pembroke  shall  bear  the  sword  before  the  king. 


1  jjarZcci— spoken  or  conferred,  from  Fr.  parler 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


1 07 


Pern.  And  "with    this    Bword    Pembroke  will 
fight  for  you. 

K.  Edw,  But  -wherefore  walks  young  Mortimer 
aside  ? 
Be  thou  commander  of  our  royal  fleet ; 
Or,  if  that  lofty  office  like'  thee  not, 
I  make  thee  here  Lord  Marshal  of  the  realm. 

Y.  Mor.  My  lord,  I'll  marshal  so  your  enemies, 
As  England  shall  be  quiet,  and  you  safe. 

K.  Edw.  And  as  for  you,  Lord  Mortimer  of 
Chii-ke,- 
Whose  great  achievements  in  our  foreign  war 
Deserve  no  common  place  nor  mean  reward, 
Be  you  the  general  of  the  levied  troops 
That  now  are  ready  to  assail  the  Scots. 

E.   3Ior.   In    this    your    grace    hath    highly 
honour'd  me. 
For  with  my  nature  war  doth  best  agree. 

Q.  Isah.  Now  is  the  king  of  England  rich  and 
strong. 
Having  the  love  of  his  renowmfed^  peers. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  Isabel,  ne'er  was  my  heart   so 
light- 
Clerk  of  the  crown,  direct  our  warrant  forth, 
For  Gaveston,  to  Ireland ! — Beaumont,  fly 
As  fast  as  Iris  or  Jove's  Mercvuy. 

Beau.  It  shall  be  doae,  my  gracious  lord. 

[Exit. 

K.  Edw.  Lord  Mortimer,  we  leave  you  to  your 
charge. 
Now  let  us  in,  and  feast  it  royally. 
Against  our  friend  the  Earl  of  Cornwall  comes. 
We'll  have  a  general  tilt  and  tournament ; 
And  then  his  marriage  shall  be  solemniz'd ; 
For  wot  you  not  that  I  have  made  him  sure* 
Unto  our  cousin,^  the  Earl  of  Gloucester's  heir.' 

Lan.  Such  news  we  hear,  my  lord. 
..  K.  Edw.  That  day,  if  not  for  him,  yet  for  my 

sake. 
Who  in  the  triiimph  will  be  challenger, 
Spare  for  no  cost;  we  will  requite  your  love. 

War.    In  this   or  aught  your  highness  shall 
command  us. 

K.  Edw.    Thanks,   gentle  _  Warwick.      Come, 
let's  in  and  revel. 

[Exeu7it  all  except  the  Moetij'ers. 

E.  Mor.  Nephew,  I  must  to  Scotland ;   thou 
stay'st  here. 
Leave  now  to  oppose  thyself  against  the  king : 
Thou  seest  by  nature  he  is  mild  and  calm ; 
And,  seeing  his  mind  so  dotes  on  Gaveston, 
Let  him  without  coutrolment  have  his  will.  , 

The  mightiest  kings  have  had  their  minions  ; 
Great  Alexander  lov'd  IIei3ha3stion, 
The  conqixering  Hercules  for  Hylas  wept, 
And  for  Patroclus  stern  Achilles  droop'd  : 
And  not  kings  only,  but  the  wisest  men ; 
The  Eomau  Tully  lov'd  Octavius, 
Grave  Socrates  wild  Alcibiades. 
Then  let  his  grace,  whose  youth  is  flexible. 
And  promiseth  as  much  as  we  can  wish. 
Freely  enjoy  that  vain  light-headed  earl ; 
For  riper  j'ears  will  wean  him  from  such  toys. 

Y.  Mor.  Uncle,  his  wanton  humour  grieves 
not  me ; 
But  this  I  scorn,  that  one  so  basely  born 
Should  by  his  sovereign's  favour  grow  so  pert, 
And  riot  it  with  the  treasure  of  the  realm, 


1  like — please,  which  is  its  literal  meaning. 

2  Chii'U — '  Or  Werke.' — Dodslet's  Old  Flays. 

^  renowmed  —  old  form  of  renowned ;  Fr.  renomme, 
from  Lat.  nomen,  a  name. 

*  made  him  sure— bound  or  af&anced  him. 

*  cousin— equivalent  here  to  niece.  (So  in  Shake- 
speare's Hamlet,  the  king  calls  his  nephew  Hamlet 
'  cousin.') — Dyce. 


While  soldiers  mutiny  for  want  of  pay. 
He  wears  a  lord's  revenue  on  his  back, 
And,  Midas-like,  he  jets'  it  in  the  court, 
With  base  outlandish  cullions^  at  his  heels. 
Whose  proud  fantastic  liveries  make  such  show 
As  if  that  Proteus,  god  of  shapes,  appear'd. 
I  have  not  seen  a  dapper  Jack  so  brisk : 
He  weai's  a  short  Italian  hooded  cloak, 
Larded  with  pearl,  and  in  his  Tuscan  cap 
A  jewel  of  more  value  than  the  crown. 
While  others  walk  below,  the  king  and  he, 
From  out  a  window,  laugh  at  such  as  we. 
And  flout  our  train,  and  jest  at  our  attire. 
Uncle,  'tis  this  that  makes  me  impatient. 

E.  Mor.  But,  nephew,  now  you  see  the  king  is 
chang'd. 

Y.  Mor.  Then  bo  am  I,  and  live  to  do  him 
service : 
But,  whiles  I  have  a  sword,  a  hand,  a  heart, 
I  will  not  j'ield  to  any  such  upstart. 
You  know  my  mind  ;  come,  uncle,  let's  away. 

[_Exeunt. 

Enter  the  younger  Spenser^  and  Baldock. 

Bald.  Spenser, 
Seeing  that  our  lord  the  Earl  of  Gloucester's  dead, 
Which  of  the  nobles  dost  thou  mean  to  serve  ? 

Y.  Spen.  Not  Mortimer,  nor  any  of  his  side, 
Because  the  king  and  he  are  enemies. 
Baldock,  learn  this  of  me :  a  factious  lord 
Shall  hardly  do  himself  good,  much  less  us  ; 
But  he  that  hath  the  favour  of  a  king 
May  with  one  word  advance  us  while  we  live. 
The  liberal  Earl  of  Cornwall  is  the  man 
On  whose  good  fortune  Spenser's  hope  depends. 

Bald.  What !    mean    you,    then,    to    be    his 
follower? 

Y.  Spen.  No,  his  companion  ;  for  he  loves  me 
well. 
And  would  have  once  preferr'd  me  to  the  king. 

Bald.  But  he  is  banish'd ;  there's  small  hope  of 
him. 

Y.  Spen.  Ay,  for  a  while ;  but,  Baldock,  mark 
the  end. 
A  friend  of  mine  told  me  in  secrecy 
That  he's  repeal'd  and  sent  for  back  again ; 
And  even  now  a  post  came  from  the  court 
With  letters  to  our  lady  from  the  king ; 
And,  as  she  read,  she  smil'd ;  which  makes  me 

think 
It  is  about  her  lover  Gaveston. 

Bald.  'Tis  like  enough ;  for,  since  he  was  exil'd,  , 
She  neither  walks  abroad  nor  comes  in  sight. 
But  I  had  thought  the  match  had  been  broke  off, 
And  that  his  banishment  had  chang'd  her  mind. 

Y.  Spen.  Our  lady's  first  love  is  not  wavering ; 
My  life  for  thine,  she  will  have  Gaveston. 

Bald.    Then    hope   I    by    her    means    to    be 
preferr'd. 
Having  read  unto  her  since  she  was  a  child. 

Y.  Spen.    Then,  Baldock,  you  must  cast  the 
scholar  off, 
And  learn  to  court  it  like  a  gentleman. 
'Tis  not  a  black  coat  and  a  little  band, 
A  velvet-cap'd  cloak,  fac'd  before  with  serge, 
And  smelling  to  a  nosegay  all  the  day. 
Or  holding  of  a  napkin  in  your  hand. 
Or  saying  a  long  grace  at  a  table's  end, 
Or  making  low  legs*  to  a  nobleman. 


'  jets— jet.  to  strut  or  walk  proudly ;  to  throw  the 
body  about  in  walking. — Nares.     Fr.  jeter,  to  throw. 

2  cullions — base,  cowardly  fellows;  scoundrels.  Fr. 
coion,  a  dastard,  poltroon. 

s  Enter  the  younger  Spenser,  &c. — Scene,  a  hall  in  tha 
mansion  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester. 

*  legs — a  bow  made  by  throwing  out  the  leg. 


io8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Or  looking  downward,  with  your  eyelids  close, 
And    saying,    '  Truly,    au't    may    please    your 

honour,' 
Can  get  you  any  favour  with  great  men : 
You  must  be  proud,  bold,  pleasant,  resolute. 
And  now  and  then  stab,  as  occasion  serves. 
Bald.    Spenser,    thou    know'st    I    hate    such 

formal  toys. 
And  use  them  but  of  mere  hypocrisy. 
Mine  old  lord,  whiles  he  liv'd,  was  so  precise, 
That  he  would  take  exceptions  at  my  buttons, 
And,  being  like  pins'  heads,  blame  me  for  the 

bigness ; 
Which  made  me  curate-like  in  mine  attire. 
Though  inwardly  licentious  enough, 
And  apt  for  any  kind  of  villany. 
I  am  none  of  these  common  pedants,  T, 
That  cannot  speak  without  pro;9^e?'c'rt  quod} 
Y.  Spen.  But  one  of  those  that  saith  quando- 

quideni^"^ 
And  hath  a  special  gift  to  form  a  verb. 
Bald.  Leave  off   this  jesting;   here  my  lady 

comes. 

Enter  King  Edward's  Niece. 
Niece.  The  grief  for  his  exile  was  not  so  much 
As  is  the  joy  of  his  returning  home. 
This  letter  came  from  my  sweet  Gaveston  : 
What  need'st  thou,  love,  thus  to  excuse  thyself  ? 
I  know  thou  couldst  not  come  and  visit  me. 

\_Reads. 
I  will  not  long  he  from  thee,  though  I  die! — 
This  argues  the  entire  love  of  my  lord ; — 

IReads. 
When  Iforsalce  thee,  death,  seize  on  my  heart ! — 
But  stay  thee  here  where  Gaveston  shall  sleep. 

[^Puts  the  letter  into  her  bosom, 
Now  to  the  letter  of  my  lord  the  king : 
He  wills  me  to  repair  unto  the  court. 
And  meet  my  Gaveston :  why  do  I  stay. 
Seeing  that  he  talks  thus  of  my  marriage-day? — 
Who's  there  ?    Baldock ! 
See  that  my  coach'  be  ready ;  I  must  hence. 
Bald.  It  shall  be  done,  madam. 
Niece.  And  meet  me  at  the  jiark-pale*  presentlj'. 
\_Exit  Baldock. 
Spenser,  stay  you,  and  bear  me  company, 
For  1  have  joyful  news  to  tell  thee  of: 
My  Lord  of  Cornwall  is  a-coming  over, 
And  will  be  at  the  court  as  soon  as  we. 

Y.  Spen.  I  knew  the  king  would    have  him 

home  again. 
Niece.  If  all  things  sort  out,*  as  I  hope  they 
will, 
Thy  service,  Spenser,  shall  be  thought  upon. 
Y.  Spen.  I  humbly  thank  your  ladyship. 
Niece.  Come,  lead  the  way:   I  long  till  I  am 
there.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Edwaed,^  Queen  Isabella,  Kent, 
Lancaster,  the  younger  Mortimer,   War- 
wick, Pesibroke,  and  Attendants. 
K.  Edw.  The  wind  is  good ;   I  wonder  why  he 
I  fear  me  lie  is  wreck'd  upon  the  sea.  [stays : 

1  propterea  quod — 'because  that.' 
-  quando-quidem — 'seeing,'  or  'since  that.' 
3  coach.    '  "  The  reign  of  Elizabeth  is  generally  cited 
as  the  period  when  coaches  were  introduced  into  Eng- 
land, and  under  that  term  carriages  of  every  kind  have 
been  considered  as  included;   but  long  anterior  to  that 
reign  vehicles  ■with  wheels,  under  the  denomination  of 
chairs,  cars,  chariots,  caroches,  and  whirlicotes,  were 
used  in  England." —  Mr.    Markland    on    Carriages  in 
England.     See  Archxologia,  vol.  xx.' — Dodslbt's   Old 
Plays. 
•»  park-pale — pale,  fence,  or  boundary  of  the  park. 
*  sort  out — arrange  themselves,  happen,  or  take  effect. 
<•  Enter  King  Edicard,  itc. — Scene  before  Tynmouth 
Castle. — Dyce. 


Q.   Isa.    Look,    Lancaster,    how    passionate  i 
he  is, 
And  still  his  mind  runs  on  his  minion ! 

Lan.  My  lord, — ■ 

A'.  Edw.  How  now !  what  news  ?  is  Gaveston 
arriv'd  ? 

Y.  Mor.  Nothing  but  Gaveston  ?  what  means 
your  grace  ? 
You  have  matters  of  more  weight  to  think  ui^on : 
The  king  of  France  sets  foot  in  Normaudy. 

K.  Edw.  A  trifle!   we'll  expel  him  wiien  we 
please. 
But  tell  me,  Mortimer,  what's  thy  device 
Against  the  stately  triumph  we  decreed.' 

Y.  Mor.  A  homely  one,  my  lord,  not  worth 
the  telling. 

K.  Edw.  Pray  thee,  let  me  know  it. 

Y.  Mor.  But,  seeing  you  are  so  desirous,  thus 
it  is: 
A  lofty  cedar-tree,  fair  flourishing, 
On  whose  top-branches  kingly  eagles  i^crch, 
And  by  the  bark  a  canker  creeps  me  up. 
And  gets  unto  the  highest  bough  of  all ; 
The  motto,  yEque  tandem.'^ 

K.  Edw.    And  what    is    yours,    my   Lord  of 
Lancaster.'* 

Lan.    My    lord,    mine's    more    obscure    than 
Mortimer's. 
Pliny  reports,  there  is  a  flying-fish' 
Which  all  the  other  fishes  deadly  hate. 
And  therefore,  being  pursu'd,  it  takes  the  air: 
No  sooner  is  it  up,  but  there's  a  fowl 
That  seizeth  it :  this  fish,  my  lord,  I  bear ; 
The  motto  this,  Undique*  mors  est. 

Kent.  Proud  Mortimer !  ungentle  Lancaster! 
Is  thislthe  love  j'ou  bear  your  sovereign  ? 
Is  this  the  fruit  your  reconcilement  bears  ? 
Can  you  in  words  make  show  of  amity, 
And  in   j'our  shields    display  your    rancorous 

minds  ? 
What  call  you  this  but  private  libelling 
Against  the  Earl  of  Cornwall  and  my  brother  ? 

Q.  Isab.  Sweet  husband,  be  content;  they  all 
love  you. 

K.  Edw.   They    love  me  not  that   hate  my 
Gaveston. 
I  am  that  cedar ;  shake  me  not  too  much  ; 
And  you  the  eagles ;  soar  ye  ne'er  so  high, 
I  have  the  jesses  ^  that  will  pull  you  down; 
And  ^que  tandem  shall  that  canker  cry 
Unto  the  proudest  peer  of  Britaiuy. 
Though  thou  compar'st  him  to  a  flying-fish. 
And  threaten'st  death  whether  he  rise  or  fall, 
'Tis  not  the  hugest  monster  of  the  sea. 
Nor  foulest  harpy,  that  shall  swallow  him. 

Y.   Mor.    If  in  his  absence  thus  he  favours 
him. 
What  will  he  da  whenas^^  he  shall  be  present? 

Lan.  That  shall  we  see  :  look,  where  his  lord- 
ship comes ! 

Enter  Gaveston. 

K.  Edw.  My  Gaveston ! 
Welcome  to  Tynmouth  !  welcome  to  thy  friend  ! 


1  passionate— sorrowful.     Passion  is  still  sometimes 
used  for  suffering. 
-  JEqiie  tandem— ^  justly '  or  'justice  at  last.' 
3  flying-fish — '  The  Exocxtus.    See  Plinii  Nat.  Hist.  lib. 
ix,  ly.' — DoDSLKi's  Old  Plays. 
*  Undique,  <fcc. — '  There  is  death  on  all  sides.' 
^jesses — from  old  Fr.   ges,  jet;    from   Lat.  jaclo,    to 
throw.    The  short  straps  of  leather  round  the  legs  of 
the  hawk,  in  which  were  fixed  the  varvels  or  little  rings 
of  silver,  and  to  these  the  leash  or  long  strap  which  the 
filconer  twisted  round  his  hand. — Nares. 
*>  u'kenas — when. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


109 


Thy  absence  made  me  droop  and  pine  away  ; 
For,  as  the  lovers  of  fair  Danae, 
When  she  was  lock'd  up  in  a  brazen  tower, 
Desir'd  her  more,  and  wax'd  outrageous. 
So  did  it  fare  with  me  :  and  now  thy  sight 
Is  sweeter  far  than  was  thy  parting  hence 
Bitter  and  irksome  to  my  sobbing  heart. 

Gav.  Sweet  lord  and  king,  your  speech  pre- 
venteth'  mine ; 
Tet  have  I  words  left  to  express  my  joy : 
The  shepherd,  nipt  with  biting  winter's  rage. 
Frolics  not  more  to  see  the  j^ainted  spring 
Than  I  do  to  behold  your  majesty. 

A'.  Edw.  Will  none  of  you  salute  my  Gaveston? 

Lan.     Salute    him  !     yes.  —  Welcome,     Lord 
Chamberlain ! 

Y.  Mor.  Welcome  is  the  good  Earl  of  Corn- 
wall ! 

War.  Welcome,  Lord  Governor  of  the  Isle  of 
Man! 

Fern.  Welcome,  Master  Secretary  ! 

Kent.   Brother,  do  you  hear  them? 

A'.  Eduo.  StiU  will  these  earls  and  barons  use 
xne  thus .' 

Gav.  My  lord,  I  cannot  brook  these  injuries. 

Q.  hah.  Ay  me,  poor  soul,  when  these  begin 
to  jar!  \Aside. 

K.  Edw.  Return  it  to  their  tliroats  ;  I'll  be  thy 
warrant. 

Gav.  Base,   leaden  earls,    that  glory  in  your 
birth, 
Go  sit  at  home,  and  eat  your  tenants'  beef ; 
And  come  not  here  to  scoff  at  Gaveston, 
Whose  mounting  thoughts  did  never  creep  so  low 
As  to  bestow  a  look  on  such  as  you. 

Lan.  Yet  I  disdain  not  to  do  this  for  you. 

\Drav:s  his  sword. 

K.    Edw.     Treason !     treason !     where's    the 
traitor .'' 

Pan.  Here!  here! 

A'.   Ediu.     Convey    hence    Gaveston ;    they'll 
murder  him. 

Gav.  The  life  of  thee  shall  salve-  this  foul  dis- 
grace. 

Y.  Mor.  Villain,  thy  life !  unless  I  miss  mine 
aim.  [  Wounds  Gaveston. 

Q.  Isdb.  Ah,  furious  Mortimer,  what  hast  thou 
done? 

Y.  Mor.  No  more  than  I  would  answer,  were 
he  slain.  [Exit  Gaveston  with  Attendants. 

A'.  Ediv.  Yes,  more  than  thou  canst  answer, 
though  he  live : 
Dear  shall  you  both  abide  this  riotous  deed : 
Out  of  mj'  presence  ;  come  not  near  the  court! 

1'.  Mor.  I'll  not  be  barr'd  the  court  for  Gave- 
ston. 

Lan.  We'U    hale    him  by  the   ears  unto  the 
block. 

K.  Edw.  Look  to  your  own  heads ;  his  is  sure 
enough. 

War.  Look  to  your  own  crown,  if  you  back 
him  thus. 

Kent.  Warwick,  these  words  do  ill  beseem  thy 
years. 

A'.  Edio.  Nay,  aU  of  them  conspire  to  cross  me 
thus : 
But,  if  I  live,  I'll  tread  upon  their  heads 
That  think  with  high  looks  thus  to  tread  me 

down. 
Come,  Edmund,  let's  away,  and  levy  men  : 
'Tis  war  that  must  abate  these  barons'  pride. 

Exeunt  King  Edwakd,  Queejj  Isabella, 
and  Kent. 


1  preventetJt—goeth  before,  i.e.  anticipateth. 
*  salve — heal  or  wipe  out. 


War.  Let's   to   our   castles,   for  the    king    is 
mov'd. 

Y.  Mor.  Mov'd  may  ho  be,  and  perish  in  his 
wrath ! 

Lan.  Cousin,  it  is  no  dealing  with  him  now; 
He  means  to  make  us  stoop  by  force  of  arms ; 
And  therefore  let  us  jointly  here  protest 
To  prosecute  that  Gaveston  to  the  death. 

Y.  Mor.  By  heaven,  the  abject  villain  shall  not 
live  ! 

War.  I'll  have  his  blood,  or  die  in  seeking  it. 

Pern.  The  like  oath  Pembroke  takes. 

Lan.  And  so  doth  Lancaster. 
Now  send  our  heralds  to  defy  the  king  ; 
And  make  the  people  swear  to  put  him  down. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Y.  Mnr.  Letters!  from  whence? 

Mes.  From  Scotland,  my  lord. 

Lan.     Why,  how  now,   cousin ;  how  fare  all 
our  friends  ? 

Y.  Mor.  My  uncle's    taken    prisoner   by  the 
Scots. 

Lan.  We'll  have  him  ransom' d,  man:   be   of 
good  cheer. 

Y.  Mor.  They  rate  his  ransom  at  five  thousand 
pounds. 
Who  should  defray  the  money  but  the  king, 
Seeing  he  is  taken  prisoner  in  his  wars  ? 
I'll  to  the  king. 

Lan.  Do,  cousin,  and  I'll  bear  thee  company. 

War.  Meantime  my  Lord  of  Pembroke  and 
myself 
Will  to  Newcastle  here,  and  gather  head. 

Y.  Mor.  About  it,  then,  and  we  will  follow  you. 

Lan.  Be  resolute  and  full  of  secrecy. 

War.  I  warrant  you.       [Exit  with  Pemeroke. 

Y.  Mor.  Cousin,  an'  if  he  will  not  ransom  him, 
I'll  thunder  such  a  peal  into  his  ears 
As  never  subject  did  unto  his  king. 

Lan.  Content;  I'll  bear  my  part. — Holla!  who's 
there  ? 

Enter  Guard. 

Y.  Mor.  Ay,  marry,  such  a  guard  as  this  doth 
well. 
Lan.  Lead  on  the  way. 
Guard.  Whither  will  your  lordships  ? 
Y.  Mor.  Whither  else  but  to  the  king  ? 
Guard.  His  highness  is  dispos'd  to  be  alone. 
Lan.  Why,  so  he  may ;  but  we  %vill  speak  to 

him. 
Guard.  You  may  not  in,  my  lord. 
1'.  3Ior.  May  we  not  ? 

Enter  King  Edward  and  Kent. 

K.  Edw.  How  now ! 
What  noise  is  this  ?  who  have  we  there  ?  is't 
you? 

Y.  Mor.  Nay,  stay,  my  lord ;  I  come  to  bring 
you  news ; 
Mine  uncle's  taken  prisoner  by  the  Scots. 

A'.  Edw.  Then  ransom  him. 

Lan.  'Twas  in  your  wars ;  you  should  ransom 
him. 

Y.  Mor.  And  you  shall  ransom  him,  or  else — 

Kent.  What !  Mortimer,  you  will  not  threaten 
him. 

K.  Edw.  Quiet  yourself ;    you  shall  have  the 
broad  seal, 
To  gather  for  him  throughout  the  realm. 

iMn.  Your  minion  Gaveston  hath  taught  you 
this. 

Y.  3for.  My  lord,  the  family  of  the  Mortimers 
Are  not  so  poor,  but,  would  they  sell  their  land, 
'Twould  levy  men  enough  to  anger  you. 
We  never  beg,  but  use  such  prayers  as  these. 


no 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


K.  Edw.  Shall  I  still  be  haunted  thus  ? 
Y.  Mor.   Nay,   now  you  are  here  alone,  I'll 
epeak  my  mind. 

Lan.  And  so  will  I ;  and  then,  my  lord,  fare- 
well. 

Y.  Mor.  The  idle  triumphs,  masks,  lascivious 
shows, 
And  prodigal  gifts  bestow'd  on  Gaveston, 
Have   drawn  thy  treasury  dry,  and  made  thee 

weak; 
The  murmuring  commons,  overstretched,  break.^ 

Lan.  Look  for  rebellion,  look  to  be  depos'd : 
Thy  garrisons  are  beaten  out  of  France, 
And,  lame  and  poor,  lie  groaning  at  the  gates ; 
The  wild  O'Neil,  with  swarms  of  Irish  kerns, - 
Lives  uncontroll'd  within  the  English  pale  ; 
Unto  the  walls  of  York  the  Scots  make  road,^ 
And,  irnresisted,  di-ive  away  rich  spoils. 

Y.  Mor.  The  haughty  Dane  commands  the 
narrow  seas, 
While  in  the  harbour  ride  thy  ships  unrigg'd. 

Lan.  What  foreign  prince  sends  thee  ambas- 
sadors ? 

Y,  Mor.  Who  loves  thee,  but  a  sort*  of  flat- 
terers ? 

Lan.  Thy  gentle  queen,  sole  sister  to  Valois, 
Complains  that  thou  hast  left  her  all  forlorn. 
Y.  Mor.  Thy  court  is  naked,  being  bereft  of 
those 
That  make  a  king  seem  glorious  to  the  world, 
I  mean  the  peers,  whom  thou  should'st  dearly 

love ; 
Libels  are  cast  again  ^  thee  in  the  street ; 
Ballads  and  rhymes  made  of  thy  overthrow. 
Lan.    The   northern   borderers,   seeing  their 
houses  burnt. 
Their  wives  and  children  slain,  run  up  and  down, 
Cursing  the  name  of  thee  and  Gaveston. 

Y.  Mor.  When  wert  thou  in  the  field  with 
banner  spread, 
But  once  ?   and  then  thy  soldiers  march'd  like 

players, 
With  garish^  robes,  not  armour;  and  thyself, 
Bedaub'd  with  gold,  rode  laughing  at  the  rest, 
Nodding  and  shaking  of  thy  spangled  crest, 
Where  women's  favom'S  hung  like  labels  down. 
Lan.   And  thereof  came  it  that  the  fleering' 
Scots, 
To    England's  high  disgrace,   have  made   this 

jig  :* 
Maids  of  England^  sore  may  you  mourn, 
For  your  lemans '"  youhave  lostat  Bannockshourn, — 
With  a  heave  and  a  ho  ! 
What  weeneth  "  the  king  of  England 
So  soon  to  have  won  Scotland  f — 
With  a  romielow  ! 


1  ireak.  The  correct  rendering  is  '  hath,'  but  all  the 
previous  editors  have  altered  it  thus.  Perhaps  a  line 
has  dropped  out. 

2  kerns.  This  was  the  term  formerly  applied  to  the 
lightly  armed  Irish  foot-soldiers ;  they  are  generally  re- 
presented as  '  the  dross  and  scum  of  the  country.' 

3  roac?— inroad.  *  sort— lot  or  set. 

*  again — against. 

6  firarwA— glaring,  gaudy,  splendid;  old  Eng.  gare,  to 
stare. 

'  fleering — sneering,  scoflBng.  To  fleer  means  to  mock, 
deride,  or  taunt  with  insolence  and  contempt;  it  is  also 
used  as  a  noun. 

*  jig,  which  now  means  a  quick  dance,  formerly,  as  in 
the  text,  meant  also  a  haUad,  particularly  a  merry  one. 
See  next  note. 

9  Maids  of  England,  &c.  Taken  (with  very  slight 
variations)  from  Fabyan's  Chron.  vol.  ii.  fol.  169,  ed. 
1559.  'This  song,'  says  the  Chronicle,  'was,  after  many 
days,  sung  in  dances  in  the  carols  of  the  maidens  and 
minstrels  of  Scotland.* 

10  lemans — lovers. 

11  weeneth — expecteth;  Anglo-Saxon  wen,  hope. 


Y.  Mor.  Wigmoi'ei  shall  fly,  to  set  my  uncle 
free. 

Lan.  And,  when  'tis  gone,  our  swords  shall 
purchase  more. 
If  you  be  mov'd,  revenge  it  as  you  can  : 
Look  next  to  see  us  with  our  ensigns  spread. 

[Exit  with  Y.  Mortimer. 

K.  Ediv.  My  swelling  heart  for  very  anger 
-    breaks : 
How  oft  have  I  been  baited  by  these  peers, 
And  dare  not  be  reveng'd,  for  their  power  is 

great ! 
Yet,  shall  the  crowing  of  these  cockerels 
Affright  a  lion  ?     Edward,  unfold  thy  paws. 
And    let    their    lives'-blood    slake    thy    fm'y's 

hunger. 
If  I  be  cruel  and  grow  tyrannous, 
Now  let  them  thank  themselves,   and  rue  too 
late. 

Kent.  My  lord,  I  see  your  love  to  Gaveston 
Will  be  the  ruin  of  the  realm  and  you, 
For  now  the  wrathful  nobles  threaten  wars ; 
And  therefore,  brother,  banish  him  for  ever. 

K.  Edw.  Art  thou  an  enemy  to  my  Gaveston  ? 

Kent.  Ay;  and  it  grieves  me  that  I  favour'd 
him. 

K.  Edw.  Traitor,  be  gone!  whine  thou  with 
Mortimei-. 

Kent.  So  will  I,  rather  than  with  Gaveston. 

K.  Edw.  Out  of  my  sight,  and  trouble  me  no 
more ! 

Kent.  No  marvel  though  thou  scorn  thy  noble 
peers. 
When  I  thy  brother  am  rejected  thus. 

K.  Edw.  Away !  \_Exit  Kent. 

Poor  Gaveston,  thou  hast  no  friend  but  me  ! 
Do  what  they  can,  we'll  live  in  Tynmouth  here ; 
And  so  I  walk  with  him  aboiit  the  walls. 
What  care  I  though  the  earls  begirt  us  round  ? 
Here  comes  she  that  is  cause  of  all  these  jars. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella,  with  Edward's  Niece, 

two    Ladies,    Gaveston,    Baldock,   and   the 

younger  Spenser. 

Q.  Isab.  My  lord,  'tis  thought  the  earls  are  up 
in  arms. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  and  'tis  likewise   thought  you 
favour  'em. 

d.  Isab.  Thus  do  you  stiU  suspect  me  without 
cause. 

Niece.  Sweet  uncle,  speak  more  kindly  to  the 
queen. 

Gav.  My  lord,  dissemble  with  her ;  speak  her 
fair. 

K.  Edw.  Pardon  me,  sweet ;  I  forgot  myself. 

Q.  Isab.  Your  pardon  is  quickly  got  of  Isabel. 

K.  Edw.  The  younger  Mortimer  is  grown  so 
brave. 
That  to  my  face  he  threatens  civil  wars. 

Gav.   Why  do   you  not  commit  him  to   the 
Tower  ? 

K.  Edw.  I  dare  not,  for  the  people  love  him 
well. 

Gav.  Why,  then,  we'll  have  him  privily  made 
away. 

K.  Edw.  Would  Lancaster  and  he  had  both 
carous'd 
A  bowl  of  poison  to  each  other's  health  ! 
But  let  them  go,  and  tell  me  what  are  these. 

Niece.  Two  of  my  father's  servants  whilst  he 
liv'd : 
May't  please  your  grace  to  entertain  them  now. 

K.  Edw.  Tell  me,  where  wast  thou  born?  what 
is  thine  arms  ? 

1  Wigmore.     '  Mortimer  junior  was  of  Wigmore.'— 
Dodsley's  Old  Plays. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLO  WE. 


Ill 


Bald.  My  name  is  Baldoclc,  aud  my  gentry" 
I  fetch  from  Oxford,  not  from  heraldry. 

K.  Edw.  The  fitter  art  thou,  Baldock,  for  my 
turn. 
Wait  on  me,  and  I'll  see  thou  shalt  not  want. 

Bald.  I  humbly  thank  your  majestj\ 

K.  Edw.  Knowest  thou  him,  Gaveston  ? 

Gav.  Ay,  mj'  lord  ; 
His  name  is  Spenser ;  he  is  well  allied. 
For  my  sake  let  him  wait  upon  your  grace ; 
Scarce  shall  you  find  a  man  of  more  desert. 

K.  Edw.  Then,  Spenser,  wait  upon  me  for  his 
sake: 
I'll  grace  thee  with  a  higher  style  ere  long. 

Y.  Spen.  No  greater  titles  happen  unto  me 
Than  to  be  favour'd  of  your  majesty! 

K.  Edw.  Cousin,  this  day  shall  be  your  mar- 
riage-feast : — 
And,  Gaveston,  think  that  I  love  thee  well, 
To  wed  thee  to  our  niece,  the  only  heir 
Unto  the  Earl  of  Gloucester  late  deceas'd. 

Gav.  I  know,  my  lord,  many  will  stomach  me ;  - 
But  I  respect  neither  their  love  nor  hate. 

K.  Edw.  The  headstrong  barons  shall  not  limit 
me; 
He  that  I  list  to  favour  shall  be  great. 
Come,  let's  away ;  and,  when  the  marriage  ends. 
Have  at  the  rebels  and  theu-  'complices ! 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter  Kent,  Lancaster,  the  younger  Mortimek, 
Warwick,  Pejibroke,  and  others. 

Kent.  My  lords,  of  love  to  this  our  native  land, 
I  come  to  join  with  you,  and  leave  the  king  ; 
And  in  your  quarrel,  and  the  realm's  behoof, 
Will  be  the  first  that  shall  adventure  life. 

Lan.  I  fear  me,  you  are  sent  of  policy, 
To  undermine  us  with  a  show  of  love. 

War.  He  is  your  brother ;  therefore  have  we 
cause 
To  cast^  the  worst,  and  doubt  of  your  revolt. 

Kent.   Mine  honour  shall  be  hostage  of  my 
truth : 
If  that  will  not  suffice,  farewell,  my  lords. 

Y.  Mor.  Stay,  Edmund:    never  was  Planta- 
genet 
False  of  his  word ;  and  therefore  trust  we  thee. 

Pern.  But  what's  the  reason  you  should  leave 
him  now  ? 

Kent.  I  have  infoi-m'd  the  Earl  of  Lancaster. 

Lan.  And  it  sufiiceth.     Now,  my  lords,  know 
this. 
That  Gaveston  is  secretly  arriv'd, 
And  here  in  Tynmouth  frolics  with  the  king. 
Let  us  with  these  oar  followers  scale  the  walls. 
And  suddenly  surprise  them  unawares. 

Y.  Mor.  I'll  give  the  onset. 

War.  And  I'll  follow  thee. 

Y.  Mor.  This  tatter'd  ensign  of  my  ancestors. 
Which  swept  the  desert  shore  of  that  Dead  Sea 
Whereof  we  got  the  name  of  Mortimer,* 
Will  I  advance  upon  this  castle's  walls. — 
Drums,    strike  alarum,    raise    them  from  their 

sport, 
And  ring  aloud  the  knell  of  Gaveston  ! 

Lan.  None  be  so  hardy  as  to  touch  the  king  ; 
But  neither  spare  you  Gaveston  nor  his  friends. 

[Exeunt. 


1  grenCr!/— gentility  or  nobility.  He  means  that  his 
only  claim  to  be  recJioned  a  geatlemaa  was  his  having 
been  educated  at  Oxford. 

2  stomach  me.    See  note  2,  p.  103,  1st  col. 

*  cas^— judge,  reclion,  conjecture. 

*  A  fancifiU  derivation  of  Mortimer,  from  Fr.  mart, 
dead,  mer,  the  sea. 


Enter  King  Edward  and  the  younger  Spenser. 

,  K.  Edw.  Oh,  tell  me,  Spenser,  where  is  Gave- 
ston? 

Y.  Spen.  I  fear  me  he  is  slain,  my  gracious 
lord. 

K.  Ediv.   No,  here  he  comes:   now  let  them 
spoil  and  kill. — 

Enter  Queen  Isabella,  King  Edward's  Niece, 
Gaveston,  and  Nobles. 

Fly,  fly,  my  lords !  the  earls  have  got  the  hold ; 
Take  shipping,  and  away  to  Scarborough  : 
Spenser  and  I  will  post  away  by  land. 

Gav.    Oh,  stay,  my  lord  !  they  will  not  injure 
you. 

A'.  Edw.    I  will  not  trust  them.     Gaveston, 
away ! 

Gav.  Farewell,  my  lord. 

K.  Edw.  Lady,  farewell. 

Niece.    Farewell,   sweet    uncloj   till  we   meet 
again. 

A'.  Edw.  Farewell,  sweet  Gaveston ;  and  fare- 
well niece. 

Q.  Isab.  No  farewell  to  poor  Isabel  thy  queen  ? 

K.  Edw.   Yes,  yes,  for  Mortimer  your  lover's 
sake. 

Q.  Isab.  Heavens  can  witness,  I  love  none  but 
you. 

[Exeunt  all  except  Queen  Isabella. 
From  my  embracements  thus  he  breaks  away. 
Oh  that  mine  arms  could  close  this  isle  about, 
That  I  might  pull  him  to  me  where  I  would  ! 
Or  that  these  tears,  that  drizzle  from  mine  eyes, 
Had  power  to  mollify  his  stony  heart. 
That,  when  I  had  him,  we  might  never  part ! 

Enter  Lancaster,  Warwick,  the  younger 
MoRTijiER,  and  others.    Alarums  loithin. 

Zan.  I  wonder  how  he  'scap'd. 

Y.  Mor.  Who's  this  ?  the  queen ! 

Q.  Isab.  Ay,  Mortimer,  the  miserable  queen. 
Whose  pining  heart  her  inward  sighs  have  blasted, 
And  body  with  continual  mourning  wasted  : 
These  hands  are  tir'd  with  haling  of  my  lord 
From  Gaveston,  from  wicked  Gaveston, 
And  all  in  vain ;  for,  when  I  sj)eak  him  fair. 
He  turns  away,  and  smiles  upon  his  minion. 

Y.  Mor.  Cease  to  lament,  and  tell  us  where's 
the  king  ? 

Q.  Isab.  What  would  you  with  the  king .'  Is't 
him  you  seek  ? 

Lan.  No,  madam,  but  that  cui'sed  Gaveston : 
Far  be  it  from  the  thought  of  Lancaster 
To  offer  violence  to  his  sovereign  ! 
We  would  but  rid  the  realm  of  Gaveston ; 
Tell  us  where  he  remains,  and  he  shall  die.    , 

Q.  Isab.  He's  gone  by  water  unto  Scarborough : 
Pursue  him  quickly,  and  he  cannot  'scape ; 
The  king  hath  left  him,  and  his  train  is  small. 

War.  Forslow^  no  time,  sweet  Lancaster;  let's 
march. 

Y.  Mor.  How  comes  it  that  the  king  and  he  is 
parted  ? 

Q.  Isab.  That  thus  your  army,  going  several 
ways, 
Might  be  of  lesser  force,  and  with  the  power 
That  he  intendeth  presently  to  raise. 
Be  easily  suppress'd :  therefore  be  gone. 

Y.  Mor.  Here  in  the  river  i-ides  a  Flemish  hoy : 
Let's  all  aboard,  and  follow  him  amain. 

Lan.  The  wind  that  bears  him  hence  will  fill 
our  sails : 
Come,  come,  aboard !  'tis  but  an  hour's  sailing. 


1  Forslow—CA&y. 


112 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Y.  Mor.  Madam,  stay  you  witliiii  this  castle 
here. 

Q.  hah.    No,  Mortimer;    I'll  to  my  lord  the 
kintr. 

Y.  Mor.    Nay,  rather   sail  with  us  to   Scai'- 
borough. 

Q.  Isab.  You  kuow  the  king  is  so  suspicious 
As,  if  he  hear  I  have  but  talk'd  with  you, 
Mine  honour  will  be  call'd  in  question ; 
And  therefore,  gentle  Mortimer,  be  gone. 

Y.  Mor.  Mndara,  I  cannot  stay  to  answer  you  : 
But  think  of  Mortimer  as  he  deserves. 

\_Exmnt  all  except  Queen  ISAnELLA. 

Q.  Isah.    So  well  hast  thou  deserv'd,  sweet 
Mortimer, 
As  Isabel  could  live  with  thee  for  ever. 
In  vain  I  look  for  love  at  Edwai'd's  hand, 
Whose  eyes  are  fix'd  on  none  but  Gaveston. 
Yet  once  more  I'll  importune  him  with  prayer  : 
If  he  be  strange,  and  not  regard  my  words. 
My  son  and  I  will  over  into  France, 
And  to  the  king  my  brother  there  complain 
How  Gaveston  hath  robb'd  me  of  his  love : 
But  yet,  I  hope,  my  sorrows  will  have  end,' 
And  Gaveston  this  blessed  day  be  slain.      \_Exit. 

Enter  Gaveston,'  pursued. 

Gav.    Yet,  lusty  lords,   I   have  escap'd  your 
hands. 
Your  threats,  your  'larums,  and  your  hot  pur- 
suits ; 
And,  though  divorced  from  King  Edward's  eyes, 
Yet  liveth  Pierce  of  Gaveston  unsurpris'd, 
Breathing  in  hope  (malgrado-  all  your  beards, 
That  muster  rebels  thus  against  your  king) 
To  see  his  royal  sovereign  once  again. 


'  Mr.  Dyce  quoted  from  Lingartl  the  following  par- 
ticulars as  to  the  close  of  Gaveston's  career.  The  king 
and  Gaveston  having  fled  from  Tynmouth  to  Scar- 
borough, the  king  repaired  to  York,  -wtiile  Gaveston 
remained  in  Scarborough  Castle,  to  which  the  Earls  of 
Surrey  and  Pembroke  laid  siege.  '  It  was  in  vain  that 
Edward  sent  them  a  mandate  to  retire.  Tlie  unfortunate 
Gaveston  finding  the  place  untenable,  surrendered  witli 
the  king's  consent  to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  on  condition 
that  if  no  accommodation  were  effected  before  the  1st  of 
August,  he  should  be  reinstated  in  the  possession  of  Scar- 
borough. It  had  been  agreed  that  the  prisoner  should  be 
confined  in  his  own  castle  of  Wallingford :  and  the  Earl 
and  the  Lord  Henry  Percy  bound  themselves  for  his  safety 
to  the  king,  under  the  forfeitiue  of  their  lands,  limbs,  and 
lives.  From  Scarborough  Gaveston  proceeded  under 
their  protection  towards  Wallingford  ;  at  Dedington, 
Pfembroke  left  him  in  the  custody  of  his  servants,  and 
departed  to  spend  the  night  with  his  countess  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  captive  retired  to  rest  without 
any  suspicion  of  danger;  hni  "the  Black  Dog  [Warwick] 
had  sworn  that  the  favourite  should  feel  his  teeth ;"  and 
before  dawn  he  received  a  peremptory  order  to  dress 
himself  and  leave  his  chamber.  At  the  gate,  instead  of 
his  former  guards,  he  found,  to  his  astonishment,  his 
enemy  tlie  Earl  of  Warwick,  with  a  numerous  force.  He 
was  immediately  placed  on  a  mule,  and  conducted  to 
the  castle  of  Warwick,  where  his  arrival  was  announced 
by  martial  music  and  shouts  of  triumph.  There  the 
chiefs  of  the  party  sat  in  council  over  the  fate  of  their 
prisoner.  To  a  proposal  to  save  his  life,  a  voice  replied, 
"You  have  caught  the  fox:  if  you  let  him  go,  you  will 
have  to  hunt  him  again : "  and  it  was  ultimately  resolved 
to  disregard  the  capitulation,  and  to  put  him  to  death  in 
conformity  with  one  of  the  ordinances.  AVhen  his  doom 
•was  announced,  Gaveston  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of 
the  Earl  of  Lancaster,  and  implored,  but  in  vain,  the 
pity  and  protection  of  his  "  gentle  lord."  He  was  hurried 
to  Blacklow-hill  (now  Gaversike),  and  beheaded  in  the 
presence  of  the  Earls  of  Lancaster,  Hereford,  and  Sur- 
rey.'—Lingard's  Ilist.  of  England,  vol.  iii.  15,  ed.  1849. 

'^  maJgrado  —  in  spite  of  (Ital.)  ;  Fr.  malgre ;  Eng. 
maugre;  Lat.  male,  badly,  gradum,  agreeable. 


Enter  Warwick,  Lancaster,  Pembroke,  the 
younger  Mortimer,  Soldiers,  James  and  other 
Attendants  o/ Pembroke. 

War.    Upon   him,   soldiers !    take  away  his 
weapons ! 

Y.  Mor.  Thou  proud  disturber  of  thy  country's 
peace. 
Corrupter  of  thy  king,  cause  of  these  broils. 
Base  flatterer,  yield !  and,  were  it  not  for  shame. 
Shame  and  dishonour  to  a  soldier's  name. 
Upon  my  weapon's  point  here  shouldst  thou  fall. 
And  welter  in  thy  gore. 

Lan.  Monster  of  men. 
That,   like  the   Greekish   strimipet,^  train'd    to 

arms 
And  bloody  wars  so  many  valiant  knights, 
Look  for  no  other  fortune,  wretch,  than  death  ! 
King  Edward  is  not  here  to  buckler*  thee. 

War.    Lancaster,    why    talk'st    thou    to    the 
slave .' — 
Go,  soldiers,  take  him  hence ;  for,  by  my  sword. 
His  head  shall  off. — Gaveston,  short  warning 
Shall  serve  thy  turn :  it  is  our  country's  cause 
That  here  severely  we  will  execute 
Upon  thy  person. — Hang  him  at  a  bough. 

Gav.  My  lord, — 

War.  Soldiers,  have  him  away. — 
But,  for  thou  wert  the  favourite  of  a  king. 
Thou  shalt  have  so  much  honour  at  our  hands.' 

Gav.  I  thank  you  all,  my  lords :  then  I  per- 
ceive 
That  heading  is  one,  aud  hanging  is  the  other, 
And  death  is  all. 

Enter  Arundel. 

Lan.  How  now,  my  Lord  of  Arundel ! 

Arun.  My  lords.  King  Edward  greets  you  all 
by  me. 

War.  Arundel,  say  your  message. 

Arun.  His  majesty,  hearing  that  you  had  taken 
Gaveston, 
Entreateth  you  by  me,  yet  but  he  may 
See  him  before  he  dies  ;  for  why,^  he  says, 
And  sends  you  word,  he  knows  that  die  he  shall; 
And,  if  you  gratify  his  grace  so  far. 
He  will  be  mindful  of  the  courtesy. 

War,  How  now ! 

Gav.  Renowned  Edward,  how  thy  name 
Eevives  poor  Gaveston ! 

War.  No,  it  needeth  not  : 
Arundel,  we  will  gratify  the  king 
In  other  matters  ;  he  must  pardon  us  in  this. — 
Soldiers,  away  with  him  ! 

Gav.  Why,  my  Lord  of  Warwick, 
Will  not  these  delays  beget  my  hopes  ? 
I  know  it,  lords,  it  is  this  life  you  aim  at: 
Yet  grant  Kiug  Edward  this. 

Y.  Mor.  Shalt  thou  ap]3oiut 
What  Ave    shall  grant  ? — Soldiers,  away  with 

him ! — 
Thus  we'll  gratify  the  king; 
We'll  send  his  bead  by  thee :  let  him  bestow 
His  tears  on  that,  for  that  is  all  he  gets 
Of  Gaveston,  or  else  his  senseless  trunk. 

Lan.  Not  so,   my  loi-d,  lest   he  bestow  more 
cost 
In  burying  him  than  he  hath  ever  eam'd. 

Arun.  My  lords,  it  is  his  majesty's  request, 


1  Greekish  strumpet  —  Helen  and  the   Trojan  war. — 

DODSLEY. 

-  buckler — shield. 

3  Probably  a  line  has  dropped  out  here. 

*  for  why — because. 


CHRISTOPHER  MA  RL  O  WE. 


113 


And  in '  the  honour  of  a  king  he  swears, 
He  will  but  talk  with  him,  and  send  Lini  back. 
War.  When ;  can  you  tell  ?    Arundel,  no ;  we 
wot. 
He  that  the  care  of  his  realm  remits, 
And  drives  his  nobles  to  these  exigents  "^ 
For  Gaveston,  will,  if  he  seize  him  once, 
Violate  any  promise  to  possess  him. 

Arun.  Then,  if  you  will  not  trust  his  grace  in 
keep, 
My  lords,  I  will  be  pledge  for  his  return. 

Y.  Mor.  'Tis  honourable  in  thee  to  offer  this ; 
But,  for  we  know  thou  art  a  noble  gentleman. 
We  will  not  wrong  thee  so, 
To  make  away  a  true  ^  man  for  a  thief. 

Gav.  How  mean'st  thou,   Mortimer?    that  is 

over-base. 
Y.  Mor.  Away,  base  groom,  robber  of  king's 
renown ! 
Question  with  thy  companions  and  mates. 
Pern.  My  Lord  Mortimer,  and  you,  my  lords, 
each  one. 
To  gratify  the  king's  request  therein, 
Touching  the  sending  of  this  Gaveston, 
Because  his  majesty  so  earnestly 
Desires  to  see  the  man  before  his  death, 
I  will  upon  mine  honour  undertake 
To  carry  him,  and  bring  him  back  again ; 
Provided  this,  that  you,  my  Lord  of  Arundel, 
Will  join  with  me. 

War.  Pembroke,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Cause  yet  more  bloodshed  ?     Is  it  not  enough 
That  we  have  taken  him ;  but  must  we  now 
Leave  him  on  '  Had  I  wist,'  ^  and  let  him  go  ? 
Pern.    My    lords,    I   will  not  over-woo   your 
honours : 
But,  if  you  dare  trust  Pembroke  with  the  prisoner. 
Upon  mine  oath,  I  will  return  him  back. 

Ai-un.  My  Lord  of  Lancaster,  what  say  you  in 
this.' 

Lan.  Why,  I  say,  let  him  go  on  Pembroke's 
word. 
Pern.  And  you,  Lord  Mortimer .' 
Y.  Mor.  How  say  you,  my  Lord  of  Warwick  ? 
War.  Nay,    do  your  pleasures :  I  know  how 
'twill  prove.  ^ 

Pern.  Then  give  him  me. 
Gav.  Sweet  sovereign,  yet  I  come 
To  see  thee  ere  I  die  ! 

War.  Not  yet,  perhaps, 
If  Warwick's  wit  and  policy  prevail. 

Y.  Mor.  My  Lord  of  Pembroke,  we  deliver  him 
•  you: 
Eetum  him  on  your  honour. — Sound,  away! 

[Exeunt  all  except  Pembroke,  Arundel, 
Gaveston,  James,  and  other  Atten- 
dants of  Pembroke. 

Pem.  My  lord,  you  shall  go  with  me : 
My  house  is  not  far  hence ;  out  of  the  way 
A  little  ;  but  our  men  shall  go  along. 
We  that  have  pretty  wenches  to  our  wives. 
Sir,  must  not  come  so  near  to  balk  their  lips. 

Arun.  'Tis  very   kindly  spoke,   my   Lord  of 
Pembroke : 
Your  honour  hath  an  adamant  of  power 
To  draw  a  prince. 

Pem.  So,  my  lord. — Come  hither,  James  : 
I  do  commit  this  Gaveston  to  thee  ; 


1  in — on. 

2  exigents — exigencies. 
^  true — honest. 

*  Had  I  wist— had.  I  known, — the  exclamation  of 
those  who  repent  of  what  they  have  rashly  done. — 
Dyce.  Wist  comes  from  the  same  root  as  wise  and  wit; 
Anglo-Saxon,  witan,  Ger.,  wissen,  to  know. 


Be  thou  this  night  his  keeper ;  in  the  morning 
We  will  discharge  thee  of  thy  charge  :  be  gone. 
Gav.  Unhappy  Gaveston,  whither  go'st  thou 
now .' 

[^Exit  with  James  and  other  Attendants 
o/Pembhoke. 
ZTorse-hoi/.  My  lord,  we'll  quickly  be  at  Cob- 
ham.  [^Exeunt. 

Enter  Gaveston  '  mourning,   James  and  other 
Attendants  q/ Pembroke. 

Gav.  Oh,  treacherous  Warwick,  thus  to  wrong 
thy  friend ! 

James.  I  see  it  is  your  life  these  arms  pursue. 

Gav.  Weaponless  must  I  fall,  and  die  in  bands .' 
Oh,  must  this  day  be  period  of  my  life. 
Centre  of  all  my  bliss .'     An  ye  be  men, 
Speed  to  the  king. 

Enter  Warwick  and  Soldiers. 

War.  My  Lord  of  Pembroke's  men. 
Strive  you  no  longer :  I  will  have  that  Gaveston. 
James.  Your  lordshijj  doth  dishonour  to  your- 
self, 
And  wrong  our  lord,  your  honourable  friend. 
War.  No,  James;  it  is  my  country's  cause  I 
follow. — 
Go,  take  the  villain :  soldiers,  come  away ; 
We'll  make  quick  work. — Commend  me  to  your 

master. 
My  friend,  and  tell  him  that  I  watch'd  it  well. — 
Come,  let  thy  shadow  parley  with  King  Edward. 
Gav.  Treacherous   earl,    shall  not   I   see   the 

king? 
War.  The  king  of  heaven  perhaps,  no  other 
king.— 
Awaj' ! 
[Exeunt  Warwick  ancf  Soldiers  with  Gaveston. 
James.  Come,  fellows :  it  booted  not  for  us  to 
strive : 
We  will  in  haste  go  certify  our  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Edward,"  the  younger  Spenser, 
Baldock,  Noblemen  of  the  king's  side,  and 
Soldiers  with  drums  and  fifes. 

K.  Edw.  I  long  to  hear  an  answer  from  the 

barons 
Touching  my  friend,  my  dearest  Gaveston. 
Ah,  Spenser,  not  the  riches  of  my  realm 
Can  ransom  him !  ah,  he  is  mark'd  to  die  ! 
I  know  the  malice  of  the  younger  Mortimer ; 
Warwick  I  know  is  rough,  and  Lancaster 
Inexorable  ;  and  I  shall  never  see 
My  lovely  Pierce  of  Gaveston  again  : 
The  barons  overbear  me  with  their  pride. 

Y.   Spen.    Were   I  King    Edward,   England's 

sovereign, 
Son  to  the  lovely  Eleanor  of  Spain, 
Great  Edward  Longshanks'  issue,  would  I  bear 
These  braves,^  this  rage,  and  suffer  uncontroll'd 
These  barons  thus  to  beard  me  in  my  land. 
In  mine  own  realm  ?  My  lord,  pardon  my  speech : 
Did  you  retain  your  father's  magnanimity,* 
Did  you  regard  the  honour  of  your  name, 
You  would  not  suffer  thus  your  majesty 
Be  counterbuff'd  of  your  nobility. 
Strike  off  their  heads,  and  let  them  preach  on 

poles  : 


1  Enter  Gaveston,  Ac. — the  scene  is  evidently  changed 
to  another  part  of  the  country. 

2  Mr.  Dyce  thinks  this  scene  must  be  in  Yorkshire ; 
as  he  truly  remarks,  Mai'lowe  thought  little  about  the 
location  of  his  scenes. 

3  braves — bravadoes,  threats. 

*  magnanimity — used  here  almost  in  its  literal  sense, 
greatness  of  mind,  pride. 


H 


114 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


No  doubt  such  lessons  they  will  teach  the  rest, 
As  by  their  preachments  they  will  profit  much, 
And  learn  obedience  to  their  lawful  king. 
K.  Edw.  Yea,  gentle  Spenser,  we  have  been 

too  mild. 
Too  kind  to  them  ;    but  now  have  drawn  our 

sword, 
And,  if  they  send  me  not  my  Gaveston, 
We'll   steel  it  on  their  crest[s],  and  poll  their 

tops. 
Bald.  This    haught*    resolve    becomes    your 

majesty. 
Not  to  be  tied  to  their  affection. 
As  though  your  highness  were  a  schoolboj'  still. 
And  must  be  aw'd  and  govern'd  like  a  child. 

Enter  Hugh  Spenser,  an  old  man,  father  to  the 
younger  Spenser,  with  his  truncheon.,  and  Soldiers. 
E.  Spen.  Long  live  my   sovereign,  the  noble 

Edward, 
In  peace  triumphant,  fortunate  in  wars ! 
K.  Edw.  Welcome,   old  man :   com'st  thou  in 

Edward's  aid  ? 
Then  teU  the  prince  of  whence  and  what  thou 

art. 
E.  Spen.  Lo,  with  a  band  of  bowmen  and  of 

pikes, 
Brown  bills-  and  targeteers,  four  hundred  strong, 
Sworn  to  defend  King  Edward's  royal  right, 
I  come  in  person  to  your  majesty, 
Spenser,  the  father  of  Hugh  Spenser  there, 
Bound  to  your  highness  everlastingly 
For  favour  done,  in  him,  unto  us  all. 
K.  Edw.  Thy  father,  Spenser  ? 
T.  Spen.  True,  an  it  like*  your  grace. 
That  pours,  in  lieu  of  all  your  goodness  shown. 
His  life,  my  lord,  before  your  princely  feet. 
K.  Edw.  Welcome,   ten  thousand   times,    old 

man,  again! 
Spenser,  this  love,  this  kindness  to  thy  king, 
Argues  thy  noble  mind  and  disposition. 
Spenser,  I  here  create  thee  Earl  of  Wiltshire, 
And  daily  will  enrich  thee  with  our  favour. 
That,  as  the  sunshine,  shall  reflect  o'er  thee. 
Beside,  the  more  to  manifest  our  love. 
Because  we  hear  Lord  Bruce  doth  sell  his  land, 
And  that  the  Mortimers  are  in  hand  withal, 
Thou  shalt  have    crowns    of    us    t'outbid    the 

barons ; 
And,  Spenser,  spare  them  not,  lay  it  on. — 
Soldiers,  a  largess,  and  thrice  welcome  all ! 
Y.  Spen.  My  lord,  here  comes  the  queen. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella,  Prince  Edward,  and 
Levune. 

K.  Edw.  Madam,  what  news  ? 

Q.  Isab.  News  of  dishonour,  lord,  and  discon- 
tent. 
Our  friend  Levune,  faithful  and  full  of  trust, 
Informeth  us,  by  letters  and  by  words, 
That  Lord  Valois  our  brother,  king  of  France, 
Because  your  highness  hath  been  slack  in  homage. 
Hath  seized  Normandy  into  his  hands  : 
These  be  the  letters,  this  the  messenger. 

K.  Edw.  Welcome,  Levune.     Tush,  Sib,  if  this 
be  all, 
Valois  and  I  will  soon  be  friends  again. 
But  to  my  Gaveston  :  shall  I  never  see, 
Never  behold  thee  now  !     Madam,  in  this  matter 
We  wUl  employ  you  and  your  little  son ; 
You  shall  go  parley  with  the  king  of  France. — 


1  haught — proud,  high,  haughty;  Fr.,  liaut. 

*  bills— i.e.  soldiers  who  carried  bills.  The  bill  was  a 
kind  of  pike  or  halbert,  which  gave  the  most  ghastly 
\founds. 

*  an  it  like — if  it  please. 


Boy,  see  you  bear  you  bravely  to  the  king. 
And  do  your  message  with  a  majesty. 
F.  Edw.  Commit  not  to  my  youth  things  of 
more  weight 
Than  fits  a  prince  so  young  as  I  to  bear ; 
And  fear  not,  lord  and  father, — heaven's  great 

beams 
On  Atlas'  shoulder  shall  not  Me  more  safe 
Than  shall  j'our  charge  committed  to  my  trust. 
Q.  Isab.  Ah,  boy,  this  towardness  makes  thy 
mother  fear- 
Thou  art  not  mark'd  to  many  days  on  earth ! 
K.  Edw.  Madam,  we  will  that  you  with  speed 
be  shipp'd. 
And  this  our  son :  Levune  shall  follow  you 
With  all  the  haste  we  can  despatch  him  hence. 
Choose  of  our  lords  to  bear  you  company  : 
And  go  in  peace ;  leave  us  in  wars  at  home. 
Q.  Isab.  Unnatural  wars,  where  subjects  brave 
their  king : 
God  end  them  once !     My  lord,  I  take  my  leave, 
To  make  my  preparation  for  Fi-ance. 

\^Exit  vnth  Prince  Edward. 

Enter  Arundel.i 

K.  Edw.  What !  Lord  Arundel,  dost  thou  come 
alone  ? 

Arun.  Yea,  my  good  lord,  for  Gaveston  is  dead. 

K.  Edw.  Ah !  traitors,  have  they  put  my  friend 
to  death  ? 
Tell  me,  Arundel,  died  he  ere  thou  cam'st, 
Or  didst  thou  see  my  friend  to  take  his  death  ? 

Arun.  Neither,  my  lord;    for,  as  he  was  sur- 
pris'd, 
Begirt  with  weapons  and  with  enemies  round, 
I  did  your  highness'  message  to  them  all, 
Demanding  him  of  them,  entreating  rather, 
And  said,  upon  the  honour  of  my  name, 
That  I  would  undertake  to  carry  him 
Unto  your  highness,  and  to  bring  him  back. 

K.  Edw.  And,  tell  me,  would  the  rebels  deny 
me  that  ? 

T.  Spen.  Proud  recreants  ! 

K.  Edw.  Yea,  Spenser,  traitors  all ! 

Arun.  I  found  them  at  the  first  inexorable  ; 
The  Earl  of  Warwick  would  not  bide  the  hearing, 
Mortimer  hardly  ;  Pembroke  and  Lancaster 
Spake  least ;  and  when  they  flatly  had  denied, 
Eefusing  to  receive  me  pledge  for  him. 
The  Earl  of  Pembroke  mildly  thus  bespake : 
'  My  lords,  because  our  sovereign  sends  for  him, 
And  promiseth  he  shall  be  safe  return'd, 
I  will  this  undertake,  to  have  him  hence, 
And  see  him  redehver'd  to  your  hands.' 

K.  Edw.  Well,  and  how  fortunes  that  he  came 
not? 

Y.  Spen.  Some  treason  or  some  villany  was 
cause. 

Arun.  The  Earl  of  Warwick  seiz'd  him  on  his 
way; 
For  being  delivered  unto  Pembroke's  men. 
Their  lord  rode  home,  thinking  his  prisoner  safe; 
But,  ere  he  came,  Warwick  in  ambush  lay. 
And  bare  him  to  his  death ;  and  in  a  trench 
Struck  off  his  head,  and  march'd  unto  the  camp. 

Y.  Spen.  A  bloody  part,  flatly  'gainst  law  of 
arms ! 

K.  Edw.  Oh  !  shall  I  speak,  or  shall  I  sigh  and 
die! 

Y.  Spen.  My  lord,  refer  your  vengeance  to  the 
sword 
Upon  these  barons  ;  hearten  up  your  men  ; 
Let  them  not  unreveng'd  murder  your  friends : 


1  We  have  followed  Dyce  here  and  elsewhere  in  sub- 
stituting '  Arundel  '  for  '  Lord  Matrevis,'  which  by  mis- 
take has  crept  into  the  old  editions. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


115 


Advance  your  standard,  Edward,  in  the  field. 
And  march  to  fire  them  from  their  starting-holes.' 

K.   Edw.  [hneeling.']  By  earth,   the    common 
mother  of  us  all. 
By  heaven,  and  all  the  moving  orbs  thereof, 
By  this  right  hand,  and  by  my  father's  sword. 
And  all  the  honours  'longing  to  my  crown, 
I  will  have  heads  and  lives  for  him  as  many 
As  I  have  manors,  castles,  towns,  and  towers ! 

[Rises. 
Treacherous  Warwick !  traitorous  Mortimer ! 
If  I  be  England's  king,  in  lakes  of  gore 
Tour  headless  trunks,  your  bodies  will  I  trail, 
That  you  may  drink  your  fill,  and  quaff  in  blood. 
And  stain  my  royal  standard  with  the  same ; 
That  so  my  bloody  colom-s  may  suggest 
Kemembrance  of  revenge  immortally 
On  your  accursed  traitorous  progeny. 
You  villains  that  have  slain  my  Gaveston ! — 
And  in  this  place  of  honour  and  of  trust, 
Spenser,  sweet  Spenser,  I  adopt  thee  here ; 
And  merely  of  our  love  we  do  create  thee 
Earl  of  Gloucester  and  Lord  Charabei  lain, 
Despite  of  times,  despite  of  enemies. 

Y.  Spen.    My  lord,  here's  a  messen;_^^or  from  the 
barons 
Desires  access  unto  your  majesty. 

K.  Edw.  Admit  him  near. 

Enter  Herald  witJi  his  coat  of  arms. 

Her.  Long  live  King  Edward,  England's  lawful 
lord! 

K.  Edw.  So  wish  not  they,  I  wis,2  that  sent  thee 
hither ; 
Thou  com'st  from  Mortimer  and  his  accomplices : 
A  ranker  rout'  of  rebels  never  was. 
Well,  say  thy  message. 

Her.  The  barons,  up  in  arms,  by  me  salute 
Your  highness  with  long  life  and  happiness  ; 
And  bid  me  say,  as  plainer  to  your  grace, 
That  if  without  effusion  of  blood 
You  will  this  grief  have  ease  and  remedy. 
That  from  your  princely  person  you  remove 
This  Spenser,  as  a  putrefying  branch 
That  deads  the  royal  vine,  whose  golden  leaves 
Empale*  yoiu'  princely  head,  your  diadem ; 
Whose  brightness  such  pernicious  upstarts  dim, 
Say  they,  and  lovingly  advise  your  grace 
To  cherish  virtue  and  nobility, 
And  have  old  servitors  in  high  esteem. 
And  shake  off  smooth  dissembling  flatterers  ; 
This  granted,  they,  their  honours,  and  their  lives. 
Are  to  your  highness  vow'd  and  consecrate. 

T.  Spen.  Ah!  traitors,  will  they  still   display 
their  pride  ? 

K.  Edw.    Away!    tarry ^  no  answer,   but  be 
gone ! — 
Kebels !  will  they  appoint  their  sovereign 
His  spoi-ts,  his  pleasures,  and  his  company  ? — 
Yet,  ere  thou  go,  see  how  I  do  divorce 

\_Embraces  young  Spenser. 

Spenser  from  me.    Now  get  thee  to  thy  lords, 

And  tell  them  I  will  come  to  chastise  them 

For    murdering   Gaveston:    hie  thee,    get  thee 

gone ! 
Edward,    with  fire   and  sword,  follows   at  thy 

heels. —  [Exit  Herald. 

My  lord,  perceive  you  how  these  rebels  swell  ?— 
Soldiers,  good  hearts!   defend  your  sovereign's 

right. 


^  siarting-Jwles—looT^holes. 

2  wis— know,  think.    See  note  4,  p.  113,  col.  1. 

*  rout — rabble  or  crew.    Another  reading  is  root. 

*  empale— to  fence  or  surround  as  with  ^aies  or  stakes. 
5  tarry — ^wait  for. 


For,  now,  even  now,  we  march  to  make  them 

stoop. 
Away! 

[Exeunt.     Alarums.,  excursions,  a  great  fight., 
and  a  retreat  sounded  within. 

Re-enter  King  Edward,  the  elder  Spensee,  the 
younger  SvEHSER,  Baldock,  and  Noblemen 
of  the  Mng^s  side. 

K.   Edw.   Why  do  we  sound  retreat?  upon 
them,  lords ! 
This  day  I  shall  pour  vengeance  with  my  sword 
On  those  proud  rebels  that  are  up  in  arms. 
And  do  confront  and  countei'mand  their  king. 

Y.  Spen.  I  doubt  it  not,  my  lord;    right  will 
prevail. 

E.   Spen.  'Tis  not   amiss,  my  liege,  for  either 
part 
To  breathe  a  while;  our  men,  with  sweat  and 

dust 
All  chok'd  well  near,  begin  to  faint  for  heat ; 
And  this  retire  i  refresheth  horse  and  man. 
Y.  Spen.  Here  come  the  rebels. 

Enter  the  younger  Mortimer,   Lancaster, 
War\vick,  Pejibroice,  and  others. 

T.  Mor.  Look,  Lancaster,  yonder  is  Edward 
Among  his  flatterers. 

Lan.  And  there  let  him  be, 
Till  he  pay  dearly  for  their  company. 

War.  And  shall,   or  Warwick's  sword  shall 
smite  in  vain. 

K.  Edw.   Whsitl   rebels,  do   you   shrink   and 
sound  retreat  ? 

Y.  Mor.  No,  Edward,  no ;  thy  flatterers  faint 
and  fly. 

Lan.    They'd  best   betimes  forsake  thee   and 
their  trains, 2 
For  they'll  betray  thee,  traitors  as  they  are. 

Y.  Spen.  Traitor  on  thy  face,  rebellious  Lan- 
caster ! 

Pent.  Away,  base  upstart !  brav'st  thou  nobles 
thus  ? 

E.  Spen.  A  noble  attempt  and  honourable  deed, 
Is  it  not,  trow  s  ye,  to  assemble  aid 
And  levy  arms  against  your  lawful  king  ? 

K.  Edw.  For  which,  ere  long,  theii-  heads  shall 
satisfy 
T'  appease  the  wrath  of  their  offended  king. 

Y.  Mor.  Then,  Edward,  thou  wilt  fight  it  to 
the  last. 
And  rather  bathe  thy  sword  in  subjects'  blood 
Than  banish  that  pernicious  company  ? 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  traitors  all,  rather  than  thus  be 
brav'd. 
Make  England's  civil*-  towns  huge  heaps  of  stones. 
And  ploughs  to  go  about  our  palace-gates. 

War.  A  desperate  and  unnatural  resolution ! — 
Alarum  to  the  fight ! 
Saint  George  for  England,  and  the  barons'  right ! 

K.  Edw.  Saint  George^  for  England,  and  King 
Edward's  right ! 

[Alarums.    Exeunt  the  twoparties  severally. 

Enter  King  Edward,  and  his  followers,  with  the 
Barons  and  Kent  captive. 
K.  Edw.  Now,  lusty  lords,  now  not  by  chance 
of  war. 


1  retire — retreat. 

2  trains — i.e.  stratagems  or  artifices.  To  train,  literally 
means  to  draw  or  allure;  from  Lat.  traho,  to  draw;  low 
Lat.  Irahino,  Fr.  trainer. 

2  trow — think.  Probably  from  same  root  as  true,  trust ; 
in  the  Bible  it  is  used  in  the  sense  of  'trust.' 

*  civil — municipal. 

5  Sai7it  George— the  patron  saint  of  England.  This 
used  to  be  the  cry  of  English  soldiery  when  they  charged 
the  enemy. 


ii6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


But  justice  of  the  quarrel  and  the  cause, 

Vall'd'  is  your  pride:   methinks  you  hang  the 

heads ; 
But  we'll  advance  them,  traitors :  now  'tis  time 
To  be  aveng'd  on  you  for  all  your  braves," 
And  for  the  murder  of  my  dearest  friend, 
To  whom  right  well  you  knew  our  soul  was  knit, 
Good  Pierce  of  Gaveston,  my  sweet  favourite  : 
Ah,  rebels,  recreants,  you  made  him  away ! 
Kent.  Brother,  in  regard  of  thee  and  of   thy 
land, 
Did  they  remove  that  flatterer  from  thy  throne. 
K.  Edw.  So,  sir,  you  have  spoke:  away,  avoid' 
our  presence !  [Exit  Kent. 

Accursed  wretches,  was't  in  regard  of  us, 
When  we  had  sent  our  messenger  to  request 
He  might  be  spar'd  to  come  to  speak  with  us, 
And  Pembroke  undertook  for  his  return, 
That  thou,  proud  Warwick,  watch'd  the  prisoner, 
Poor  Pierce,  and  headed  ■•  him  'gainst  law  of  arms  H 
For  which  thy  head  shall  overlook  the  rest 
As  much  as  thou  in  rage  outwent'st  the  rest. 
War.  Tyrant,    I   scorn   thy  threats  and  me- 
naces; 
It  is  but  temporal  that  thou  canst  inflict. 

Lan.  The  worst  is  death ;  and  better  die  to  live, 
Than  live  in  infamy  under  such  a  king. 
K.  Edic.  Away  with  them,  my  Lord  of  Win- 
chester ! 
These  lusty  leaders,  Warwick  and  Lancaster, 
I  charge  you  roundly,  off  with  both  their  heads  ! 
Away ! 

War.  Farewell,  vain  world ! 
Lan.  Sweet  Mortimer,  farewell ! 
Y.  Mor.  England,  unkind  to  thy  nobility, 
Groan    for    this    grief !    behold    how  thou    art 
maim'd ! 
K.  Edw.  Go,  take  that  haughty  Mortimer  to 
the  Tower; 
There  see  him  safe  bestow'd ;  and,  for  the  rest, 
Do  speedy  execution  on  them  aU. 
Be  gone ! 

Y.   Mor.  What!  Mortimer,  can  ragged  stony 
walls 
Immiu-e  thy  virtue  that  aspires  to  heaven  ? 
No,  Edward,  England's  scourge,  it  may  not  be  ; 
Mortimer's  hope  sunnounts  his  fortune  far. 

[TAe  captive  Barons  are  led  off. 
K.  Edw.  Sound,  drums  and  trumpets!  March 
with  me,  my  friends. 
Edward  this  day  hath  crown'd  him  king  anew. 

[Exeunt  all  except  the  younger  Spenser, 
Levune,  and  Baldock. 

F.  Spen.  Levune,  the  trust  that  we  repose  in 

thee 
Begets  the  quiet  of  King  Edward's  land : 
Therefore  be  gone  in  haste,  and  with  advice 
Bestow  that  treasure  on  the  lords  of  France, 
That,  therewith  aU  enchanted,  like  the  guard 
That  suffer'd  Jove  to  pass  in  showers  of  gold 
To  Danae,  all  aid  may  be  denied 
To  Isabel  the  queen,  that  now  in  France 
Makes  friends,  to  cross  the  seas  with  her  young 

son, 
And  step  into  his  father's  regiment.* 

Levune.  That's  it  these  barons  and  the  subtle 

queen 
Long  levell'd "  at. 

Bald.  Yea,  but,  Levune,  thou  seest, 
These  barons  lay  their  heads  on  blocks  together : 
What  they  intend,  the  hangman  frustrates  clean. 


1  VaiVd — ^lowered. 

3  avoid — quit. 

<  headed — beheaded. 

*  regiment — nUe,  government 


-  braves — bravadoes,  toasts. 


*  /a-eW'fi— aimed. 


Levune.  Have  you  no  doubt,  my  lords,  PU  clap 
so  close 
Among  the  lords  of  France  with  England's  gold, 
That  Isabel  shall  make  her  plaints  in  vain. 
And  France  shall  be  obdurate  with  her  tears. 
Y.  Spen.  Then  make  for  France  amain:  Le- 
vune, away ! 
Proclaim  King  Edward's  wars  and  victories. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Kent. 

Kent.  Fair  blows  the  wind  for  France  :  blow, 
gentle  gale. 
Till  Edmund  be  arriv'd  for  England's  good  ! 
Nature,  yield  to  my  country's  cause  in  this ! 
A  brother  ?  no,  a  butcher  of  thy  friends ! 
Proud  Edward,  dost  thou  banish  me  thy  presence  ? 
But  I'U  to  France,  and  cheer  the  wronged  queen, 
And  certify  what  Edward's  looseness  is. 
Unnatural  king,  to  slaughter  noblemen 
And  cherish  flatterers !  Mortimer,  I  stay 
Thy  sweet  escape.  Stand  gracious,  gloomy  night. 
To  his  device ! 

Enter  the  younger  Mortimer  disguised. 

Y.  Mor.  Holla !  who  walketh  there  ? 
Is't  you,  my  lord  ? 

Kent.  Mortimer,  'tis  I. 
But  hath  thy  potion  wrought  so  happily  ? 

Y.   Mor.  It  hath,    my  lord:   the   warders  all 
asleep, 
I  thank  them,  gave  me  leave  to  pass  in  peace. 
But  hath  your  grace  got  shipping  unto  Finance  ? 

Kent.  Fear  it  not.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella'  and  Prince  Edward. 

Q.  Isal).  Ah,  boy,  our  friends  do  fail  us  all  in 
France  I 
The  loi'ds  are  cruel,  and  the  king^  unkind. 
What  shall  we  do  ? 

P.  Edw.  Madam,  return  to  England, 
And  please  my  father  well ;  and  then  a  fig 
For  all  my  uncle's  friendship  here  in  France ! 
I  warrant  you,  I'll  win  his  highness  quickly  ; 
'A  3  loves  me  better  than  a  thousand  Speusers. 

Q.  Isab.  Ah,  boy,  thou  art  deceiv'd,  at  least  in 
this. 
To  think  that  we  can  yet  be  tun'd  together ! 
No,  no,  we  jar  too  far. — Unkind  Valois ! 
Unhappy  Isabel,  when  France  rejects. 
Whither,  oh,  whither  dost  thou  bend  thy  steps  ? 

Enter  Sir  John  of  Hainault. 

Sir  J.  Madam,  what  cheer  ? 

Q.  Isab.  Ah,  good  Sir  John  of  Hainault, 
Never  so  cheerless  nor  so  far  distrest ! 

Sir  J.    I  hear,  sweet  lady,  of  the  king's  un- 
kindness: 
But  di'oop  not,  madam ;  noble  minds  contemn 
Despair.     Will  your  grace  with  me  to  Hainault, 
And  there  stay  time's  advantage  with  your  sou.' — 
How  say  you,  my  lord .'  will  you  go  with  your 

friends. 
And  shake  off  all  our  fortunes  equally  ? 

P.  Edw.  So  pleaseth  the  queen  my  mother,  me 
it  likes.* 
The  king  of  England,  nor  the  court  of  France, 
Shall  have  me  from  my  gracious  mother's  side. 
Till  I  be  strong  enough  to  break  a  staff; 
And  then  have  at  the  proudest  Spenser's  head ! 

Sir  J.  Well  said,  my  lord! 


1  Enter  Queen  Isabella,  &c. — the  scene  changes  to 
France. 

-  the  king — Charles  v.,  her  brother. — Dodsley's  Old 
Plays. 

3  'A — he.  ♦  lUces — pleases. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


117 


Q,.  Isab.  Oh,  ray  sweet  heart,  how  do  I  moan 
thy  wrongs, 
Yet  triumph  in  the  hope  of  thee,  my  joy  ! — 
Ah,  sweet  Sir  John,  even  to  the  utmost  verge 
Of  Europe,  or  the  shore  of  Tanais,* 
Will  we  with  thee  to  Hainault — so  we  will : 
The  marquis  is  a  noble  gentleman ; 
His  grace,  I  dare  presume,  will  welcome  me. — 
Bat  who  are  these  ? 

Enter  Kent  a7id  the  younger  Mortimer. 

Kent.  Madam,  long  may  you  live 
Much  happier  than  your  friends  in  England  do  ! 
Q.  Isab.   Lord  Edmund,  and  Lord  Mortimer 
alive ! 
Welcome  to  France !  the  news  was  here,  my  lord, 
That  you  were  dead,  or  very  near  your  death. 

Y.  Mor.  Lady,  the  last  was  truest  of  the  twain : 
But  Mortimer,  reserv'd  for  better  hap, 
Hath  shaken  off  the  thraldom  of  the  Tower, 
And  lives  t'  advance  your  standard,  good  my 
lord. 
P.  Edw.   How  mean  you,  and  the  king  my 
father  lives  ? 
No,  my  Lord  Mortimer,  not  I,  I  trow. 

Q.  Isab.  Not,  son !  why  not  ?  I  would  it  were 
no  worse ! — 
But,  gentle  lords,  friendless  we  are  in  France. 
Y.  Mor.  Monsieur  Le  Grand,  a  noble  friend  of 
yours, 
Told  us,  at  our  arrival,  all  the  news, — 
How  hard  the  nobles,  how  unkind  the  king 
Hath  show'd  himself :  but,  madam,  right  makes 

room 
Where   Aveapons  won't;   and,   though  a  many 

friends 
Are  made  away,  as  Warwick,  Lancaster, 
And  others  of  our  party  and  faction. 
Yet    have    we  friends,   assure  your   grace,    in 

England, 
Would  cast  up  caps,  and  clap  their  hands  for  joy. 
To  see  us  there,  appointed  ^  for  our  foes. 
Kent.  Would  all  were  well,  and  Edward  well 
reclaim'd. 
For  England's  honour,  peace,  and  quietness  ! 
Y.  Mor.  But  by  the  sword,  my  lord,  't  must  be 
deserv'd :  3 
The  king  will  ne'er  forsake  his  flatterers. 
Sir  J.  My  lords  of  England,  sith  ■«  th'  ungentle 
king 
Of  France  refuseth  to  give  aid  of  arms 
To  this  distressed  queen,  his  sister,  here, 
Go  you  with  her  to  Hainault :  doubt  ye  not 
We  will  find  comfort,  money,  men,  and  friends. 
Ere  long  to  bid  the  English  king  a  base  ^ — 
How  say,  young  prince,  what  think  you  of  the 
match  ? 
P.  Edw.  I  think  King  Edward  will  outran  us 
all. 


1  Dyce,  no  doubt  con-ectly,  thinks  the  meaning  to  be 
that  tliey  would  go  with  Sir  John  to  Hainault,  were  it 
on  the  utmost  verge  of  Europe,  &c.  The  Tanais  (Don) 
was  formerly  accounted  the  boundary  between  Europe 
and  Asia. 

2  appointed — armed,  accoutred,  furnished  with  imple- 
ments of  war.  We  still  speak  of  a  soldier's  '  appoint- 
ments.' 

*  deserv'd — earned. 

*  sith — since ;  Anglo-Saxon,  sith,  late,  after. 

5  to  bid  the  English  king  a  base.  To  bid  a  base  is,  to 
run  fast,  challenging  another  to  pursue,  in  allusion  to 
the  game  of  Prison-base  or  Prison-bars,  a  rustic  game 
that  consisted  chiefly  in  running.  The  following  lines 
from  Spencer  seem  to  give  some  kind  of  picture  of  the 
sport : — 

'  So  ran  they  all  as  they  had  been  at  bace, 
They  being  chased  that  did  others  chase.' 

— Faerie  Queene,  v.  viii.  5. 


Q.  Isab.  Nay,  son,  not  so ;  and  you  must  not 
discourage 
Your  friends,  that  ai-e  so  forward  in  your  aid. 

Kent.  Sir  John  of  Hainault,  pardon  us,  I  pray, 
These  comforts  that  you  give  our  woful  queen 
Bind  us  in  kindness  all  at  your  command. 

Q.  Isab.  Yea,  gentle  brother : — and  the  God  of 
heaven 
Prosper  your  happy  motion,  good  Sir  John  ! 
r.   Mor.    This  noble  gentleman,  forward  in 
arms. 
Was  born,  I  see,  to  be  our  anchor-hold. — 
Sir  John  of  Hainault,  be  it  thy  renown, 
That  England's  queen  and  nobles  in  distress 
Have  been  by  thee  restor'd  and  comforted. 
Sir  J.  Madam,  along ;  and  you,  my  lord,  with 
me. 
That  England's  peers  may  Hainault's  welcome 
see.  {Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Edward,  Arundel,  the  elder  Spen- 
ser, the  younger  Spenser,  and  others.^ 

K.  Edw.  Thus,  after  many  threats  of  wrathful 
war, 
Triumpheth  England's  Edward  with  his  friends, 
And  triumph  Edward  with  his  friends  uncon- 

troll'd  !— 
My  Lord  of  Gloucester,  do  you  hear  the  news  ? 
Y.  Spen.  What  news,  my  lord .' 
K.  Edw.  Why,  man,  they  say  there  is   great 
execution 
Done  through  the  realm. — My  Lord  of  Arundel, 
You  have  the  note,  have  you  not  ? 
Arun.  From  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  my 
lord. 
K.  Edw.   I  pray,  let  us  see  it.    What  have  we 

there .' — 
Read  it,  Spenser. 

[Spenser  reads  their  names. 
Why,  so :  they  bark'd  apace  a  month  ago  ; 
Now,  on  my  life,  they'll  neither  bark  or  bite. 
Now,  sirs,  the  news  from  France  ?  Gloucester,  I 

trow, 
The  lords  of  France  love  England's  gold  so  well 
As  2  Isabella  gets  no  aid  from  thence. 
What  now  remains?   have  you  proclaim' d,  my 

lord, 
Eeward  for  them  can  bring  in  Mortimer  ? 

Y.  Spen.  My  lord,  we  have ;  and,  if  he  be  in 
England, 
'A'  will  be  had  ere  long,  I  doubt  it  not. 

K.  Edw.  If,  dost  thou  say  ?  Spenser,  as  true  as 
death. 
He  is  in  England's  ground :  our  port-masters 
Are  not  so  careless  of  their  king's  command. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

How  now !  what  news  with  thee  ?  from  whence 
come  these .' 
Mes.   Letters,    my  lord,   and  tidings  forth   of 
France ; — 
To  you,  my  Lord  of  Gloucester,  from  Levune. 

[^Gives  letters  to  younger  Spenser. 
K.  Edw.  Bead. 

Y.  Spen.  [reading.]  My  duty  to  your  honour 
premised,  cfc,  /  have,  according  to  instructions  in 
that  behalf,  dealt  with  the  king  oj"  France,  his  lords, 
and  effected  that  the  queen,  all  discontented  and  dis- 
comforted, is  gone :  whither,  if  you  ask,  with  Sir 
John  of  Hainault,  brother  to  the  marquis,  into 
Flanders.     With  them  are  gone  Lm-d  Edmund  and 


1  Scene  in  England  again,  apparently  in  the  royal 
palace. 

-  As — that,  in  Avhich  sense  it  was  often  used  by  old 
authors. 

3  'A— he. 


ii8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


the  Lord  Mortimer^  having  in  their  company  divers 
of  your  nation,  and  others ;  and,  as  constant  report 
goeth,  they  intend  to  give  King  Edward  battle  in 
England,  sooner  than  he  can  look  for  them.  This 
is  all  the  news  of  import. 

Your  honour''s  in  all  service,  Levune. 
K.   Edw.    Ah,    villains,   hath    that    Mortimer 
escap'd  ? 
With  him  is  Edmund  gone  associate  ? 
And  will  Sir  John  of  Hainault  lead  the  round  ? 
Welcome  a^  God's  name,  madam,  and  your  son  ! 
England  shall  welcome  you  and  all  your  rotit.- 
Gallop  apace,^  bright  Phoebus,  through  the  sky  ; 
And,  dusky  Night,  in  rusty  iron  car, 
Between  you  both  shorten  the  time,  I  pray. 
That  I  may  see  that  most  desired  day, 
When  we  may  meet  these  traitors  in  the  field ! 
Ah,  nothing  grieves  me,  bvit  my  little  boy 
Is  thus  misled  to  countenance  their  ills! 
Come,  friends,  to  Bristol,  there  to  make  us  strong ; 
And,  winds,  as  equal  be  to  bring  them  in. 
As  you  injurious  were  to  bear  them  forth ! 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella,  Prince  Edward,  Kent, 
the  younger  Mortuiee,  and  Sir  John  of 
Hainault.* 

Q.  Isab.  Now,  lords,   our  loving  friends   and 
countrymen. 
Welcome  to  England  all,  with  prosperous  winds ! 
Our  kindest  friends  in  Belgia  have  we  left, 
To  cope  with  friends  at  home  ;  a  heavy  case 
When  force  to  force  is  knit,  and  sword  and  glaive,^ 
In  civil  broils  make  kin  and  countrymen 
Slaughter  themselves  in  others,  and  their  sides 
With  their  own  weapons  gor'd !     But  what's  the 

help? 
Misgovern'd  kings  are  cause  of  all  this  wreck ; 
And,  Edward,  thou  art  one  among  them  all. 
Whose  looseness  hath  betray'd  thy  land  to  spoil, 
Who  made  the  channel"  overflow  with  blood 
Of  thine  own  people :  patron  shouldst  thou  be ; 
But  thou — 

T.  Mor.  Nay,  madam,  if  you  be  a  warrior, 
Tou  must  not  grow  so  passionate  in  speeches. — 
Lords,  sith '  that  we  are,  by  sufferance  of  heaven, 
Arriv'd  and  arm^d  in  this  prince's  right, 
Here  for  our  country's  cause  swear  we  to  him 
All  homage,  fealty,  and  forwardness ; 
And  for  the  open  wrongs  and  injuries 
Edward  hath  done  to  us,  his  queen,  and  land, 
We  come  in  arms  to  wreak  it  with  the  sword ; 
That  England's  queen  in  peace  may  repossess 
Her  dignities  and  honours ;  and  withal 
We  may  remove  these  flatterers  from  the  king. 
That  havock  England's  wealth  and  treasury. 

Sir  J.  Sound  trumpets,  my  lord !  and  forward 
let  us  march. 
Edward  will  think  we  come  to  flatter  him. 

Kent.   I  would   he  never  had   been  flatter'd 
more !  \_Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Edward,  Baldock,  and  the  younger 
Spenser,  flying  about  the  stage. 

r.  Spen.  Fly,  fly,  my  lord !  the  queen  is  over- 
strong: 


1  a — in.  "  rovt — rabble,  crew. 

3  Gallop  apace.  This  of  course  reminds  us  of  the  well- 
known  passage  in  Romeo  and  Juliet;  but  it  by  no  means 
follows  that  Shakespeare  stole  the  phrase :  the  drift  of 
the  one  passage  is  totally  different  from  that  of  the 
other. 

*  The  scene  is,  of  course,  in  England — Dyce  says,  near 
Harwich. 

*  glaive  here  means  halberd;  it  was  also  used  to 
signify  a  kind  of  broad-sword. 

*  cAarencZ— kennel  or  gutter.  ^  sith — since. 


Her  friends  do  multiply,  and  yours  do  fail. 
Shape  we  our  course  to  Ireland,  there  to  breathe. 

K.  Edw.  What !  was  I  born  to  fly  and  run  away, 
And  leave  the  Mortimers  conquerors  behind  ? 
Give  me  my  horse,  and  let's  reinforce  our  troops, 
And  in  this  bed  of  honour  die  with  fame. 

Bald.  Oh  no,  my  lord !  this  princely  resolution 
Fits  not  the  time :  away !  we  are  pursu'd. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Kent,  with  a  sword  and  target. 

Kent.  This  way  he  fled;  but  I  am  come  too 
late. 
Edward,  alas,  my  heart  relents  for  thee  ! 
Proud  traitor,  Mortimer,  why  dost  thou  chase 
Thy  lawful  king,  thy  sovereign,  with  thy  sword? 
Vile  wretch,  and  why  hast  thou,  of  all  unkind, 
Borne  arms  against  thy  brother  and  thy  king  ? 
Rain  showers  of  vengeance  on  my  cursfed  head, 
Thou  God,  to  whom  in  jiistice  it  belongs 
To  punish  this  unnatural  revolt ! 
Edward,  this  Mortimer  aims  at  thy  life : 
Oh  fly  him,  then !    But,  Edmund,  calm  this  rage ; 
Dissemble,  or  thou  diest ;  for  Mortimer 
And  Isabel  do  kiss,  while  they  conspire : 
And  yet  she  bears  a  face  of  love,  forsooth  ! 
Fie  on  that  love  that  hatcheth  death  and  hate ! 
Edmrmd,  away !     Bristow  to  Longshanks'  blood 
Is  false ;  be  not  found  single  for  suspect :  i 
Proud  Mortimer  pries  near  into  thy  walks. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella,  Princb  Edward,  the 
younger  Mortmer,  and  Sir  John  of  Hainault. 

Q.  Isab.  Successful  battle  gives  the  God  of 
kings 
To  them  that  fight  in  right,  and  fear  his  wrath. 
Since,  then,  successfully  we  have  prevail'd, 
Thankfed  be  heaven's  great  Architect,  and  you  ! 
Ere  farther  we  proceed,  my  noble  lords, 
We  here  create  our  well-beloved  son, 
Of  love  and  care  unto  his  royal  person. 
Lord  W^-rden  of  the  realm ;  and,  sith  the  Fates 
Have  made  his  father  so  infortunate, 
Deal  you,  my  lords,  in  this,  my  loving  lords. 
As  to  your  wisdoms  fittest  seems  in  all. 

Kent.  Madam,  without  offence  if  I  may  ask, 
How  will  you  deal  with  Edward  in  his  fall  ? 

P.  Edw.  Tell  me,  good  uncle,  what  Edward  do 
you  mean  ? 

Kent.  Nephew,  your  father ;  I  dare  not  call  him 
king. 

Y.  Mor.  My  Lord  of  Kent,  what  needs  these 
questions? 
'Tis  not  in  her  controlment  nor  in  ours ; 
But  as  the  realm  and  parliament  shall  please, 
So  shall  your  brother  be  disposed  of. — 
I  like  not  this  relenting  mood  in  Edmund : 
Madam,  'tis  good  to  look  to  him  betimes. 

[Aside  to  the  Queen. 

Q.  Isab.  My  lord,  the  Mayor  of  Bristol  knows 
our  mind. 

Y.  Mor.  Tea,  madam;  and  they  'scape  not 
easily 
That  fled  the  field. 

Q.  Isab.  Baldock  is  with  the  king  : 
A  goodly  chancellor,  is  he  not,  my  lord  ? 

Sir  J.  So  are  the  Spensers,  the  father  and  the 
son. 

Kent.^  This  Edward  is  the  ruin  of  the  realm. 

Enter  EiCE  ap  Howel,  and  the  Mayor  of  Bristol, 
with  the  elder  Sfet^skr  prisoner,  and  Attendants. 
Eice.  God  save  Queen  Isabel  and  her  princely 
son ! 


'  suspect — suspicion. 

-  Dyce  substitutes  Foung  Mortimer  for  Kent. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


119 


Madam,  the  mayor  and  citizens  of  Bristol, 
In  sign  of  love  and  duty  to  this  presence, 
Present  by  me  this  traitor  to  the  state, 
Spenser,  the  father  to  that  wanton  Spenser, 
That,  like  the  lawless  Catiline  of  Eonie, 
Eevell'd  in  England's  wealth  and  treasury. 

Q.  Isah.  We  thank  you  all. 

Y.  Mor.  Your  loving  care  in  this 
Deserveth  princely  favours  and  rewards. 
But  whei-e's  the  king  and  the  other  Spenser  fled? 

Rice.  Spenser  the  son,  created  Earl  of  Gloucester, 
Is  with  that  smooth- tongu'd  scholar   Baldock 


And  shipp'd  but  late  for  Ireland  with  the  king. 
Y.  Mor.  Some  whirlwind  fetch  them  back,  or 
sink  them  all ! — 
They  shall  be  started  thence,  I  doubt  it  not. 

P.  Edw.  Shall  I  not  see  the  king  my  father 
yet.? 

Kent.  Unhappy  Edward,  chas'd  from  England's 
bounds ! 

Sir  J.  Madam,  what  resteth  ?  *  why  stand  you 
in  a  muse  ? 

Q.  Isab.  I  me  my  lord's  ill-fortune  ;  but,  alas, 
Care  of  my  country  call'd  me  to  this  war ! 

Y.  Mor.  Madam,  have  done  with  care  and  sad 
complaint : 
Tour  king  hath  wrong'd  your  country  and  him- 
self, 
And  we  must  seek  to  right  it  as  we  may. — 
Meanwhile  have  hence  this  rebel  to  the  block. 
E.  Spen.  Eebel  is  he  that  fights   against  the 
prince : 
So  fought  not  they  that  fought  in  Edward's  right. 
Y.  Mor.  Take  him  away ;  he  prates. 

[Exeunt  Attendants  with  the  elder  Spensek. 
You,  Rice  ap  Howel, 
Shall  do  good  service  to  her  majesty, 
Being  of  countenance  in  your  country  here, 
To  follow  these  rebellious  runagates. — 
We  in  meanwhile,  madam,  must  take  advice 
How  Baldock,  Spenser,  and  their  'complices, 
May  in  their  fall  be  foUow'd  to  their  end. 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Abbot,-  Monks,   King  Eeward,    the 
younger  Spenser,  and  Baldock. 

Abbot.  Have  you  no  doubt,  my  lord ;  have  you 

no  fear : 
As  silent  and  as  careful  we  will  be 
To  keep  your  royal  person  safe  with  us, 
Free  from  suspect  and  fell  invasion 
Of  such  as  have  your  majesty  in  chase. 
Yourself,  and  those  your  chosen  company, 
As  danger  of  this  stormy  time  requires. 

K.  Edw.  Father,  thy  face  should  harbour  no 

deceit. 
Oh,  hadst  thou  ever  been  a  king,  thy  heart, 
Pierc'd  deeply  with  sense  of  my  distress, 
Could  not  but  take  compassion  of  my  state  ! 
Stately  and  proud  in  riches  and  in  train. 
Whilom*  I  was  powerful  and  full  of  pomp : 
But  what  is  he  whom  rule  and  empery* 
Have  not  in  life  or  death  made  miserable  ? — 
Come,  Spenser, — come,  Baldock, — come,  sit  down 

by  me; 
Make  trial  now  of  that  philosophy 
That  in  our  famous  nurseries  of  arts 
Thou  suck'dst  from  Plato  and  from  Aristotle. — 
Father,  this  life  contemplative  is  heaven : 


*  resteth — remaineth. 

2  Enter  the  Abbot,  &c.    Scene,  ■within  the  Abbej'  of 
Neath. — Dtce. 

*  Whilom — once,  formerly 

*  empej-y — sometimes  means  empire,  kingdom ;  here 
it  means  sovereignty. 


Oh  that  I  might  this  life  in  quiet  lead ! 
But  we,  alas,  are  chas'd ! — and  you,  my  friends, 
Your  lives  and  my  dishonour  they  pursue. — 
Yet,  gentle  monks,  for  treasure,  gold,  nor  fee, 
Do  you  betray  us  and  our  company. 

First  Monh.  Your  grace  may  sit  secure,  if  none 
but  we 
Do  wot '  of  your  abode. 

Y.  Spen.  Not  one  alive :  but  shrewdly  I  suspect 
A  gloomy  fellow  in  a  mead  below  ; 
'A  gave  a  long  look  after  us,  my  lord ; 
And  all  the  land,  I  know,  is  up  in  arms. 
Arms  that  pursue  our  lives  with  deadly  hate. 

Bald.  We  were  embark'd  for  Ireland  ;  wretched 
we. 
With  awkward  winds  and  sore  tempests  driven, 
To  fall  on  shore,  and  here  to  pine  in  fear 
Of  Mortimer  and  his  confederates ! 

K.  Edw.  Mortimer !  who  talks  of  Mortimer  ? 
'W^'ho  wounds  me  with  the  name  of  Mortimer, 
That  bloody  man.' — Good  father,  on  thy  lap 
Lay  I  this  head,  laden  with  mickle  "  care. 
Oh  might  I  never  ope  these  eyes  again. 
Never  again  lift  up  this  drooping  head. 
Oh  never  more  lift  up  this  dying  heart ! 

Y.  Spe7i.    Look  up,   my  lord. — Baldock,    this 
di-owsiness 
Betides  no  good :  here  even  we  are  betray'd. 

Enter,  with  Welsh  hoohs,^  Eice  ap  Ho"wel,  a 
Mower,  and  Leicester. 

Mow.  Upon  my  life,  these  be  the  men  ye  seek. 

Rice.  Fellow,   enough. — My  lord,    I  pray,  be 
short ; 
A  fair  commission  warrants  what  we  do. 

Leices.  The  queen's  commission,  urg'd  by  Mor- 
timer : 
What  cannot  gallant  Mortimer  with  the  queen  ? — 
Alas,  see  where  he  sits,  and  hopes  unseen 
T'  escape  then-  hands  that  seek  to  reave  *  his  life ! 
Too  true  it  is,  Quem^  dies  vidii  veniens  superbum: 
Huno  dies  vidit  fugiens  jacentem. 
But,  Leicester,  leave  °  to  grow  so  passionate. — 
Spenser  and  Baldock,  by  no  other  names, 
I  arrest  you  of  high  treason  here. 
Stand  not  on  titles,  but  obey  th'  arrest : 
'Tis  in  the  name  of  Isabel  the  queen. — 
My  lord,  why  droop  you  thus  ? 

K.  Edio.  Oh  day,  the  last  of  aU  my  bliss  on 
earth ! 
Centre  of  all  misfortune !     Oh  my  stars, 
Why  do  you  low'r  unkindly  on  a  king? 
Comes  Leicester,  then,  in  Isabella's  name, 
To  take  my  life,  my  company  from  me  ? 
Here,  man,  rip  up  this  panting  breast  of  mine. 
And  take  my  heart  in  rescue  of  my  friends. 

Rice.  Away  with  them ! 

Y.  Spen.  It  may  become  thee  yet 
To  let  us  take  our  farewell  of  his  grace. 

Abbot.  My  heart  with  pity  earns  ^  to  see  this 
sight ; 
A  king  to  bear  these  words  and  proud  commands ! 

\_Aside. 

K.  Edw.  Spenser,  ah!  sweet  Spenser,  thus,  then, 
must  we  part  ? 

1  wot — linow ;  connected  witli  wit. 

-  mickle — much;  still  used  in  Scotland ;  Anglo-Saxon, 
micel. 

3  Welsh  hooks.  What  kind  of  weapons  these  -were  is  not 
precisely  known.  Nares  says  they  were  swords  made  in 
a  hooked  form ;  another  authority  thinks  they  were  a 
species  of  Lochaber  axe. 

*  reave — rob ;  now  bereave ;  Anglo-Saxon,  refian,  to  rob. 
5  Quern,  <fec. — '  He  whom  the  morning  beholds  proud, 

the  departinff  day  sees  lying  low.' — Seneca. 

*  leave — cease. 

'  earns— yearns ;  Anglo-Saxon,  georn,  desirous ;  con- 
nected with  earnest. 


I20 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Y.  Spen.  We  must,  my  lord  ;  so  will  the  angry- 
heavens. 

K.  Edw.  Nay,  so  will  liell  and  cruel  Mortimer : 
The  gentle  heavens  have  not  to  do  in  this. 

Bald.  My  lord,  it  is  in  vain  to  grieve  or  storm. 
Here  humbly  of  your  grace  we  take  our  leaves : 
Our  lots  are  cast ;  I  fear  me,  so  is  thine. 

K.  Edw.  In  heaven  we  may,  in  earth  ne'er  shall 
we  meet : — 
And,  Leicester,  say,  what  shall  become  of  us  ? 

Leices.  Your  majesty  must  go  to  Killingworth.' 

K.  Edw.  Musi !  it  is  somewhat  hard  when  kings 
must  go. 

Leices.  Here  is  a  letter  ready  for  your  grace, 
That  waits  your  pleasure,  and  the  day  grows  old. 

Rice.  As  good  be  gone,  as  stay  and  be  benighted. 

K.  Edw.  A  litter  hast  thou  ?  lay  me  in  a  hearse, 
And  to  the  gates  of  hell  convey  nie  hence ; 
Let  Pluto's  bells  ring  out  my  fatal  knell, 
And  hags  howl  for  my  death  at  Charon's  shore ; 
For  friends  hath  Edward  none  but  these,  and  these 
Must  die  under  a  tyrant's  sword. 

Rice.  My  lord,  be  going:  care  not  for  these ; 
For  we  shall  see  them  shorter  by  the  heads. 

K.  Edw.  "Well,  that  shall  be  shall  be  :  part  we 
must; 
Sweet  Spenser,  gentle  Baldock,  part  we  must. — 
Hence,  feigned  weeds !  -  unfeigned  are  my  woes. — 

Father,  farewell Leicester,  thou  stay'st  for  me ; 

And  go  I  must. — Life,  farewell,  with  my  friends ! 
[Exeunt  King  Edward  and  Leicesteu. 

T.  Spen.  Oh,  is  he  gone  ?  is  noble  Edward  gone  ? 
Parted  from  hence,  never  to  see  us  more  ? 
Eend,  sphere  of  heaven !  and,  fire,  forsake  thy 

orb! 
Earth,  melt  to  air !  gone  is  my  sovereign, 
Gone,  gone,  alas,  never  to  make  return ! 

Bald.  Spenser,    I   see  our  souls   are   fleeting 
hence ; 
We  are  depriv'd  the  sunshine  of  our  life. 
Make  for  a  new  life,  man  ;  throw  up  tliy  eyes, 
And  heart  and  hand  to  heaven's  immortal  throne  ; 
Pay  nature's  debt  with  cheerful  countenance : 
Eeduce  we  all  our  lessons  unto  this, — 
To  die,  sweet  Spenser,  therefore  live  we  all ; 
Spenser,  all  live  to  die,  and  rise  to  fall. 

Rice.  Come,  come,  keep  these  preachments  till 
you  come  to  the  .place  appointed.  You,  and  such 
as  you  are,  have  made  wise  work  in  Etigland. 
Will  your  lordships  away  ? 

Mow.  Your  lordship  I  trust  will  remember  me  ? 

Rice.  Kemember  thee,  fellow !  what  else  ? 
Follow  me  to  the  town.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  King  Edward,^  Leicester,  the  Bishop  of 
Winchester,  and  Trussel.4 

Leices.  Be    patient,    good   my  lord,   cease    to 
lament ; 
Imagine  Killingworth  Castle  were  your  court. 
And  that  you  lay  for  pleasure  here  a  space. 
Not  of  compulsion  or  necessity. 

K.  Edw.  Leicester,  if  gentle  words  might  com- 
fort me. 
Thy  speeches  long  ago  had  eas'd  my  sorrows. 
For  kind  and  loving  hast  thou  always  been. 
The  griefs  of  private  men  are  soon  allay'd ; 
But  not  of  kings.    The  forest  deer,  being  struck,^ 

'  Killingworth — Kenihvorth. 

^  '  Hence   it   appears  that  Edward   has   put  ;^n  tlie 
disguise  of  a  monk,  and  wears  it  during  the  scene.' — 
Dodsley's  Old  Plays  (lS2a). 
3  Scene,  Kenilworth  Ciistle. 

^  We  have  followed  Dyce  in  the  name  Trussel;  Dodsley 
makes  it  Trusty. 
^  The  forest  deer,  being  struck,  &c.  -. — 
'  But  I  suppose  not  that  the  earth  doth  yield 
lu  Hill  or  Dale,  in  Forrest  or  in  Field, 


Runs  to  an  herb  that  closeth  up  the  wounds: 
But  when  the  imperial  lion's  flesh  is  gor'd. 
He  rends  and  tears  it  with  his  wrathful  paw, 
And  highly  scorning  that  the  lowly  earth 
Should  drink  his  blood,  mounts  up  to  the  air; 
And  so  it  fares  with  me,  whose  dauntless  uiiiid 
Th'  ambitious  Mortimer  would  seek  to  curb, 
And  that  unnatural  queen,  false  Isabel, 
That  thus  hath  pent  and  mew'd  me  in  a  prison  ; 
For  such  outrageous  passions  cloy  my  soul, 
As  with  the  wings  of  rancour  and  disdain 
Full  oft  am  I  soaring  up  to  heaven, 
To  plain  i  me  to  the  gods  against  them  both. 
But  when  I  call  to  mind  I  am  a  king, 
Methinks  I  should  revenge  me  of  my  wrongs, 
That  Mortimer  and  Isabel  have  done. 
But  what  are  kings,  when  regiment^  is  gone, 
But  perfect  shadows  in  a  sunshine  day  ? 
My  nobles  rule;  I  bear  the  name  of  king; 
I  wear  the  crown ;  but  am  controU'd  by  them, 
By  Mortimer,  and  my  unconstant  queen, 
Who  spots  my  nuptial  bed  with  infamy ; 
Whilst  I  am  lodg'd  within  this  cave  of  care, 
Where  sorrow  at  my  elbow  still  attends. 
To  company  my  heart  with  sad  laments. 
That  bleeds  within  me  for  this  strange  exchange. 
But  tell  me,  must  I  now  resign  my  crown. 
To  make  usurping  Mortimer  a  king  ? 
Bish.  of  Win.  Your  grace  mistakes;  it  is  for 

England's  good, 
And  princely  Edward's  right,  we  crave  the  crown. 
A'.  Edw.  No,  'tis  for  Mortimer,  not  Edward's 

head ; 
For  he's  a  lamb,  encompassed  by  wolves, 
Which  in  a  moment  will  abridge  his  life. 
But,  if  proud  Mortimer  do  wear  this  crown. 
Heavens  turn  it  to  a  blaze  of  quenchless  fire ! 
Or,  like  the  snaky  wreath  of  Tisiphon, 
Engirt  the  temples  of  his  hateful  head ! 
So  shall  not  England's  vines  be  perished. 
But  Edward's  name    survive,    though    Edwai'd 

dies. 
Leices.  My  lord,  why  waste  you  thus  the  time 

away  ? 
They  stay  your  answer :  will   you   yield  your 

crown  ? 
K.  Edw.  Ah,   Leicester,   weigh  how  hardly  I 

can  brook 
To  lose  my  crown  and  kingdom  without  cause; 
I'o  give  ambitious  Mortimer  my  right. 
That,  like  a  mountain,  overwhelms  my  bliss; 
In  which  extremes  my  mind  here  murder'd  is! 
But  that  the  heavens  appoint  I  must  obey. — 
Here,  take  my  crown  ;  the  life  of  Edward  too  : 
Two  kings  in  England  cannot  reign  at  once. 
But  stay  a  while  :  let  me  be  king  till  night. 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  this  glittering  crown  ; 
So  shall  my  eyes  receive  their  last  content, 
My  head,  the  latest  honour  due  to  it. 
And  jointly  both  yield  up  their  wished  right. 
Continue  ever,  thou  celestial  sun  ; 
Let  never  silent  night  possess  this  clime ; 
Stand  still,  you  watches  of  the  element ;  ; 
All  times  and  seasons,  rest  you  at  a  stay. 
That  Edward  may  be  still  fair  England's  king  I 
But  daj''s  bright  beam  doth  vanish  fast  away, 
And  needs  I  must  resign  my  wished  crown. 
Inhuman  creatm-es,  nurs'd  with  tiger's  milk. 


A  rarer  Plant  then  Candian  Dittanie; 
AVhich  wounded  Deer  eating,  immediately 
Not  only  cures  their  wounds  exceeding  well. 
But  'gainst  the  Shooter  doth  the  shaft  re])ei.' 

— Sylvester's  Du  Bai-las, — The  Third  Day  of  the  Firtt 

Week,  p.  a?,  ed.  Ifi-H.— Quoted  by  DvcE. 

1  p/atn— complain. 

2  regiment — government. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


121 


Why  gape  you  for  your  sovereign's  overthrow — 

My  diadem,  I  mean,  and  guiltless  life? 

See,  monsters,  see !  I'll  wear  my  crown  again. 

\Puttmg  on  the  croicn. 
What!  fear  you  not  the  fury  of  yo\ir  king  ? — 
But,  hapless  Edward,  thou  art  fondly '  led  : 
They  pass  -  not  for  thy  frowns  as  late  they  did. 
But  seek  to  make  a  new-elected  king ; 
Which   fills  my  mind  with  strange   despairing 

thoughts. 
Which    thoughts    are    martyred    with    endless 

torments ; 
And  in  this  torment  comfort  find  I  none, 
But  that  I  feel  the  crown  upon  my  head ; 
And  therefore  let  me  wear  it  yet  a  while. 

Trus.   My    lord,    the    parliament    must    have 
present  news ; 
And  therefore  say,  will  you  resign  or  no  ? 

[The  King  rageth, 

K.  Edio.  I'll  not  resign,  but,  whilst  I  hve,  be 
king. 
Traitors,  be  gone,  and  join  with  Mortimer. 
Elect,  conspire,  install,  do  what  you  will : 
Their  blood  and  yours  shall  seal  these  treacheries. 

Bish.  of  Win.  This  answer  we'll  return ;  and 
so,  farewell. 

Leices.  Call  them  again,  my  lord,   and  speak 
them  fair ; 
For,  if  they  go,  the  prince  shall  lose  his  right. 

K.  Edw.  Call    thou    them  back ;    I    have    no 
power  to  speak. 

Leices.  My  lord,  the  king  is  willing  to  resign. 

Bish.  of  Win.  If  he  be  not,  let  him  choose. 

K.  Edw.  Oh  would  I  might !  but  heavens  and 
earth  conspire 
To  make  me  miserable.    Here,  receive  my  crown. 
Eeceive  it?  no,  these  innocent  hands  of  mine 
Shall  not  be  guilty  of  so  foul  a  crime: 
He  of  you  all  that  most  desires  my  blood, 
And  will  be  call'd  the  murderer  of  a  king. 
Take  it.     What!  are  you  mov'd  ?  pity  you  me? 
Then  send  for  unrelenting  Mortimer, 
And  Isabel,  whose  eyes  being  turn'd  to  steel 
Will  sooner  sparkle  fire  than  shed  a  tear. 
Yet  stay ;  for,  rather  than  I'll  look  on  them. 
Here,  here! — Now,  sweet  God  of  heaven, 
Make  me  despise  this  transitory  pomp. 
And  sit  for  aye  enthronizfed  in  heaven  ! 
Come,  death,  and  with  thy  fingers  close  my  eyes. 
Or,  if  I  live,  lot  me  forget  myself ! 

Enter  Bekiceley. 

Berh.  My  lord. 

K.  Edw.  Call  me  not  lord;   away,  out  of  my 
sight! 
Ah,  pardon  me !  grief  makes  me  lunatic. 
Let  not  that  Mortimer  protect  my  son ; 
More  safety  there  is  in  a  tiger's  jaws 
Than  his  embracements.     Bear  this  to  the  queen 
Wet  with  my  tears,  and  dried  again  with  sighs :  3 
If  with  the  sight  thereof  she  be  not  mov'd, 
Eeturn  it  back,  and  dip  it  in  my  blood. 
Commend  me  to  my  son,  and  bid  him  rule 
Better  than  I :  yet  how  have  I  transgress'd, 
Unless  it  be  with  too  much  clemency  ? 

Triis.  And  thus,  most  humbly  do  we  take  our 
leave. 

K.  Edw.  Farewell. 

[Extunt  the  Bishop  of  Winchestek  and 
Trussel  with  the  croicn. 
I  know  the  next  news  that  they  bring 


>  fondly — foolishly ;  fond,  i.e.  fonned,  comes  from  old 
English /ora«e,  Scotch /o;j,  to  be  foolish. 

~  pass — care. 

3  The  king  apparently  is  supposed  to  give  a  handker- 
chief or  some  such  thing  here. 


Will  be  my  death  ;  and  welcome  shall  it  be : 
To  wretched  men  death  is  felicity. 

Leices.  Another  post !  what  news  brings  he  ? 

K.  Edw.   Such    news    as  I    expect.  —  Come, 
Berkeley,  come. 
And  tell  thy  message  to  my  naked  breast. 

Berk.  My  lord,  think  not  a  thought  so  vil- 
lanous 
Can  harbour  in  a  man  of  noble  birth. 
To  do  your  highness  service  and  devoir, 
And  save  you  from  your  foes,  Berkeley  would 
die. 

Leices.  My  lord,  the  council  and  the   queen 
commands 
That  I  resign  my  charge. 

K.  Edw.  And  who  must  keep  me  now  ?     Must 
you,  my  lord  ? 

Berk.  Ay,  my  most  gracious  lord;  so 'tis  decreed. 

K.    Edw.    [Takiiig   the  pcqmr.']    By   Mortimer, 
whose  name  is  written  hero ! 
Well  may  I  rent  his  name  that  rends  my  heart. 

[Tears  it. 
This  poor  revenge    hath    something  eas'd  my 

mind : 
So  may  his  limbs  be  torn  as  is  this  paper ! 
Hear  me,  immortal  Jove,'  and  grant  it  too  ! 

Berk.   Your    grace  must    hence   with  me  to 
Berkeley  straight. 

K.  Edw.  Whither  you  will :  all  places  are  alike, 
And  every  earth  is  tit  for  burial. 

Leices.  Favour  him,  my  lord,  as  much  as  lieth 
in  you. 

Berk.  Even  so  betide  my  soul  as  I  use  him ! 

K.  Edw.  Mine  enemy  hath  pitied  my  estate. 
And  that's  the  cause  that  I  am  now  remov'd. 

Ben-k.  And  thinks  your  grace  that   Berkeley 
will  be  cruel  ? 

K.  Edw.  I  know  not ;  but  of  this  am  I  assur'd, 
That  death  ends  all,  and  I  can  die  but  once. — 
Leicester,  farewell. 

Leices.  Not  yet,  my  lord ;  I'll  bear  you  on  your 
way.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Queen  Isabella  and  the  i/omi  gerMoRTi'^.iKR. 

Y.  Mor.  Fair  Isabel,  now  have  we  our  desire ; 
The  proud  corrupters  of  the  light-brain'd  king 
Have  done  their  homage  to  the  lofty  gallows. 
And  he  himself  lies  in  captivity. 
Be  rul'd  by  me,  and  we  will  rule  the  realm : 
In  any  case  take  heed  of  childish  fear, 
For  now  we  hold  an  old  wolf  by  the  ears, 
That,  if  he  slip,  will  seize  upon  us  both, 
And  gripe  the  sorer,  being  grip'd  himself. 
Think  therefore,   madam,  that   [it]  imports   ua 

much 
To  erect  your  son  with  all  the  speed  we  may. 
And  that  I  be  protector  over  him  : 
For  our  behoof,  'twill  bear  the  greater  sway 
Whenas  "  a  king's  name  shall  be  under-writ. 

Q.  Isab.  Sweet  Mortimer,  the  life  of  Isabel, 
Be  thou  persuaded  that  I  love  thee  well ; 
And  therefore,  so  the  prince  my  son  be  safe. 
Whom  I  esteem  as  dear  as  these  mine  eyes, 
Conclude  against  his  father  what  thou  wilt. 
And  I  myself  will  willingly  subscribe. 

Y.  Alor.  First   would  I   hear   news   he   were 
depos'd. 
And  then  let  me  alone  to  handle  him. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Letters !  from  whence  ? 

Mess.  From  KiUingworth,  my  lord. 


1  Jove — Jehovah,  a  not  uncommon  abbreviation  of  tha 
word  with  old  writers. 

2  Whenas — when. 


122 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Q.  Isab.  How  fares  my  lord  the  king  ? 

Me$s.  In  health,  madam,  but  full  of  pensive- 
ness. 

Q.  Isdb.  Alas,  poor  soul,  would  I  could  ease 
Ms  grief ! 

Enter  the  Bishop  of  WniCHESTER  with  the  ci'own. 

Thanks,  gentle  Winchester. — 

SuTah,  be  gone.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Bish.  of  Win.  The  king  hath  willingly  resign'd 
his  crown. 

Q.  Isab.  Oh,  happy  news !  send  for  the  prince 
my  son. 

Bish.  of  Win.    Further,    or    this    letter    was 
seal'd.  Lord  Berkeley  came, 
So  that  he  now  is  gone  from  Killingworth ; 
And  we  have  heard  that  Edmund  laid  a  plot 
To  set  his  brother  free ;  no  more,  but  so. 
The  Lord  of  Berkeley  is  so  pitiful 
As  Leicester  that  had  charge  of  him  before. 

Q.  Isab.  Then  let  some  other  be  his  guardian. 

Y.  Mar.  Let  me  alone ;  here  is  the  privy-seal. —  ^ 
Who's  there  ?  Call  hither  Gurney  and  Matrevis. — 
[To  Attendants  within. 
To  dash  the  heavy-headed  Edmund's  drift, 
Berkeley  shall  be  discbarg'd,  the  king  remov'd. 
And  none  but  we  shall  know  where  he  lieth. 

Q.  Isab.  But,  Mortimer,  as  long  as  he  survives. 
What  safety  rests  for  us  or  for  my  son  ? 

T.  Mor.  Speak,  shall  he  presently  be  despatch'd 
and  die? 

Q.  Isab.  I  would  he  were,  so  'twere  not  by  my 
means. 

Enter  Matee\t[s2  and  Gurnet. 

Y.  Mor.  Enough. — Matrevis,   write    a    letter 
presently 
Unto  the  Lord  of  Berkeley  from  ourself, 
That  he  resign  the  king  to  thee  and  Gurney ; 
And,  when  'tis  done,  we  will  subscribe  our  name. 

Mat.  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord. 

Y.  Mor.  Gm-ney — 

Gur.  My  lord? 

Y.  Mor.  As  thou  intend' st  to  rise  by  Mortimer, 
Who   now  makes  Fortune's   wheel  tiirn  as  he 

please. 
Seek  all  the  means  thou  canst  to  make  him  droop, 
And    neither    give    him  kind  word  nor  good 
look. 

Gur.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord. 

Y.  Mor.  And  this  above  the  rest :  because  we 
hear 
That  Edmund  casts  ^  to  work  his  liberty, 
Eemove  him  still  from  place  to  place  by  night. 
Till  at  the  last  he  come  to  Killingworth, 
And  then  from  thence  to  Berkeley  back  again ; 
And  by  the  way,  to  make  liim  fret  the  more. 
Speak  curstly*  to  him ;  and  in  any  case 
Let  no  man  comfort  him,  if  he  chance  to  weep. 
But  amplify  5  his  grief  with  bitter  words. 

Mat.  Fear  not,  my  lord ;  we'll  do  as  you  com- 
mand. 

Y.  Mor.  So,  now  away !  post  thitherwards 
amain. 

Q.  Isab.  Whither  goes  this  letter  ?  to  my  lord 
the  king  ? 
Commend  me  humbly  to  his  majesty, 
And  teU  him  that  I  labour  all  in  vain 


1  Dyce  places  the  exit  of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester 
here;  neither  his  entrance  nor  exit  is  marked  in  the 
old  editions. 

2  Matrevis — Sir  John  Maltravers. 

3  casts — contrives ;  we  now  speak  of  casting  about. 

*  curstly— crossly,  ill-naturedly,  shrewishly. 

*  amplify  is  here  used  in  its  literal  sense,  to  make 
large  or  larger,  increase. 


To  ease  his  grief  and  work  his  liberty ; 
And  bear  him  this  as  witness  of  my  love. 

[Gives  ring. 
Mat.  I  will,  madam.  [Exit  with  Gurnet. 

Y.  Mor.  Finely  dissembled !  do  so  still,  sweet 
queen. 

Enter  Prince  Edward,  cjicZKent  talking withhim. 

Here  comes  the  young  prince  with  the  Earl  of 
Kent. 

Q.  Isab.  Something  he  whispers  in  his  childish 
ears. 

Y.   Mor.  If  he  have  such   access  imto  the 
prince, 
Our  plots  and  stratagems  will  soon  be  dash'd. 

Q.  Isab.. TJse  Edmund  friendly,  as  if  all  were 
well. 

Y.  Mor.  How  fares  my  honourable  Lord  of 
Kent? 

Kent.  In  health,  sweet  Mortimer. — How  fares 
your  grace  ? 

Q.  Isab.  Well,  if  my  lord  your  brother  were 
enlarg'd.^ 

Kent.  I  hear  of  late  he  hath  depos'd  himself. 

Q.  Isab.  The  more  my  grief. 

Y.  Mor.  And  mine. 

Kent.  Ah,  they  do  dissemble !  [Aside. 

Q.  Isab.  Sweet  son,  come  hither;  I  must  talk 
witli  thee. 

Y.  Mor.  Tou,  being  his  uncle  and  the  next  of 
blood. 
Do  look  to  be  protector  o'er  the  prince. 

Kent.  Not  I,  my  lord :  who  should  protect  the 
son. 
But  she  that  gave  him  life  ?     I  mean  the  queen. 

P.  Edw.  Mother,  persuade  me  not  to  wear  the 
crown: 
Let  him  be  king ;  I  am  too  young  to  reign. 

Q.  Isab.  But  be  content,  seeing  'tis  his  high- 
ness' pleasure. 

P.  Edw.  Let  me  but  see  him  first,  and  then  I 
will. 

Kent.  Ay,  do,  sweet  nephew. 

Q.  Isab.  Brother,  you  know  it  is  impossible. 

P.  Edw.  Why,  is  he  dead  ? 

Q.  Isab.  No  ;  God  forbid! 

Kent.  I  would  those   words  proceeded  from 
your  heart ! 

Y.  Mor.  Inconstant  Edmund,  dost  thou  favour 
him, 
That  wast  a  cause  of  his  imprisonment  ? 

Kent.  The  more   cause  have  I  now  to  make 
amends. 

Y.  Mor.  [aside  to  Q.  Isab.] 

I  tell  thee,  'tis  not  meet  that  one  so  false 
Should  come  about  the  person  of  a  prince. — 
My  lord,  he  hath  betray 'd  the  king  his  brother, 
And  therefore  trust  him  not. 

P.  Edw.  But  he  repents,  and  sorrows  for  it 
now. 

Q.  Isab.  Come,  son,  and  go  with  this  gentle 
lord  and  me. 

P.  Edw.  With  you  I  will,  but  not  with  Mor- 
timer. 

Y.  Mor.  Why,  youngling,  'sdain'st  thou  so  of 
Mortimer  ? 
Then  I  wiU  carry  thee  by  force  away. 

P.  Edw.    Help,    uncle    Kent!    Mortimer  will 
wrong  me. 

Q.  Isab.  Brother  Edmund,  strive  not ;  we  are 
his  friends ; 
Isabel  is  nearer  than  the  Earl  of  Kent. 

Ke}it.  Sister,   Edward  is  my  charge ;  redeem 
him. 


I  enlarg'd — set  at  large. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


123 


Q.  Uah.  Edward  is  my  son,  and  I  will  keep 
him. 
Kent.    Mortimer    shall    know    that    he    hath 
wronged  me. 
Hence  will  I  haste  to  Killingworth  Castle, 
And  rescue  aged  Edwai-d  from  his  foes, 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Mortimer  and  thee. 

\_Exewit  omnes. 

Enter  Mateevis,  Gurnet,  and  Soldiers,  with 
King  Edward. 

Mat.  My  lord,  be  not  pensive ;   we  are  your 
friends : 
Men  are  ordain'd  to  live  in  misery ; 
Therefore,  come  ;  dalliance  dangereth  our  lives. 
K.   Edw.    Friends,    whither    must    .unhappy 
Edward  go  ? 
WiU  hateful  Mortimer  appoint  no  rest? 
Must  I  be  vexed  like  the  nightly  bird, 
Whose  sight  is  loathsome  to  all  winged  fowls  ? 
"When  will  the  fury  of  his  mind  assuage  ? 
When  will  his  heart  be  satisfied  with  blood  ? 
If  mine  will  serve,  unbowel  straight  this  breast. 
And  give  my  heart  to  Isabel  and  him : 
It  is  the  chiefest  mark  they  level  at. 

Gur.  Not  so,  my  liege :  the  queen  hath  given 
this  charge, 
To  keep  your  gi-ace  in  safety : 
Tour  passions  make-you  dolours  1  to  increase. 

K.  Edw.  This  usage  makes  my  misery  increase. 
But  can  my  air  of  life  continue  long, 
When  all  my  senses  are  aunoy'd  with  stench  ? 
Within  a  dungeon  England's  king  is  kept. 
Where  I  am  starv'd  for  want  of  sustenance  ; 
My  daily  diet  is  heart-breaking  sobs. 
That  almost  rent  the  closet  of  my  heart : 
Thus  lives  old  Edward  not  reliev'd  by  any. 
And  so  must  die,  though  pitied  by  many. 
Oh,  water,  gentle  friends,  to  cool  my  thirst, 
And  clear  my  body  from  foul  excrements ! 
Mat.  Here's  channel-water, 2  as  our  charge  is 
given : 
Sit  doAvn,  for  we'll  be  barbers  to  your  grace. 
K.    Edw.    Traitors,    away!     What!   will  you 
murder  me. 
Or  choke  your  sovereign  with  puddle-water? 
Gtir.  No,  but  wash  your  face,  and  shave  away 
your  beard, 
Lest  you  be  known,  and  so  be  rescued. 

Mat.  Why  strive  you  thus  ?  your  labour  is  in 
vain. 

K.  Edw.  The  wren  may  strive  against  the  lion's 
strength, 
But  all  in  vain :  so  vainly  do  I  strive 
To  seek  for  mercy  at  a  tyrant's  band. 

[They  wash    him   with  puddle-water,   and 
shave  his  heard  away. 

Immortal  powers,  that  know  the  painful  cares 
That  wait  upon  my  poor  distressed  soul. 
Oh,  level  all  your  looks  upon  these  daring  men 
That  wrong  their  liege  and  sovereign,  England's 

king! 
Oh  Gaveston,  it  is  for  thee  that  I  am  wrong'd ! 
For  me,  both  thou  and  both  the  Spensers  died ; 
-And  for  youi-  sakes  a  thousand  wrongs  I'll  take. 
The  Spensers'  ghosts,  wherever  they  remain, 
Wish  well  to  mine ;  then,  tush,  for  them  I'll  die. 

Mat.  'Twixt  theirs  and  yours    shaU    be    no 
enmity. 
Come,  come,  away !     Now  put  the  torches  out : 
We'U  enter  in  by  darkness  to  Killingworth. 

Gur.  How  now !  who  comes  there  ? 


•  dolours — griefs. 

'  channel-water — kennel-water,  water  from  the  sewer. 


Enter  Kent. 

Mat.  Guard  the  king  sure :  it  is  the  Earl  of 
Kent. 

K.  Edw.  Oh,  gentle  brother,  help  to  rescue  me. 

Mat.  Keep  them  asunder :  thrust  in  the  king. 

Kent.  Soldiers,  let  me  but  talk  to  him  one 
word. 

Gur.  Lay  hands  upon  the  earl  for  his  assault. 

Kent.  Lay  down  your  weapons,  traitors !  yield 
the  king ! 

Mat.  Edmund,  yield  thou  thyself,  or  thou  shalt 
die. 

Kent.  Base  villains,  wherefore  do  you  gripe  me 
thus  ? 

Gur.  Bind  him,  and  so  convey  him  to  the  court. 

Kent.  Where  is  the  court  but  here  ?     Here  is 
the  king ; 
And  I  will  visit  him  ;  why  stay  you  me  ? 

Mat.  The  court  is  where  Lord  Mortimer  re- 
mains : 
Thither  shall  your  honour  go ;  and  so,  farewell. 
[Exeunt  Matrevis  and  Gukney 
with  King  Edward. 

Kent.  Oh,  miserable  is  that  commonweal, 
Where  lords  keep  courts,  and  kings  are  locked  in 
prison ! 
First  Sold.  Wherefore  stay  we  ?  On,  sirs,  to  the 
court ! 
Kent.  Ay,  lead  me  whither  you  will,  even  to 
my  death. 
Seeing  that  my  brother  cannot  be  releas'd. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  the  younger  Mortimer. 

Y.  Mor.  The  king  must  die,  or  Mortimer  goes 
down; 
The  commons  now  begin  to  pity  him  : 
Yet  he  that  is  the  cause  of  Edward's  death, 
Is  sure  to  pay  for  it  when  his  son's  of  age  ; 
And  therefore  will  I  do  it  cunningly. 
This  letter,  written  by  a  friend  of  ours. 
Contains  his  death,  yet  bids  them  save  his  life. 

[Reads. 
Edwardum  occidere  nolite  timere,  bonum  est, 
Fear  not  to  hill  the  king,  His  good  he  die  : 
But  reads  it  thus,  and  that's  another  sense  ; 
Edwardum  occidere  nolite,  timere  bonum  est, 
Kill  not  the  king,  His  good  to  fear  the  worst.^ 
Unpointed  as  it  is,  thus  shall  it  go. 
That,  being  dead,  if  it  chance  to  be  found, 
Matrevis  and  the  rest  may  bear  the  blame. 
And  we  be  quit  that  caus'd  it  to  be  done. 
Within  this  room  is  lock'd  the  messenger 
That  shall  convey  it,  and  perfonn  the  rest ; 
And,  by  a  secret  token  that  he  bears. 
Shall  he  be  murder'd  when  the  deed  is  done. — 
Lightborn,  come  forth ! 

Enter  Lightborn. 

Art  thou  so  resolute  as  thou  wast  ? 

Light.  What  else,  my  lord?  and  far  more 
resolute. 

Y.  Mor.  And  hast  thou  cast*  how  to  accom- 
plish it? 

Light.  Aj,  ay;  and  none  shall  know  which 
way  he  died. 

Y.  Mor.  But  at  his  looks,  Lightborn,  thou  wilt 
relent. 


1  '  It  is  said  that  King  Edward,  of  Carnarvon,  lying  at 
Berl^eley  Castle  prisoner,  a  cardinal  wrote  to  his  lieeper, 
Edwardum  occidere  noli,  timere  bonum  est,  which  being 
read  with  tlie  point  at  timere,  cost  the  king  his  life.'— 
Sir  J.  Harrington,  quoted  in  Dodsley  (ed.  1825). 

2  cast — contrived. 


124 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Light.  Relent !  ha  !  ha !  I  iise  much  to  relent. 

Y.  Mor.  Well,  do  it  bi-avely,  and  be  secret. 

Light.  Yon  shall  not  need  to  give  insti-uctions ; 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  kill'd  a  man : 
I  learn'd  in  Naples  how  to  poison  flowers ; 
To   strangle  with  a  lawn*  thrust  through  the 

throat ; 
To  pierce  the  wind-pipe  with  a  needle's  point ; 
Or,  whilst  one  is  asleep,  to  take  a  quill 
And  blow  a  little  powder  in  his  ears ; 
Or  open  his  mouth,  and  pour  quicksilver  down. 
But  yet  I  have  a  braver  way  than  these. 

Y.  Mor.  What's  that  ? 

Light.  Nay,  you  shall  pardon  me ;  none  shall 
know  my  tricks. 

Y.  Mor.  I  cai-e  not  how  it  is,  so  it  be  not  spied. 
Deliver  this  to  Gurney  and  Matrevis : 

[^Gives  Utter. 
At  every  ten-mile  end  thou  hast  a  horse  : 
Take  this  :  away,  and  never  see  me  more  ! 

Light.  No  ? 

Y.  Mor.  No;   unless  thou  bring  me  news  of 
Edward's  death. 

Light.  That  will  I  quickly  do.      Farewell,  my 
lord.  \JExit. 

Y.  Mor.  The  prince  I  rule,  the  queen  do  I 
command, 
And  with  a  lowly  cong^^  to  the  ground 
The  proudest  lords  salute  me  as  I  pass ; 
I  seal,  1  cancel,  I  do  what  I  will. 
Fear'd  am  I  more  than  lov'd  ; — let  me  be  feaf'd. 
And,  when  I  frown,  make  all  the  court  look  pale. 
I  view  the  prince  with  Aristarchus' '  eyes, 
Whose  looks  were  as  a  breeching*  to  a  boy. 
They  thrust  upon  me  the  protectorship, 
And  sue  to  me  for  that  that  I  desire ; 
While  at  the  council-table,  grave  enough. 
And  not  unlike  a  bashful  Puritan, 
Fii'st  I  complain  of  embecility, 
Saying  it  is  oinis  quain  gravissimum  ;* 
Till,  being  interrupted  by  mj'  friends, 
Suscepi  thut provinciam,^  as  they  term  it; 
And,  to  conclude,  I  am  Pi-otector  now. 
Now  is  all  sure  :  the  queen  and  Mortimer 
Shall  rule  the  realm,  the  king ;  and  none  rule  us. 
Mine  enemies  will  I  plague,  my  friends  advance  ; 
And  what  I  list  command  who  dare  control  ? 
Major  sum  quam  cui  possit  fortuna  nocere.^ 
And  that  this  be  the  coronation-day. 
It  pleaseth  me  and  Isabel  the  queen. 

[Trumpets  within. 
The  trumpets  sound ;  I  must  go  take  my  place. 

Enter  King  Edward  the  Third,  Queen  Isa- 
bella, the  Archbisiioi'  of  Canterburi', 
Champion,  and  Nobles. 

Archb.  of  Cant.   Long  live  King  Edward,  by 
the  grace  of  God 
King  of  England  and  Lord  of  Ireland ! 

Cham.  If   any  Christian,   Heathen,    Turk,    or 
Jew, 
Dares  but  affirm  that  Edward's  not  true  king, 
And  will  avouch  his  saying  with  the  sword, 
I  am  the  Champion  that  will  combat  him. 
Y.  Mor.  None  comes  :  sound  trumpets  ! 
K.  Edw.  Third.  Champion,  here's  to  thee. 

[Gives  purse. 


1  lawn — a  towel,  or  something  made  of  lawn  ? 

*  conge — tow. 

3  Aristarchus  of  Alexandria,  who  flourished  about  150 
B.C.,  was  the  most  celebrated  critic  of  antiquity. 

*  breeching — whipping. 

*  '  A  burden  inconceivably  heavy.' 
'  '  I  have  undertaken  that  ofSce.' 

'  '  I  am  too  great  for  fortune  to  injure.' — Ovid,  Jlet. 
Vi.  195. 


Q.  Isab.  Lord  Mortimer,  now  take  him  to  j'our 
charge. 

Enter  Soldiers  ivith  TS.uy!T prisonei: 
Y.  Mor.  What    traitor    have   we    there   with 
blades  and  bills  ? 
First  Sold.  Edmund  the  Earl  of  Kent. 
K.  Edw.  Third.  What  hath  he  done  ? 
First  Sold.  'A  would  have  taken  the  king  away 
perforce, 
As  we  were  bringing  him  to  Killingworth. 

Y.  Mor.  Did  you  attempt  his  rescue  Edmund  ? 
Speak. 

Kent.  Mortimer,  I  did  ;  he  is  our  king, 
And   thou   compell'st  this  prince  to   wear  the 
crown. 
Y.  Mor.  Strike  off  his  head ;    he   shall  have 
martial  law. 

Ke7it.  Strike  off  my  head !  base  traitor,  I  defy 
thee! 

K.  Edw.  Third.  My  lord,  he  is  my  uncle,  and 
shall  live. 

Y.  Mor.  My  lord,  he  is  your  enemy,  and  shall 
die. 
Kent.  Stay,  villains ! 

K.  Edw.  Third.   Sweet  mother,   if    I  cannot 
pardon  him, 
Entreat  my  Lord  Protector  for  his  life. 
■   Q.  Isab.  Son,  be  content :    I  dare  not  speak  a 
word. 
K.  Edw.  Third.  Nor  I :    and  yet,  methinks,  I 
should  command  : 
But,  seeing  I  cannot,  I'll  entreat  for  him. 
My  lord,  if  you  will  let  my  uncle  live, 
I  will  requite  it  when  I  come  to  age. 

Y.  Mor.  'Tis  for  your  highness'  good,  and  for 
the  realm's. 
How  often  shall  I  bid  you  bear  him  hence  ? 

Kent.  Art  thou  king .'  must  I  die  at  thy  com- 
mand ? 

Y.  Mor.  At  our  command.     Once  more,  away 
with  him. 

Kent.  Let  me  but  stay  and  speak ;  I  will  not 
go: 
Either  my  brother  or  his  son  is  king. 
And   none   of   both  them  thirst  for  Edmund's 

blood : 
And  therefore,  soldiers,  whither  will  you  hale 
me.' 

[Soldiers  hale  Kent  away,  and  carry  him 
to  be  beheaded. 
K.  Edw.  Third.  What  safety  may  I  look  for  at 
his  hands. 
If  that  my  uncle  shall  be  murder'd  thus  ? 

Q.  Isab.  Fear  not,  sweet  boy ;  I'll  guard  thee 
from  thy  foes : 
Had  Edmund  liv'd,  he  would  have  sought  thy 

death. 
Come,  son,  we'll  ride  a-hunting  in  the  park. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  And  shall  my  uncle  Edmund 
ride  with  us  ? 

Q.  Isab.   He  is  a  traitor ;  think  not  on  him : 
Come.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Matrevis  and  Gurney. 

Mat.  Gurney,  I  wonder  the  king  dies  not. 
Being  in  a  vault  up  to  the  knees  in  water. 
To  which  the  channels'  of  the  castle  run, 
From  whence  a  damp  continually  ariseth, 
That  were  enough  to  poison  any  man. 
Much  more  a  king,  brought  up  so  tenderly. 

Gur.  And  so  do  I,  Matrevis:  yesternight 
I  opeu'd  but  the  door  to  throw  him  meat, 
And  I  was  almost  stifled  with  the  savour. 

Mat.  He  hath  a  body  able  to  endure 


1  channels — kennels. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


125 


More  than  we  can  inflict :  and  therefore  now 
Let  us  assail  his  mind  another  while. 

Gur.  Send  for  him  out  thence,  and  I  will  anger 
him. 

Mat.  But  stay  ;  who's  this  ? 

Enter  Lightboen. 

Light.  My  Lord  Protector  greets  you. 

[_Gii}es  letter. 

Gur.  What's  here  ?  I  know  not  how  to  con- 
strue it. 

Mat.  Gurney,  it  was  left   unpointed  for  the 
nonce  ;i 
Edwardwn  occidere  nolite  timei'e,^ 
That's  his  meaning. 

Light.  Know  you  this  token  ?  I  must  have  the 
kJDo-  l^Gives  token. 

Mat.  Ay,  stay  a  while;  thou  shalt  have  answer 
straight. — 
This  villain's  sent  to  make  away  the  king. 

Gur.  I  thought  as  much. 

Mat.  And,  when  the  murder's  done, 
See  how  he  must  be  handled  for  his  laboui-, — 
Pereat  iste!^     Let  him  have  the  king; 
What  else  ? — Here  is  the  keys,  this  is  the  lake  : 
Do  as  you  are  commanded  by  my  lord. 

Light.  I  know  what  I  must  do.    Get  you  away: 
Yet  be  not  far  off ;  I  shall  need  your  help : 
See  that  in  the  next  room  I  have  a  fu-e, 
And  get  me  a  spit,  and  let  it  be  red-hot. 

Mat.  Very  well. 

Gur.  Need  you  anything  besides  ? 

Light.  What  else  ?  a  table  and  a  feather-bed. 

Gur.  That's  all  ? 

Light.  Ay,  ay:  so,  when  I  call  you,  bring  it  in. 

Mat.  Fear  not  thou  that. 

Gur.  Here's  a  light  to  go  into  the  dungeon. 

\_Exit  with  Matrevis. 

Light.  So  now  * 
Must  I  about  this  gear :  =  ne'er  was  there  any 
So  finely  handled  as  this  king  shall  be. — 
Fob,  here's  a  place  indeed,  with  all  my  heart ! 

K.  Edw.   Who's   there?   what  light  is  that.' 
wherefore  com'st  thou  ? 

Light.  To  comfort  you,  and  bring  you  joyful 
news. 

K.  Edw.  Small  comfort  finds  poor  Edward  in 
thy  looks : 
Villain,  I  know  thou  com'st  to  murder  me. 

Light.  To  murder  you,  my  most  gracious  lord ! 
Far  is  it  from  my  heart  to  do  you  harm. 
The  queen  sent  me  to  see  how  you  were  us'd, 
For  she  relents  at  this  your  misery : 
And  what  eyes  can  refrain  from  shedding  tears, 
To  see  a  king  in  this  most  piteous  state  .' 

K.  Edw.  Weep'st  thou  already  ?  list  a  while  to 
me, 
And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Gumey's  is, 
Or  as  Matrevis',  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 
Yet  will  it  melt  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 
This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me  is  the  sink 
Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 

Light.  Oh,  villains! 

K.  Edw.  And  there,  in  mire  and  puddle,  have 
I  stood 
This  ten  days'  space,  and,  lest  that  I  should 

sleep. 
One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum  ; 
They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king ; 


1  for  (he  nonce — for  the  occasion.    See  note  5,  p.  55, 
1st  col. 

2  '  Don't  be  afraid  to  slay  Edward.' 

3  '  Kill  this  fellow.' 

*  So  now,  &c.    Of  course  the  scene  is  supposed  to  be 
changed  to  the  dungeon  in  which  Edward  is  confined. 
5  gear — business ;  Anglo-Saxon,  girian,  to  prepare. 


So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 
My  mind's  distemper'd,  and  my  body's  numb'd, 
And  whether  I  have  limbs  or  no  I  know  not. 
Oh,  would  my  blood  dropp'd  out  from  every  vein. 
As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter'd  robes ! 
Tell  Isabel  the  queen,  I  look'd  not  thus 
When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 
And  there  unhors'd  the  Duke  of  Claremont. 

Light.  Oh,  speak  no  more,  my  lord !  this  breaks 
my  heart. 
Lie  on  this  bed,  and  rest  yourself  a  while. 

AT.  Edw.    These  looks  of  thine  can   harbour 
naught  but  death : 
I  see  my  tragedy  written  in  thy  brows. 
Yet  stay  a  while ;  forbear  thy  bloody  hand, 
And  let  me  see  the  stroke  before  it  comes, 
That  even  then  when  I  shall  lose  my  life. 
My  mind  may  be  more  stedfast  on  my  God. 

Light.  What  means  your  highness  to  mistrust 
me  thus .' 

A'.  Ediu.  What  mean'st  thou  to  dissemble  with 
me  thus  ? 

Light.  These   hands  were  never  stained  with 
innocent  blood. 
Nor  shall  they  now  be  tainted  with  a  king's. 

K.  Edw.  Forgive  my  thought  for  having  such 
a  thought. 
One  jewel  have  I  left ;  receive  thou  this : 
Still  fear  I,  and  I  know  not  what's  the  cause. 
But  every  joint  shakes  as  I  give  it  thee. 
Oh,  if  thou  harbour's  murder  in  thy  heart, 
Let  this  gift  change  thy  mind,  and  save  thy  soul ! 
Know  that  I  am  a  king  :  oh,  at  that  name 
I  feel  a  hell  of  grief !  Where  is  my  crown  ? 
Gone,  gone  !  and  do  I  remain  alive  ? 

Light.  You're  overwatch'd,' my  lord  :  lie  down 
and  rest. 

A'.  Ediv.   But  that  grief  keeps  me  waking,  I 
should  sleep ; 
For  not  these  ten  days  have  these  eyelids  clos'd. 
Now,  as  I  speali,  they  fall ;  and  yet  with  fear 
Open  again.     Oh,  wherefore  sit'st  thou  here  ? 

Light.  If  you  mistrust  me,  I'll  be  gone,  my  lord. 

K.  Edw.  No,  no ;  for  if  thou  mean'st  to  murder   | 
me, 
Thou  wilt  return  again ;  and  therefore  stay. 

[Sleeps. 

Light.  He  sleeps. 

K.  Edw.  [waking.}  Oh,  let  me  not  die!  yet  stay, 
oh,  stay  a  while  ! 

Light.  How  now,  my  lord ! 

K.  Edw.  Something  still  buzzeth  in  mine  ears, 
And  tells  me,  if  I  sleep,  I  never  wake : 
This  fear  is  that  which  makes  me  tremble  thus ; 
And  therefore  tell  me,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ? 

Light.  To  rid  thee  of  thy  life. — Matrevis,  come! 

Enter  Matrevis  and  Gurney. 

K.  Edw.  I  am  too  weak  and  feeble  to  resist. — 
Assist  me,  sweet  God,  and  receive  my  soul ! 
Light.  Eun  for  the  table. 

K.  Edw.    Oh,  spare  me,  or  despatch  me  in  a 
trice ! 

Light.  So,-lay  the  table  down,  and  stamp  on  it, 

But  not  too  hard,  lest  that  you  bruise  his  body. 

LEdward  is  murdered  hy  holding  him  down 

on  the  bed  with  the  table,  and  stamping  on  it.'^ 

Mat.  I  fear  me  that  this  cry  will  raise  the  town, 

And  therefore  let  us  take  horse  and  away. 

Light.  Tell  me,  sirs,  was  it  not  bravely  done  ? 

Gur.  Excellent  well :  take  this  for  thy  reward. 

[Stabs  LiGHTBORN,  who  die*. 


'  overicaich'd — wearied  with  too  much  watching. 

^  The  '  red-hot  spit,'  with  which  Edward  is  said  to 
have  been  murdered,  and  which  is  mentioned  above, 
seems  not  to  have  been  produced  on  the  stage. 


126 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Come,  let  us  cast  the  body  in  the  moat, 
And  bear  the  king's  to  Moi-timer  our  lord  : 
Away !  \Exe,unt  omnes. 

Enter  the  younger  Mortimer  and  Matrevis. 

F.  Mm\  Is't  done,  Matrevis,  and  the  murderer 
dead? 

Mat.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  I  would  it  were  un- 
done! 

F.  Mor.  Matrevis,  if  thou  now  grow'st  penitent, 
I'll  be  thy  ghostly  father ;  therefore  choose. 
Whether  thou  wilt  be  secret  in  this. 
Or  else  die  by  the  hand  of  Mortimer. 

Mat.  Gurney,  my  lord,  is  fled,  and  will,  I  fear, 
Betray  us  both ;  therefore  let  me  fly. 

F.  Mor.  Fly  to  the  savages ! . 

Mat.  I  humbly  thank  your  honour.  [Exit. 

F.  Moi'.  As  for  myself,  I  stand  as  Jove's  huge 
tree. 
And  others  are  but  shrubs  compar'd  to  me : 
AU  tremble  at  my  name,  and  I  fear  none  : 
Let's  see  who  dare  impeach  me  for  his  death ! 

Enter  Queen  Isabella. 

Q.  Isab.  Ah,  Mortimer,  the  king  my  son  hath 
news, 
His  father's  dead,  and  we  have  murder'd  him ! 

F.  Mor.  What  if  he  have  ?  the  king  is  yet  a 
child. 

Q.  Isab.  Ay,  ay;  but  he  tears  his  hair,  and  wrings 
his  hands, 
And  vows  to  be  reveng'd  upon  us  both. 
Into  the  council-chamber  he  is  gone. 
To  crave  the  aid  and  succour  of  his  peers. 
Ay  me,  see  where  he  comes,  and  they  with  him ! 
Now,  Mortimer,  begins  our  tragedy. 

Enter  King  Edward  the  Third,  Lords,  and 
Attendants. 

First  Lord.  Fear  not,  my  lord ;  know  that  you 
are  a  king. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Villain!— 

F.  3for.  Ho,^  now,  my  lord ! 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Think  not  that  I  am  frighted 
with  thy  words : 
My  father's  murder'd  through  thy  treachery ; 
And  thou  shalt  die,  and  on  his  mournful  hearse 
Thy  hateful  and  accursed  head  shall  lie. 
To  witness  to  the  world  that  by  thy  means 
His  kingly  body  was  too  soon  interr'd. 

Q.  Isab.  Weep  not,  sweet  son. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Forbid  not  me  to  weep ;    he 
was  my  father ; 
And,  had  you  lov'd  him  half  so  well  as  I, 
You  could  not  bear  his  death  thus  patiently  : 
But  you,  I  fear,  conspir'd  with  Mortimer. 

Fii'st  Lord.  Why  speak  you  not  unto  my  lord 
the  king? 

F.  Moj:  Because  I  think  scorn  to  be  accus'd. 
Who  is  the  man  dares  say  I  murder'd  him  ? 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Traitor,  in  me  my  loving  father 
speaks. 
And  plainly  saith,   'twas  thou  that  murder'dst 
him. 

F.  3Io7:  But  hath  your  grace  no  other  proof 
than  this  ? 

K.  Edw.   Third.  Yes,  if  this  be  the  hand  of 
Mortimer.  [Showing  paper. 

Y.  Mor.  False  Gurney  hath  betray'd  me  and 
himself.  [Aside  to  Queen. 

Q.  Isab.  I  fear'd  as  much :  murder  cannot  be 
hid. 

F.  Mor.  It  is  my  hand ;  what  gather  you  by 
this? 


I  ^0— stop,  hold. 


K.  Edw.  Third.  That  thither  thou  didst  send  a 
murderer. 

F.  Mor.  What  mm-derer  ?  Bring  forth  the  man 
I  sent. 

K.  Edw.   Third.  Ah,  Mortimer,  thou  know'st 
that  he  is  slain  ! 
And  so  shalt  thou  be  too. — Why  stays  he  here  ? 
Bring  him  unto  a  hurdle,  drag  him  forth; 
Hang  him,  I  say,  and  set  his  quarters  up : 
But  bring  his  head  back  presently  to  me. 

Q.  Isab.  For  my  sake,   sweet  son,  pity  Mor- 
timer ! 

F.  Mor.  Madam,  entreat  not :  I  wiU  rather  die 
Than  sue  for  life  unto  a  paltry  boy.' 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Hence  with  the  traitor,  with 
the  murderer ! 

F.  Mor.  Base  Fortune,  now  I  see,  that  in  thy 
wheel 
There  is  a  point,  to  which  when  men  aspire, 
They  tumble  headlong  down:  that  point  I  touch'd, 
And,   seeing  there  was  no  place  to  mount  up 

higher, 
Why  should  I  grieve  at  my  declining  fall  ? — 
Farewell,  fair  queen  :  weep  not  for  Mortimer, 
That  scorns  the  woiid,  and,  as  a  traveller. 
Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  What !  suffer  you  the  traitor  to 
delay  ? 

[Exit  the  younger  Mortimer  with  Fu-st  Lord 
and  some  of  the  Attendants. 

Q.  Isab.  As  thou  receiv^dest  thy  life  from  me. 
Spill  not  the  blood  of  gentle  Mortimer ! 

K.  Edw.  Third.  This  ai'gues  that  you  spUt  my 
father  s  blood,  ' 

Else  would  you  not  entreat  for  Mortimer. 

Q.  Isab.  I  spill  his  blood !  no. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Ay,  madam,  you;  for  so  the 
rumour  runs. 

Q.  Isab.  That  rumour   is  untrue:    for   loving 
thee. 
Is  this  report  rais'd  on  poor  Isabel. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  I  do  not  think  her  so  unnatui'al. 

Sec.  Lord.  My  lord,  I  fear  me  it  will  prove  too 
true. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Mother,  you  are  suspected  for 
his  death, 
And  therefore  we  commit  you  to  the  Tower, 
Till  further  trial  may  be  made  thei-eof. 
If  you  be  guilty,  though  I  be  your  son, 
Think  not  to  find  me  slack  or  pitiful. 

Q.  Isab.  Nay,  to  my  death ;  for  too  long  have 
I  liv'd, 
Whenas  i  my  son  thinks  to  abridge  my  days. 

K.  Edw.  Third.  Away  with  her!    her  words 
enforce  these  tears. 
And  I  shall  pity  her  if  she  speak  again. 

Q.  Isab.  Shall  I  not  mourn  for  my  beloved  lord. 
And  with  the  rest  accompany  him  to  his  grave  ? 

Sec.  Lord.  Thus,  madam,   'tis  the  king's  will 
you  shall  hence. 

Q.  Isab.  He  hath  forgotten  me  :  stay ;  I  am  his 
mother. 

Sec.  Lord.  That  boots  not;    therefore,  gentle 
madam,  go. 

Q.  Isab.  Then  come,  sweet  death,  and  rid  me 
of  this  grief ! 

[Exit  with  Second  Lord  and  some  of  the  At- 
tendants. 

Re-enter  First  Lord,  with  the  head  of  the  younger 
Mortisier. 

First  Lord.  My  lord,  here  is  the  head  of  Mor- 
timer. 


1  Whenas — when. 


A'.  Edw.  Third.  Go,  fetcli  my  father's  hearse, 
where  it  shall  lie ; 
And  briQg  my  funeral  robes. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 
Accursed  head, 
Conld  I'have  rul'd  thee  then,  as  I  do  now, 
Thou  hadst  not  hatch'd  this  monstrous  treachery ! 
Here  comes  the  hearse :  help  me  to  mourn,  my 
lords. 


Re-enter  Attendants,  with  the  hearse  and  funeral 
robes. 

Sweet  father,  here  unto  thy  murder'd  ghost 

I  offer  up  this  wicked  traitor's  head ; 

And  let  these  tears,  distilling  from  mine  eyes, 

Be  witness  of  my  grief  and  innocence. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  TRAGICAL  HISTORY  OF  DOCTOR  FAUSTUS: 

AS  IT  HATH  BEEN  ACTED  BY 
THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  THE  EARL  OF  NOTTINGHAM  HIS  SERVANTS. 

■WBITTEN  BY  CHKISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

London :  Printed  by  V.  S.  for  Thomas  Bushell.     1604. 


^ramatis  ^tx^axxiz. 


The  Pope. 

Cardinal  of  Loreain. 
The  Emperok  of  GER»i/UfT. 
Duke  of  Vajs^holt. 

Faust  us. 

C^NELIUS,     }  Z''*^"*  ^^  ^''"^^"'- 

Wagnee,  servant  to  Fausius. 
Clown. 

EOBIN. 

Ealph. 

Vintner. 
Horse-coujser. 
A  Knight. 
An  Old  Man. 


Enter  Chorus. 

Chorus.  Not  marching  now  in  fields  of  Thrasy- 
mene, 
Where  Mars  did  mate  '  the  Carthaginians ; 
Nor  sporting  in  the  dalliance  of  love. 
In  courts  of  kings  where  state  is  overtum'd ; 
Nor  in  the  pomp  of  proud  audacious  deeds, 
Intends  our  Muse  to  vaunt  his  heavenly  verse : 
Only  this,  gentlemen, — we  must  perform 
The  form  2  of  Faustus'  fortunes,  good  or  bad : 
To  patient  judgments  we  appeal  our  plaud, 
And  speak  for  Faustus  in  his  infancy. 
Now  is  he  born,  his  parents  base  of  stock. 
In  Germany,  within  a  town  call'd  Ehodes: 
Of  riper  years,  to  Wertenberg  he  went. 
Whereas  ^  his  kinsmen  chiefly  brought  him  up. 
So  soon  he  profits  in  divinity. 
The  fruitful  plot  *  of  scholarism  ^  grac'd. 
That  shortly  he  was  grac'd  with  doctor's  name, 
ExcelKng  all  whose  sweet  delight  disputes 
In  heavenly  matters  of  theology ; 
Tin  swoln  with  cunning,^  of  a  self-conceit, 


1  mate— confoxuid,  defeat. 

2  /orm— likeness,  representation. 

3  Whereas — where  ■*  plot — field. 
*  schola7-ism — scholarship. 

^  cunning — i.e.  knowledge;  Anglo-Saxon,  cunnan,  to 
know. 


Scholars,  Friars,  and  Attendants. 

Duchess  of  Vanholt. 

Lucifer. 
Belzebub. 
Mephistophilis. 
Good  Angel. 
Evil  Angel. 

The  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 
Devils. 

Spirits  in  the  shapes  of  Alexander  the  Great,  of 
his  Paramour,  and  of  Helen. 

Chorus. 

His  waxen  wings  did  mount  above  his  reach, 
And,  melting,  heavens  conspir'd  his  overthi-ow ; 
For,  falling  to  a  devilish  exercise. 
And  glutted  more  with  learning's  golden  gifts, 
He  surfeits  upon  cursed  necromancy ; 
Nothing  so  sweet  as  magic  is  to  him, 
Which  he  prefers  before  his  chiefest  bliss : 
And  this  the  man  that  in  his  study  sits. 

[Exit. 

Faustus  discovered  in  his  study. 

Faust.  Settle  thy  studies,  Faustus,  and  begin 
To  sound  the  depth  of  that  thou  wilt  profess : 
Having  commenc'd,  be  a  divine  in  shew. 
Yet  level  at  the  end  of  every  art. 
And  live  and  die  in  Aristotle's  works. 
Sweet  Analytics,'-  'tis  thou  hast  ravish'd  me! 
Bene  disserere  est  finis  logices. 
Is,  to  dispute  well,  logic's  chiefest  end  ? 
Affords  this  art  no  greater  miracle  ? 
Then  read  no  more  ;  thou  hast  attain'd  that  end: 
A  greater  subject  fitteth  Faustus'  wit: 
Bid  Economy  farewell ;  Galen  come. 
Seeing,  TJhi  desinit  philosophus,  ibi  incipit  medi- 
cus :  - 


1  AnaJytics— science  of  analysis,  logic. 
-  '  Where  the  philosopher  ends,  there  the  physician 
begins.' 


128 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Be  a  physician,  Faustus ;  heap  up  gold. 
And  be  etferniz'd  for  some  Avondrous  cure  : 
Summum  bonum  medicinss  sanitas. 
The  end  of  physic  is  our  body's  health. 
Why,  Faustus,  hast  thou  not  attain'd  that  end  ? 
Is  not  thy  common  talk  found  apliorisms .' 
Are  not  thy  bills  hung  up  as  monuments, 
Whereby  whole  cities  have  escap'd  the  plague, 
And  thousand  desperate  maladies  been  eas'd  ? 
Yet  art  thou  still  but  Faustus,  and  a  man. 
Couldst  thou  make  men  to  live  eternally, 
Or,  being  dead,  raise  them  to  life  again. 
Then  this  profession  were  to  be  esteem'd. 
Physic,  farewell! 

When  all  is  done,  divinity  is  best : 
Jerome's  Bible,  Faustus ;  view  it  well. 

{^Reads 
JStipendium peccatl  mors  est.  Ha!  Stipendium,  ^-c. 
The  reward  of  sin  is  death :  that's  hard. 

[Reads. 
Sipeccasse  negamus,  faUimur,  et  nulla  est  in  nobis 
Veritas ;  If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive 
ourselves,  and  there's  no  truth  in  us.     Why,  then, 
belike  we  must  sin,  and  so  consequently  die  : 
Ay,  we  must  die  an  everlasting  death. 
What  doctrine  call  you  this,  Che  sera,  sera, 
What  will  be,  shall  be  ?     Divinity,  adieu ! 
These  metaphysics  of  magicians, 
And  necromantic  books  are  heavenly ; 
Lines,  circles,  scenes,  letters,  and  characters  ; 
Ay,  these  are  those  that  Faustus  most  desires. 
Oh,  what  a  world  of  profit  and  delight, 
Of  power,  of  honour,  of  omnipotence. 
Is  promis'd  to  the  studious  artizan !  > 
All  things  that  move  between  the  quiet  poles 
Shall  be  at  my  command :  emperors  and  kings 
Are  but  obeyM  in  their  several  provinces. 
Nor  can  they  raise  the  wind,  or  rend  the  clouds ; 
But  his  dominion  that  exceeds  in  this, 
Stretcheth  as  far  as  doth  the  mind  of  man  ; 
A  sound  magician  is  a  mighty  god : 
Here,  Faustus,  try  -  thy  brains  to  gain  a  deity. 

Enter  Wagner. 

Wagner,  commend  me  to  my  dearest  friends, 
The  German  Valdes  and  Cornelius  ; 
Bequest  them  earnestly  to  visit  me. 

Wasr.  I  will,  sir.  [Exit. 

Faust.  Their  conference  will  be  a  greater  help 
to  me 
Than  all  my  labours,  plod  I  ne'er  so  fast. 

Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 

G.  Ang.  Oh,  Faustus,  lay  that  damned  book 

aside. 
And  gaze  not  on  it,  lest  it  tempt  thy  soul, 
And  heap  God's  heavy  wrath  upon  thy  head ! 
Bead,  read  the  Scriptui-es  ; — that  is  blasphemy. 

E.  Ang.  Go  forward,  Faustus,  in  that  famous 
art 
Wherein  all  Nature's  treasury  is  contain'd : 
Be  thou  on  earth  as  Jove  ^  is  in  the  sky, 
Lord  and  commander  of  these  elements. 

yExeunt  Angels. 

Faust.  How  am  I  glutted  with  conceit  ■»  of  this ! 
Shall  I  make  spirits  fetch  me  what  I  please, 
Eesolve  me  *  of  all  ambiguities. 
Perform  what  desperate  enterprise  I  will  ? 
I'll  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold. 
Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  ®  pearl, 


>  artizan—sxt\%t,  one  skilled  in  arts. 
2  «;■;/— the  later  4tos  have  'tire.' 

*  yoDe— Jehovah. 

*  conceit — thought,  idea. 

*  Resolve  me — fi-ee  me  from,  solve  for  me. 
"  orient — shining,  sparkling. 


And  search  all  corners  of  the  new-found  world 
For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates  ; 
I'll  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy, 
And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings ; 
I'll  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass. 
And  make  swift  Ehine  circle  fair  Wertenberg ; 
I'll  have  them  fill  the  public  schools  with  silk, 
Wherewith  the  students  shall  be  bravely'  clad; 
I'll  levy  soldiers  with  the  coin  they  bring. 
And  chase  the  Prince  of  Parma  from  our  land, 
And  reign  sole  king  of  all  our  provinces  ; 
Yea,  stranger  engines  for  the  brunt  of  war. 
Than  was  the  fiery  keel  at  Antwerp's  bridge,* 
I'll  make  my  servile  spirits  to  invent. 

Enter  Valdes  and  Coenelius. 

Come,  German  Valdes  and  Cornelius, 
And  make  me  blest  with  your  sage  conference. 
Valdes,  sweet  Valdes,  and  Cornelius, 
Know  that  your  words  have  won  me  at  the  last 
To  practise  magic  and  concealed  arts  : 
Yet  not  your  words  only,  but  mine  own  fantasy, 
That  will  receive  no  object;  for  my  head 
But  ruminates  on  necromantic  skill. 
Philosophy  is  odious  and  obscure  ; 
Both  law  and  physic  are  for  petty  wits ; 
Divinity  is  basest  of  the  three. 
Unpleasant,  harsh,  contemptible,  and  vile: 
'Tis  magic,  magic,  that  hath  ravish'd  me. 
Then,  gentle  friends,  aid  me  in  this  attempt; 
And  I,  that  have  with  concise  syllogisms 
Gravell'd^  the  pastors  of  the  German  church, 
And  made  the  flowei'ing  pride  of  Wertenberg 
Swarm  to  my  problems,  as  the  infernal  spirits 
On  sweet  Musasus  when  he  came  to  hell. 
Will  be  as  cunning <  as  Agrippa*  was. 
Whose  shadow  made  all  Europe  honour  him. 
Vald.  Faustus,  these  books,  thy  wit,  and  our 

experience. 
Shall  make  all  nations  to  can5nize  us. 
As  Indian  Moors  obey  their  Spanish  lords. 
So  shall  the  subjects  of  every  element 
Be  always  serviceable  to  us  three  ; 
Like  lions  shall  they  guard  us  when  we  please ; 
Like    Almain    rutters^   with    their    horsemen's 

staves. 
Or  Lapland  giants,  trotting  by  our  sides  ; 
Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids. 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  queen  of  love : 
From  Venice  shall  they  drag  huge  argosies. 
And  from  America  the  golden  fleece 
That  yearly  stuffs  old  Philip's  treasury : 
If  learned  Faustus  will  be  resolute. 

Faust.  Valdes,  as  resolute  am  I  in  this 
As  thou  to  live  :  therefore  object  it  not. 

Corn.  The  miracles  that  magic  will  perform 
Will  make  thee  vow  to  study  nothing  else. 
He  that  is  grounded  in  astrology, 
Enrich'd  with  tongues,  well  seen  in  minerals. 
Hath  all  the  principles  magic  doth  require : 
Then  doubt  not,  Faustus,  but  to  be  renowm'd,* 


1  bravely — finely,  gail}' ;  brave  is  originally  the  same 
as  Scotch,  hraw. 

2  Diuing  the  blockade  of  Antwerp  by  the  Prince  of 
Parma  in  1585,  the  inhabitants  of  Antwerp  made  'a 
great  shippe,'  which  they  filled  with  combustibles, 
over  whicli  they  laid  '  millstones,  gravestones,  and 
others  of  great  weight;'  this  ship  they  contrived  to 
bring  under  the  bridge  of  boats  made  across  the  Scheldt 
by  the  enemy,  where  it  blew  up,  causing  great  destruc- 
tion and  loss  of  life. 

3  GravelVd — caused  to  stick  in  the  sand,  puzzled. 
*  cunning — knowing. 

5  Agrippa — Cornelius  Agrippa. 

^  Atmnin  rulters — Genuan  horsemen  or  troopers. 

7  renowm'd — renowned;  Fr.  renomm'e. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


129 


And  more  frequented  for  this  xnysteiy 
Than  heretofore  the  Delphian  oracle. 
The  spirits  tell  me  they  can  dry  the  sea, 
And  fetch  the  treasure  of  all  foreign  wrecks, 
Ay,  all  the  wealth  that  our  forefathers  hid 
Within  the  massy  entrails  of  the  earth : 
Then  tell  me,  Faustus,  what  shall  we  three  want  ? 
Faust.  Nothing,  Cornelius.    Oh,  this  cheers  my 
soul! 
Come,  show  me  some  demonstrations  magical, 
That  I  may  conjure  in  some  lusty'  grove. 
And  have  these  joys  in  full  possession. 

Vald.  Then  haste  thee  to  some  solitary  grove. 
And  bear  wise  Bacon's^  and  Albertus'^  works, 
The  Hebrew  Psalter,  and  New  Testament ; 
And  whatsoever  else  is  requisite 
We  will  inform  thee  ere  our  conference  cease. 
Corn.  Valdes,  first  let  him  know  the  words  of 
art; 
And  then,  all  other  ceremonies  learn'd, 
Faustus  may  try  his  cunning  *  by  himself. 

Vald.   First,    I'll  instruct  thee  in  the    rudi- 
ments. 
And  then  wilt  thou  be  perfecter  than  I. 

Faust.    Then   come   and  dine  with  me,   and, 
after  meat, 
We'll  canvass  every  quiddity*  thereof; 
For,  ere  1  sleep,  I'll  try  what  I  can  do : 
This  night  I'll  conjure,  though  I  die  therefore. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  two  Scholars. 

First  Schol.  I  wonder  what's  become  of  Faustus, 
that  was  won't  to  make  our  schools  ring  with  sic 
proho  !  * 

Sec.  Schol.  That  shall  we  know,  for  see,  here 
comes  his  boy. 

Enter  Wagner. 

First  Schol.  How  now,  sirrah !  whci-e's  thy 
master .' 

Wag.  God  in  heaven  knows. 

Sec.  Schol.  Why,  dost  not  thou  know  ? 

Wag.  Yes,  I  know ;  but  that  follows  not. 

Fi7-st  Schol.  Go  to,  sirrah !  leave  your  jesting, 
and  tell  us  where  he  is. 

Wag.  That  follows  not  necessary  by  force  of 
argument,  that  joxi,  being  licentiates,  should 
stand  upon't :  therefore  acknowledge  your  error, 
and  be  attentive. 

Sec.  Schol.  Why,  didst  thou  not  say  thou 
knewest  ? 

Wag.  Have  you  any  witness  on't  ? 

First  Schol.  Yes,  sirrah,  I  heard  you. 

Wag.  Ask  my  fellow  if  I  be  a  thief. 

Sec.  Schol.  Well,  you  will  not  tell  us  ? 

Wag.  Yes,  sir,  I  will  tell  you :  yet,  if  you  were 
not  dunces,  you  would  never  ask  me  such  a 
qiiestion  ;  for  is  not  he  corjjus  naturale  ? '  and  is 
not  that  mobile  f  »  then  wherefore  should  you  ask 
me  such  a  question?  Thus  having  triumphed 
over  you,  I  will  set  my  countenance  like  a  preci- 
sian, and  begin  to  speak  thus : — Truly,  my  dear 
brethren,  my  master  is  within  at  dinner  with 
Valdes  and  Cornelius,  as  this  wine,  if  it  could 
speak,  would  inform  your  worships ;  and  so,  the 
Lord  bless  you,  preserve  you,  and  keep  you,  my 
dear  brethren,  my  dear  brethren !  [Exit. 

First  Schol.  Nay,  then,  I  fear  he  is  fallen  into 


1  lusty — vigorous,  bushy. 

2  Bacon — B'riar  (Roger)  Bacon. 

*  Albertus — Albertus  Magnus. 

*  cunning — skill,  power. 

*  quiddity — originally  essence ;  here  subtilty,  qnirk. 

*  '  thus  I  prove.' 

'  '  a  natural  body.'  *  'moveable.' 


tliat  damned  art  for  which  they  two  are  infamous 
through  the  world. 

Sec.  Schol.  Were  he  a  stranger,  and  not  allied 
to  me,  yet  should  I  grieve  for  him.  But,  come, 
let  us  go  and  inform  the  Eector,  and  see  if  he  by 
his  gi'ave  counsel  can  reclaim  him. 

First  Schol.  Oh,  but  I  fear  me  nothing  can 
reclaim  him ! 

Sec.  Schol.  Yet  let  us  try  what  wo  can  do. 

lExezini. 

Enter  Faustus  to  conjure. 

Faust.  Now  that  the  gloomy  shadow  of  the 
earth. 
Longing  to  view  Orion's  drizzling  look. 
Leaps  from  the  antarctic  world  unto  the  sky. 
And  dims  the  welkin  with  her  pitchy  breath, 
Faustus,  begin  thine  incantations. 
And  try  if  devils  will  obey  thy  hest,i 
Seeing  thou  hast  pray'd  and  sacrific'd  to  them. 
Within  this  circle  is  Jehovah's  name. 
Forward  and  backward  anagrammatiz'd, 
Th'  breviated  names  of  holy  saints, 
Figures  of  eveiy  adjunct  to  the  heavens. 
And  characters  of  signs  and  erring  2  stars, 
By  which  the  spirits  are  enforc'd  to  rise : 
Then  fear  not,  Faustus,  but  be  resolute, 
And  try  the  uttermost  magic  can  perform. — 

[Here  he  beseeches  the  jJo^vers  above  and  below  to 
cause  Mephistophilis  to  appear  he/ore  him.'] 

Enter  Mephistophilis. 

I  charge  thee  to  return,  and  change  thy  shape  ; 
Thou  art  too  ugly  to  attend  on  me : 
Go,  and  return  an  old  Franciscan  friar; 
That  holy  shape  becomes  a  devil  best. 

[Exit  Mephist. 
I  see  there's  virtue  in  my  heavenly  words : 
Who  would  not  be  proficient  in  this  art  ? 
How  pliant  is  this  Mephistophilis, 
Full  of  obedience  and  humility! 

Re-enter  Mephistophilis  like  a  Franciscan  fnar, 

Meph.  Now,  Faustus,  what  wouldst  thou  have 
me  do? 

Faust.  I  charge  thee  wait  upon  me  whilst  I 
live. 
To  do  whatever  Faustus  shall  command, 
Be  it  to  make  the  moon  drop  from  her  sphere, 
Or  the  ocean  to  overwhelm  the  world. 

Meph.  I  am  a  servant  to  great  Lucifer, 
And  may  not  follow  thee  without  his  leave : 
No  more  than  he  commands  must  we  perform. 

Faust.  Did  not  he  charge  thee  to  appear  to  me  ? 

3Ieph.  No,  I  came  hither  of  mine  own  accord. 

Faust.    Did  not  my  conjuring  speeches  raise 
thee  ?  speak ! 

Mejyh.    That  was  the  cause,  but  yet  per  ac- 
cidens ; 3 
For,  when  we  hear  one  rack  the  name  of  God, 
Abjure  the  Scriptures  and  his  Saviour  Christ, 
We  fly,  in  hope  to  get  his  glorious  soul ; 
Nor  will  we  come,  unless  he  use  such  means 
Whereby  he  is  in  danger  to  be  damn'd. 
Therefore  the  shortest  cut  for  conjuring 
Is  stoutly  to  abjure  the  Trinity, 
And  pray  devoutly  to  the  prince  of  hell. 

Faust.  So  Faustus  hath 
Already  done  ;  and  holds  this  principle, 
There  is  no  chief  but  only  Belzobub  ; 
To  whom  Faustus  doth  dedicate  himself. 


'  hest — behest,  commantj.        2  erring — wandering. 

3  per  accideiis — '  by  accident.'  It  was  not  his  '  con- 
juring speeches,'  but  what  accompanied  them  that  was 
the  cause. 


I30 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


This  word  'damnation'  terrifies  not  him, 
Per  ho  confounds  hell  in  Elj'sium : 
His  ghost  be  with  the  old  philosophers ! 
But,  leaving  these  vain  trifles  of  men's  souls, 
Tell  me  what  is  that  Lucifer  thy  lord  ? 

Meph.    Arch-regent    and    commander   of   all 
spirits. 

Faust.  Was  not  that  Lucifer  an  angel  once  ? 

Meph.  Yes,  Paustus,  and  most  dearly  lov'd  of 
God. 

Faust.  How  comes  it,  then,  that  he  is  prince  of 
devils  ? 

Meph.  Oh,  by  aspiring  pride  and  insolence ; 
For  which   God  threw  him  from  the  face   of 
heaven. 

Faust.    And  what   are    you   that    live    with 
Lucifer .' 

3feph.  Unhappy  spirits  that  fell  with  Lucifer, 
Conspir'd  against  our  God  with  Lucifer, 
And, are  for  ever  damn'd  with  Lucifer. 

Faust.  Where  are  you  damn'd  ? 

Meph.  In  hell. 

Faust.  How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  out 
of  hell? 

Meph.  Why,  this  is  hell,  nor  am  I  out  of  it : 
Think'st  thou  that  I,  who  saw  the  face  of  God, 
And  tasted  the  eternal  joys  of  heaven, 
Am  not  tormented  with  ten  thousand  hells, 
In  being  depriv'd  of  everlasting  bliss  ? 
Oh,  Paustus,  leave  these  frivolous  demands. 
Which  strike  a  terror  to  my  fainting  soul! 

Faust.  What !  is  great  Mephistophilis  so  pas- 
sionate 
For  being  deprived  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ? 
Learn  thou  of  Paustus  manly  fortitude, 
And  scorn  those  joys  thou  never  shalt  possess. 
Go,  bear  these  tidings  to  great  Lucifer : 
Seeing  Paustus  hath  incurred  etei-nal  death 
By  desperate  thoughts  against  Jove's '  deity. 
Say,  he  surrenders  up  to  him  his  soul. 
So  he  will  spare  him  four  and  twenty  years. 
Letting  him  live  in  all  voluptuousness  ; 
Having  thee  ever  to  attend  on  me, 
To  give  me  whatsoever  I  shall  ask, 
To  tell  me  whatsoever  I  demand, 
To  slay  mine  enemies,  and  aid  my  friends, 
And  always  be  obedient  to  my  will. 
Go  and  return  to  mighty  Lucifer, 
And  meet  me  in  my  study  at  midnight, 
And  then  resolve ^  me  of  thy  master's  mind. 

Meph.  1  will,  Paustus.  [^Exit. 

Faust.  Had  I  as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars, 
I'd  give  them  all  for  Mephistophilis. 
By  him  I'll  be  great  emperor  of  the  world, 
And  make  a  bridge  through  the  moving  air, 
To  pass  the  ocean  with  a  band  of  men ; 
I'll  join  the  hills  that  bind  the  Afric  shore. 
And  make  that  country  continent  to  3  Spain, 
And  both  contributory  to  my  crown : 
The  Emperor  shall  not  live  but  by  my  leave, 
Nor  any  potentate  of  Germany. 
Now  that  I  have  obtain'd  what  I  desire, 
I'll  live  in  speculation  of  this  art, 
Till  Mephistophilis  return  again.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Wagnek  and  Clown. 

Wag.  Sin-ah,  boy,  come  hither. 

Clown.  How,  boy !  swowns,  boy !  I  hope  you 
have  seen  many  boys  with  such  pickadevaunts  ■* 
as  I  have :  boy,  quotha ! 

Wag.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  hast  thou  any  comings 
in? 


'  Jove's — Jehovah's. 

2  resolve — satisfy,  inform. 

3  continent  to — continuous  or  connected  with. 

*  pickadevaunts— ^oiatQi  feeards,  lormerly  fashionable. 


Clown.  Ay,  and  goings  out  too;  you  may  see 
else. 

Wag.  Alas,  poor  slave!  see  how  poverty  jestetli 
in  his  nakedness !  The  villain  is  bare  and  out  of 
service,  and  so  hungry,  that  I  know  he  would 
give  his  soul  to  the  devil  for  a  shoulder  of 
mutton,  though  it  were  blood-raw. 

Clown.  How !  my  soul  to  the  devil  for  a 
shoulder  of  mutton,  though  'twere  blood-raw ! 
Not  so,  good  friend :  by'r  lady,  I  had  need  have 
it  well  roasted,  and  good  sauce  to  it,  if  I  pay  so 
dear. 

Wag.  Sirrah,  leave  your  jesting,  and  bind 
3'ourself  presently  tmto  me  for  seven  years,  or 
I'll  turn  all  the  lice  about  thee  into  familiars,* 
and  they  shall  tear  thee  in  pieces. 

Clown.  Do  you  hear,  sir  ?  yoii  may  save  that 
labour ;  they  are  too  familiar  with  me  already : 
swowns,  they  are  as  bold  with  my  flesh  as  if  they 
had  paid  for  my  meat  and  drink. 

Wag.  Well,  do  you  hear,  sirrah!  hold,  take 
these  guilders. 

Clown.  Gridirons  !  what  be  they  ? 

Wag.  Why,  French  crowns. 

Clown.  Mass,  but  for  the  name  of  French 
crowns,  a  man  were  as  good  have  as  many 
English  counters.  And  what  should  I  do  with 
these  ? 

Wag.  Why,  now,  sirrah,  thou  art  at  an  hour's 
warning,  whensoever  or  wheresoever  the  devil 
shall  fetch  thee. 

Clown.  No,  no.  Here,  take  your  gridirons 
again. 

Way.  Truly,  I'll  none  of  them. 

Cloiun.  Truly,  but  you  shall. 

Wag.  Bear  witness  I  gave  them  him. 

Clown.  Bear  witness  1  gave  them  you  again. 

Wag.  Well,  I  will  cause  two  devils  presently 
to  fetch  thee  away. — Baliol  and  Belcher ! 

Enter  two  Devils ;  and  the  Clown  runs  up  and 
down  crying. 

Wag.  Baliol  and  Belcher, — spirits  away ! 

\JExeunt  Devils. 

Clown.  What !  are  they  gone  ?  a  vengeance  on 
them  !  they  have  vile  long  nails.  There  was  a 
he-devil  and  a  she-devil :  I'll  tell  you  how  you 
shall  know  them;  all  he-devils  has  horns,  and 
all  she-devils  has  clifts  and  cloven  feet. 

Wag.  Well,  sirrah,  follow  me. 

Clown.  But,  do  you  hear?  if  I  should  serve 
you,  would  you  teach  me  to  raise  up  Banios  and 
Belcheos  ? 

Wag.  I  will  teach  thee  to  turn  thyself  to  any- 
thing ;  to  a  dog,  or  a  cat,  or  a  mouse,  or  a  rat, 
or  anything. 

Clown.  How !  a  Christian  fellow  to  a  dog,  or  a 
cat,  a  mouse,  or  a  rat !  No,  no,  sir ;  if  you  turn 
me  into  anything,  let  it  be  in  the  likeness  of  a 
little  pretty  frisking  flea,  that  I  may  be  here  and 
there  and  everywhere. 

Wag.  Well,  sirrah,  come.  [^Exeunt. 

Paustus  discovered  in  his  study. 

Faust.  Now,  Faustus,  must 
Thou  needs  be  damn'd,  and  canst  thou  not  be 

sav'd : 
What  boots  it,  then,  to  think  of  God  or  heaven  ? 
Away  with  such  vain  fancies,  and  despair ; 
Despair  in  God,  and  trust  in  Belzebub  : 
Now  go  not  backward ;  no,  Paustus,  be  resolute  : 
Why  waver'st  thou?     Oh,  something  soundeth 

in  mine  ears, 
'  Abjure  this  magic,  turn  to  God  again.' 


^  familiars— i.e.  attendant  spirits — generally  eviL 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


131 


Ay,  and  Faustus  will  turn  to  God  again. 

To  God  ?  He  loves  thee  not ; 

The  god  thou  serv'st  is  thine  own  appetite, 

"Wherein  is  fixed  the  love  of  Belzebub  : 

To  him  I'll  build  an  altar  and  a  chnrch, 

And  offer  lukewarm  blood  of  new-born  babes. 

Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 
G.  Ang.   Sweet  Faustus,  leave  that  execrable 

art. 
Faust.  Contrition,  prayer,  repentance  —  what 

of  them .' 
G.  Ang.  Ot,  they  are  means  to  bring  thee  unto 

heaven ! 
E.  Ang.  Kather  illusions,  fruits  of  lunacy. 
That  make  men  foolish  that  do  trust  them  most. 
G.  Ang.  Sweet  Faustus,  think  of  heaven  and 

heavenly  things. 
E.  Ang.  No,   Faustus,   think  of    honour  and 
wealth.  \_Exe.unt  Angels. 

Faust.  Of  wealth ! 
Why,  the  signiory  of  Embden  shall  be  mine, 
"When  Mephistophilis  shall  stand  by  me. 
"What  god  can  hurt  thee,  Faustus  ?  thou  art  safe  : 
Cast  no  more  doubts.     Come,  Mephistophilis, 
And  bring  glad  tidings  from  great  Lucifer; — 
Is't  not  midnight  ? — come,  Mephistophilis, 
Veni,  veni,  MephistophUe  !  ^ 

Enter  Mephistophilis. 

Now,  tell  me  what  says  Lucifer,  thy  lord  ? 

Meph.  That  I  shall  wait  on  Faustus  whilst  he 
lives, 
So  he  will  buy  my  service  with  his  soul. 

Faust.  Already  Faustus  hath  hazarded  that  for 
thee. 

Meph.  But,    Faustus,  thou  must  bequeath  it 
solemnly, 
And  write  a  deed  of  gift  with  thine  own  blood ; 
For  that  security  craves  great  Lucifer. 
If  thou  deny  it,  I  will  back  to  hell. 

Faust.  Stay,  Mephistophilis,  and  teU  me  what 
good  will  my  soul  do  thy  lord  ? 

Meph.  Enlarge  his  kingdom. 

Faust.  Is  that  the  reason  why  he  tempts  us 
thus? 

Meph.  Solamen  miseris  socios  hahuisse  doloris.- 

Faust.  Have  you  any  paiu  that  tortui-e  others  ? 

Meph.  As  great  as   have  the  human  souls  of 
men. 
But,  teU  me,  Faustus,  shall  I  have  thy  soul  ? 
And  I  wiU  be  thy  slave  and  wait  on  thee, 
And  give  thee  more  than  thou  hast  wit  to  ask. 

Faust.  Ay,  Mephistophilis,  I  give  it  thee. 

Meph.  Then  stab  thine  arm  courageously 
And  bind  thy  soul,  that  at  some  certain  day 
Great  Lucifer  may  claim  it  as  his  own  ; 
And  then  be  thou  as  great  as  Lucifer. 

Faust.  [_Stahhlng  his  arm.']  Lo,  Mephistophilis, 
for  love  of  thee, 
I  cut  mine  arm,  and  with  my  proper^  blood 
Assure  my  soul  to  be  great  Lucifer's, 
Chief  lord  and  regent  of  perpetual  night ! 
View  here  the  blood  that  trickles  from  mine  arm. 
And  let  it  be  propitious  for  my  wish. 

Meph.  But,  Faustus,  thou  must 
"Write  it  in  manner  of  a  deed  of  gift. 

Faust.  Ay,  so  I  will  {Writes].    But,  Mephis- 
tophilis, 
My  blood  congeals,  and  I  can  write  no  more. 

Meph.  I'll  fetch  the  fire  to  dissolve  it  straight. 

[Exit. 

•  '  Come,  come,  Mephistophilis  ! ' 

2  '  It  is  a  consolation  to  the  miserable  to  have  had 
companions  in  their  misery.' 

*  proper — own;  'La.t.pi-oprius,  one's  own. 


Faust.  What  might  the  staying  of  my  blood 
portend  ? 
Is  it  unwilling  I  should  write  this  bill  ? 
Why  streams  it  not,  that  I  may  write  afresh  ? 
Faustus  gives  to  thee  his  soul :  ah,  there  it  stay'd ! 
Why  shouldst  thou  not?  is  not  thy  soul  thine 

own? 
Then  write  again,  Faustus  gives  to  thee  his  soul. 

Re-enter  Mephistophilis  with  a  chafer  of  coals. 

Meph.  Here's  fire  ;  come,  Faustus,  set  it  on.i 

Faust.  So,  now  the  blood  begins  to  clear  again ; 
Now  will  I  make  an  end  immediately. 

Meph.  Oh,  what  will  not  I  do  to  obtain  his 
soul  ?  [Aside. 

Faust.  Consummatum  est ;-  this  bill  is  ended. 
And  Faustus  hath  bequeath'd  his  soul  to  Lucifer. 
But  what  is  this  inscription  on  mine  arm  ? 
Homo  fuge:'^  whither  should  I  fly  ? 
If  imto  God,  He'll  throw  me  down  to  heU. 
My  senses  are  deceiv'd ;  here's  nothing  writ: — 
I  see  it  plain  ;  here  in  this  place  is  writ, 
Homo  fuge :  yet  shall  not  Faustus  fly. 

Meph.  I'll  fetch  him  somewhat  to  delight  his 
mind.  [Aside^  and  then  exit. 

Re-enter  Mephistophilis  loith  Devils,  who  give 
croicns  and  rich  apparel  to  Faustus,  dance, 
and  then  depart. 

Faust.  Speak,  Mephistophilis,  what  means  this 
show  ? 

Meph.  Nothing,  Faustus,  but  to  delight  thy 
mind  withal. 
And  to  show  thee  what  magic  can  perfoiTU. 

Faust.  But  may  I  raise  up  spu-its  when  I  please  ? 

Meph.  Ay,  Faustus,  and  do  greater  things  than 
these. 

Faust.  Then  there's  enough  for  a  thousand  souls. 
Here,  Mephistophilis,  receive  this  scroll, 
A  deed  of  gift  of  body  and  of  soul  : 
But  yet  conditionally  that  thou  perform 
All  articles  prescribed  between  us  both. 

Meph.  Faustus,  I  swear  by  hell  and  Lucifer 
To  effect  all  promises  between  us  made ! 

Faust.  Then  hear  me  read  them.  [Reads.]  On 
these  conditions  following: — First,  that  Faustus 
mag  be  a  spirit  in  form  and  substance.  Secondly, 
that  Mephistophilis  shall  be  his  servant,  and  at  his 
command.  Thirdly,  that  Mephistojjhilis  shall  do 
for  him,  and  bring  him  whatsoever  he  desires. 
Fourthly,  that  he  shall  be  in  his  chamber  or  house 
invisible.  Lastly,  that  he  shall  appear  to  the  said 
John  Faustus,  at  all  times,  in  what  form  or  shape 
soever  he  pleases.  I,  John  Faustus,  of  Wertenbtrg, 
Doctor,  by  these  presents,  do  give  both  body  and 
soul  to  Lucifer,  prince  of  the  east,  and  his  minister 
Mephistophilis ;  and  furthermore  grant  unto  them 
that,  twenty-four  years  being  expired,  the  articles 
above  written  inviolate,  full  power  to  fetch  or  carry 
the  said  John  Faustus,  body  and  soul,  flesh,  blood, 
or  goods,  into  their  habitation  wheresoever.  By  me, 
John  Faustus. 

Meph.  Speak,  Faustus,  do  you  deliver  this  as 
your  deed  ? 

Faust.  Ay,  take  it,  and  the  devil  give  thee 
good  on't ! 

Meph.  Now,  Faustus,  ask  what  thou  wilt. 

Faust.  First  will  I  question  with  thee  about  hell. 
Tell  me,  where  is  the  place  that  men  call  hell  ? 

Meph.  Under  the  heavens. 

Faust.  Ay,  but  whereabout? 

Meph.  Within  the  bowels  of  these  elements, 


1  The  sixth  chapter  of  The  HUtory  of  Doctor  Faustus 
is  headed :  '  Plow  Doctor  Faustus  set  his  Wood  in  a 
saucer,  on  wai-me  ashes,  and  writ  as  f  olloweth.' 

-  '  It  is  finished.'  3  '  pjy^  q  man  I ' 


132 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Where  we  are  tortur'd  and  remain  for  ever: 

Hell  hath  no  limits,  nor  is  circumscrib'd 

In  one  self  place ;  for  where  we  are  is  hell, 

And  where  hell  is,  must  wo  ever  be  : 

And,  to  conclude,  when  all  the  world  dissolves. 

And  every  creature  shall  be  purified, 

All  places  shall  be  hell  that  are  not  heaven, 

Faust.  Come,  I  think  hell's  a  fable. 

Meph.  Ay,  think  so  still,  till  experience  change 
thy  mind. 

Faust.  Why,  think'st  thou,  then,  that  Faustus 
shall  be  damn'd  ? 

Meph.  Kj,  of  necessity,  for  here's  the  scroll 
Wherein  thou  hast  given  thy  soul  to  Lucifer. 

Faust.  Ay,  and  body  too  :  but  what  of  that  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  Faustus  is  so  fond '  to  imagine 
That,  after  this  life,  there  is  any  pain  ? 
Tush,  these  are  trifles  and  mere  old  wives'  tales. 

Meph.  But,  Faustus,  I  am  an  instance  to  prove 
the  contrai-y, 
For  I  am  damn'd,  and  am  now  in  hell. 

Faust.  How !  now  in  hell ! 
Nay,  an  this  be  hell,  I'U  willingly  be  damn'd  here : 
What!  walking,  disputing,  etc. 
But,  leaving  off  this,  let  me  have  a  wife, 
The  fairest  maid  in  Germany ; 
For  I  cannot  live  without  a  wife. 

Meph.  How !  a  wife ! 
I  prithee,  Faustus,  talk  not  of  a  wife. 

Faust.  Nay,  sweet  Mephistophilis,  fetch  me  one; 
for  I  will  have  one. 

Meph.  Well,  thou  wilt  have  one!*  Sit  there 
till  I  come :  I'll  fetch  thee  a  wife  in  the  devil's 
name.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Mephistophilis  with  a  Devil  dressed  like 
a  Woman,  withjireioorlcs. 

Meph.  Tell  me,  Faustus,  how  dost  thou  like 
thy  wife  ? 

Faust.  A  plague  on  her ! 

Meph.  Tut,  Faustus, 
Marriage  is  but  a  ceremonial  toy ; 
If  thou  lovest  me,  think  no  more  of  it. 
She  whom  thine  eye  shall  like,  thy  heart  shall 

have. 
Be  she  as  chaste  as  was  Penelope, 
As  wise  as  Saba,2  or  as  beautiful 
As  was  bright  Lucifer  before  his  fall. 
Hold,  take  this  book,  peruse  it  thoroughly  : 
The  iterating'  of  these  lines  brings  gold; 
The  framing  of  this  circle  on  the  ground 
Brings  whirlwinds,  tempests,  thunder,  and  light- 
ning ; 
Pronounce  this  thrice  devoutly  to  thyself, 
And  men  in  armour  shall  appear  to  thee, 
Ready  to  execute  what  thou  desir'st. 

Faust.  Thanks,  Mephistophilis :  yet  fain  would 
I  have  a  book  wherein  I  might  behold  all  spells 
and  incantations,  that  I  might  raise  up  spirits 
when  I  please. 

Meph.  Here  they  are  in  this  book. 

Faust.  Now  would  I  have  a  book  where  I 
might  see  all  characters  and  planets  of  the 
heavens,  that  I  might  Imow  their  motions  and 
dispositions. 

Meph.  Here  they  are  too. 

Faust.  Nay,  let  me  have  one  book  more, — and 
then  I  have  done, — wherein  I  might  see  all  plants, 
herbs,  and  trees,  that  grow  upon  the  earth. 

Meph.  Here  they  be. 

Faust.  0  thou  art  deceived.  ] 

Meph.  Tut,  I  warrant  thee. 

Faust.  When   I   behold  the  heavens,  then  I 
repent, 


'  /o)?(Z— foolish.         -  Saba,  i.e.  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 
'  iterating — reiterating,  repeating. 


And  curse  thee,  wicked  Mephistophilis, 
Because  thou  hast  depriv'd  me  of  those  joys. 

Meph.  Why,  Faustus, 
Thinkest  thou  heaven  is  sitch  a  glorious  thing  ? 
I  tell  thee,  'tis  not  half  so  fair  as  thou, 
Or  any  man  that  breathes  on  earth. 

Faust.  How  prov'st  thou  that  ? 

Meph.  'Twas  made  for  man,  therefore  is  man 
more  excellent. 

Faust.  If  it  were  made  for  man,  'twas  made 
for  me : 
I  will  renounce  this  magic  and  repent. 

Enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 

G.  Ang.  Faustus,  repent;   yet  God  will  pity 
thee. 

E.  Ang.  Thou  art  a  spirit;  God  cannot  pity 
thee. 

Faust.  Who  buzzeth  in   mine  ears  I  am  a 
spirit .-' 
Be  I  a  devil,  yet  God  may  pity  me ; 
Ay,  God  will  pity  me,  if  I  repent. 

E.  Ang.  Ay,  but  Faustus  never  shall  repent. 

[Exeunt  Angels. 

Faust.   My   heart's    so    harden'd,    I    cannot 
repent : 
Scarce  can  I  name  salvation,  faith,  or  heaven, 
But  fearful  echoes  thunder  in  mine  ears, 
'  Faustus,  thou  art  damn'd ! '  then  swords,  and 

knives. 
Poison,  guns,  halters,  and  envenom'd  steel 
Are  laid  before  me  to  despatch  myself ; 
And  long  ere  this  I  should  have  slain  myself. 
Had  not  sweet  pleasure  conquer'd  deep  despair. 
Have  not  I  made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 
Of  Alexander's  love  and  CEnon's  death  .' 
And  hath  not  he,'  that  built  the  walls  of  Thebes 
With  ravishing  sound  of  his  melodious  harp. 
Made  music  with  my  Mephistophilis  ? 
Why  should  I  die,  then,  or  basely  despair  ? 
I  am  resolv'd ;  Faustus  shall"  ne'er  repent. — 
Come,  Mephistophilis,  let  us  dispute  again, 
And  argue  of  divine  astrology. 
Tell  me,  are  there  many  heavens  above  the  moon  ? 
Are  all  celestial  bodies  but  one  globe, 
As  is  the  substance  of  this  centric  earth  ? 

Meph.  As    are   the    elements,    such    are    the 
spheres. 
Mutually  folded  in  each  other's  orb, 
And,  Faustus, 

All  jointly  move  upon  one  axletree. 
Whose  terminine^  is  term'd  the  world's  wide  pole ; 
Nor  are  the  names  of  Saturn,  Mars,  or  Jupiter 
Feign'd,  but  are  erring  »  stars. 

Faust.  Tush, 
These  slender  trifles  Wagner  can  decide : 
Hath  Mephistophilis  no  greater  skill  ? 
Tell  me  who  made  the  world  ? 

Meph.  I  will  not. 

Faust.  Sweet  Mephistophilis,  tell  me. 

Meph.  Move  me  not,  for  I  will  not  tell  thee. 

Faust.  Villain,  have  I  not  bound  thee  to  tell 
me  anything  ? 

Meph.  Ay,  that  is  not  against  our  kingdom ; 
but  this  is.  Think  thou  on  hell,  Faustus,  for 
thou  art  damned. 

Faust.  Think,  Faustus,  upon  God  that  made 
the  world. 

Meph.  Eemember  this.  [Exit. 

Faust.  Ay,  go,  accursed  spirit,  to  ugly  hell ! 
'Tis  thou  hast  damn'd  distressed  Faustus'  soul. 
Is't  not  too  late  ? 


1  Amphion. 

2  terminin-e.    Other  editions  have  '  teimine,'  i.e.  ter- 
minus or  end. 

3  erring — wandering. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


133 


Re-enter  Good  Angel  and  Evil  Angel. 

E.  Ang.  Too  late. 

G.  Ang.  Never  too  late,  if  Faustus  can  repent. 

E.  Ang.  If  thou  repent,  devils  shall  tear  thee 

in  pieces. 
G.  Ang.  Repent,  and  they  shall  never  raze  thy 

skin.  [^Exeunt  Angels. 

Faust.  Ah,  Christ,  my  Saviour, 
Seek  to  save  distressed  Faustus'  soul ! 

Enter  Lucifer,  Belzebub,  and  Mephistophilts. 

Luc.  Christ  cannot  save  thy  soul,  for  He  is  just : 
There's  none  but  I  have  interest  in  the  same. 

Faust.  Oh,  who  art  thou  that  look'st  so  terrible .' 

Luc.  I  am  Lucifer, 
And  this  is  my  companion-prince  in  hell. 

Faust.  Oh,   Faustus,  they  are  come   to  fetch 
away  thy  soul ! 

Luc.  We  come  to  tell  thee  thou  dost  injure  us ; 
Thou  talk'st  of  Christ,  contrary  to  thy  promise  : 
Thou  shouldst  not  think  of  God :  think  of  the 

devil, 
And  of  his  dam  too. 

Faust.  Nor  will  I  henceforth:   pardon  me  in 
this, 
And  Faustus  vows  never  to  look  to  heaven, 
Never  to  name  God,  or  to  pray  to  Him, 
To  burn  his  Scriptures,  slay  liis  ministers. 
And  make  my  spirits  pull  his  churches  down. 

Luc.  Do  so,  and  we  will  highly  gratify  thee. 
Faustus,  we  are  come  from   hell   to  sliow  thee 
some  pastime  :  sit  down,  and  thou  sbalt  see  all 
the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  appear  in  their  jirojier 
shapes. 

Faust,  That  sight  will  be  as  pleasing  unto  me, 
As  Paradise  was  to  Adam,  the  first  day 
Of  his  creation. 

Luc.  Talk  not  of  Paradise  nor  creation ;  but 
mark  this  show :  talk  of  the  devil,  and  nothing 
else. — Come  away ! 

Enter  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 

Now,  Faustus,  examine  them  of  their  several 
names  and  dispositions. 

Faust.  What  art  thou,  the  first  ? 

Pride.  I  am  Pride.  I  disdain  to  have  any 
parents.  I  am  like  to  Ovid's  flea;  I  can  creep 
into  evei-y  corner  of  a  wench  ;  sometimes,  like  a 
periwig,  I  sit  upon  her  brow ;  or,  like  a  fan  of 
feathers,  I  kiss  her  lips  ;  indeed,  I  do — what  do  I 
not?  But,  fie,  what  a  scent  is  here!  I'll  not 
speak  another  word,  except  the  ground  were  per- 
fumed, and  covered  with  cloth  of  arras. 

Faust.  What  art  thou,  the  second  ? 

Covet.  I  am  Covetousness,  begotten  of  an  old 
churl,  in  an  old  leathern  bag :  and,  might  I  have 
my  wish,  I  would  desire  that  this  bouse  and  all 
the  people  in  it  were  turned  to  gold,  that  1  might 
lock  you  up  in  my  good  chest.  Oh,  my  sweet 
gold! 

Faust.  What  art  thou,  the  third  ? 

Wrath.  I  am  Wrath.  I  had  neither  father  nor 
mother:  I  leapt  out  of  a  lion's  mouth  when  I 
was  scarce  half-an-hour  old ;  and  ever  since  I 
have  run  up  and  down  the  world  with  this  case 
of  rapiers,  wounding  myself  when  I  had  tiobody 
to  fight  withal.  I  was  born  in  hell ;  and  look  to 
it,  for  some  of  you  shall  be  my  father. 

Faust.  What  art  thou,  the  fourth  ? 
■  Envy.  I  am  Envy,  begotten  of  a  chimney- 
sweeper and  an  oyster-wife.  I  cannot  read,  and 
therefore  wish  all  books  were  burnt.  I  am  lean 
with  seeing  others  eat.  Oh  that  there  would  come 
a  famine  through  all  the  world,  that  all  might 


die,  and  I  live  alone !  then  thou  shouldst  see  how 
fat  I  would  be.  But  must  thou  sit,  and  I  stand  ? 
Come  down,  with  a  vengeance  ! 

Faust.  Away,  envious  rascal ! — What  art  thou, 
the  fifth .' 

Glut.  Who  I,  sir  ?  I  am  Gluttony.  My  parents 
are  all  dead,  and  the  devil  a  penny  they  have 
left  me,  but  a  bare  pension,  and  that  is  thirty 
meals  a-day  and  ten  bevers,' — a  small  trifle  to 
suffice  nature.  Oli,  I  come  of  a  royal  parentage! 
My  grandfather  was  a  Gammon  ^  of  Bacon,  my 
grandmother  a  Hogshead  of  Claret-wine  ;  my 
godfathers  were  these,  Peter  Pickle-herring  and , 
Slartin  Martlemas-beef.  Oh,  but  my  godmother, 
she  was  a  jolly  gentlewoman,  and  well-beloved 
in  every  good  town  and  city;  her  name  was 
Mistress  Margery  March-beer.  Now,  Faustus, 
thou  hast  heard  all  my  progeny ;  wilt  thou  bid 
me  to  supper  ? 

Faust.  No,  I'll  see  thee  hanged :  thou  wilt  eat 
up  all  my  victuals. 

Glut.  Then  the  devil  choke  thee ! 

Faust.  Choke  thyself,  glutton ! — What  art  thou, 
the  sixth  ? 

Sloth.  I  am  Sloth.  I  was  begotten  on  a  sunny 
bank,  where  I  have  lain  ever  since ;  and  you 
have  done  me  great  injury  to  bring  me  from 
thence :  let  me  be  carried  thither  again  by 
Gluttony  and  Lechery.  I'll  not  speak  another 
word  for  a  king's  ransom. 

Faust.  What  are  you,  Mistress  Minx,  the 
seventh  and  last  ? 

Lechery.  Who  I,  sir  ?  and  the  first  letter  of  my 
name  begins  with  L. 

Faust.  Away,  to  hell,  to  hell ! 

[Exeunt  the  Sins. 

Luc.  Now,  Faustus,  how  dost  thou  like  this  ? 

Faust.  Oh,  this  feeds  my  soul ! 

Luc.  Tut,  Faustus,  in  hell  is  all  manner  of 
delight. 

Faust.  Oh,  might  I  see  hell,  and  return  again. 
How  happy  were  I  then ! 

Luc.  Thou  shalt ;  I  will  send  for  thee  at  mid- 
night. 
In  meantime  take  this  book ;  peruse  it  throtighly, 
And  thou  shalt  turn  thyself  into  what  shape  thou 
wilt. 

Faust.  Great  thanks,  mighty  Lucifer ! 
This  will  I  keep  as  chary  as  my  life. 

Luc.  Farewell,  Faustus,  and  think  on  the  devil. 

Faust.  Farewell,  great  Lucifer. 

Come  Mephistophilis. 

[_Exeu}it  several  ways. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Char.  Learned  Faustus, 
To  know  the  secrets  of  astronomy 
Graven  in  the  book  of  Jove's  high  firmament, 
Did  mount  himself  to  scale  Olympus'  top, 
Being  seated  in  a  chariot  burning  bright, 
Drawn  by  the  strength  of  yoky  dragons'  necks. 
He  now  is  gone  to  prove  cosmography. 
And,  as  I  guess,  will  first  arrive  at  Rome, 
To  see  the  Pope  and  manner  of  his  court, 
And  take  some  part  of  holy  Peter's  feast. 
That  to  this  day  is  highly  solemniz'd.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Faustus  and  Mephistophilis. 
Faust.  Having  now,  my  good  Mephistophilis, 


'  levers— 2i  bever  is  a  mid-day  meal,  taken  between 
breakfast  and  dinner.  It  is  here  used  generally,  but 
strictly  should  be  confined  to  dvinking.  Ital.  bever,  to 
drink. 

2  Gammon — a  smoked  or  cured  ham. 


134 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Pass'd  with  delight  the  stately  town  of  Trier,i 
Environ'd  round  with  airy  mountain-tops, 
With  walls  of  flint,  and  deep-entrenched  lakes, 
Not  to  be  won  by  any  conquering  prince  ; 
Prom  Paris  next,  coasting  the  realm  of  France, 
We  saw  the  river  Maine  fall  into  Ehine, 
Whose   banks  are   set  with   gi'oves  of   fruitful 

vines ; 
Then  up  to  Naples,  rich  Campania, 
Whose  buildings  fair  and  gorgeous  to  the  eye, 
The  streets  straight  forth,  and  jjav'd  with  finest 

brick, 
Quarter  the  town  in  four  equivalents : 
There  saw  we  learnfed  Maro's  golden  tomb, 
The  way  he  cut,  an  English  mile  in  length, 
Thorough  a  rock  of  stone,  in  one  night's  space ;  ^ 
From  thence  to  Venice,  Padua,  and  "the  rest. 
In  one  of  which  a  sumptuous  temple  stands,^ 
That  threats  the  stars  with  her  aspiring  top. 
Thus  hitherto  hath  Faustus  spent  his  time  : 
But  tell  me  now  what  resting-place  is  this  ? 
Hast  thou,  as  erst  I  did  command. 
Conducted  me  within  the  walls  of  Eome  ? 

Mcph.  Faustus,  I  have ;  and,  because  we  will 
not  be  unprovided,  I  have  taken  up  his  HoKness' 
privy-chamber  for  our  use. 

Faust.  I  hope  his  Holiness  will  bid  us  wel- 
come. 

Mepk.  Tut,  'tis  no  matter,  man ;  we'll  be  bold 
with  his  good  cheer. 
And  now,  my  Faustus,  that  thou  mayest  perceive 
What  Eome  containeth  to  delight  thee  with. 
Know  that  this  city  stands  upon  seven  hills 
That  underprop  the  groundwork  of  the  same : 
Just    through  the  midst  mns  flowing   Tiber's 

stream 
With  winding  banks  that  cut  it  in  two  parts ; 
Over  the  which  four  stately  bridges  lean. 
That  make  safe  passage  to  each  part  of  Eome  : 
Upon  the  bi'idge  call'd  Ponto  Angelo 
Erected  is  a  castle  passing  sti-ong, 
Within  whose  walls  such  store  of  ordnance  are, 
And  double  cannons  fram'd  of  carved  brass. 
As  match  the  days  within  one  complete  year ; 
Besides  the  gates,  and  high  pyramid^s, 
Which  Julius  Csesar  brought  from  Africa. 

Faust.  Now,  by  the  kingdoms  of  infernal  rule, 
Of  Styx,  of  Acheron,  and  the  fiery  lake 
Of  ever-biirning  Phlegethon,''  I  swear 
That  I  do  long  to  see  the  monuments 
And  situation  of  bright-splendent  Eome : 
Come,  therefore,  let's  away. 

Meph.  Nay,  Faustus,  stay :  I  know  you'd  fain 
see  the  Pope, 
And  take  some  part  of  holy  Peter's  feast. 
Where  thou  shalt  see  a  troop  of  bald-pate  friars. 
Whose  summum  honum  *  is  in  belly-cheer. 

Faust.  Well,    I'm  content  to  compass  ^  then 
some  sport, 
And  by  their  folly  make  us  merriment. 
Then  charm  me,  that  I 
May  be  invisible,  to  do  what  I  please, 
Unseen  of  any  whilst  I  stay  in  Eome. 

[Mephistophilis  charms  him. 

Meph.  So,  Faustus  ;  now 
Do  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  be  discern'd. 


1  Trier — ^Triers. 

2  During  the  middle  ages  Virgil  was  regarded  as  a 
great  magician.  Petrarch  describes  the  exploit  men- 
tioned above  in  his  Jtinerarium  Syriacum. 

*  St.  Mark's  Church  in  Venice. 

*  Styx,  Acheron,  and  Phlegethon,  all  rivers  of  the 
infernal  regions. 

*  summum  bonum — '  chief  good.' 

*  compass — obtain. 


Sound  a  Sonnet.^  Enter  the  Pope  and  the  Car- 
dinal OF  LoRRAiN  to  the  banquet,  with  Friars 
attending. 

Pope.  My  Lord  of  Lorrain,  will't  please  you 
draw  near  ? 

Faust.  Fall  to,  and  the  devil  choke  you,  an  you 
spare ! 

Popie.  How  now!  who's  that  which  spake? — 
Friars,  look  about. 

First  Friar.  Here's  nobody,  if  it  like  your 
Holiness. 

Pope.  My  lord,  here  is  a  dainty  dish  was  sent 
me  from  the  Bishop  of  Milan. 

Faust.  I  thank  you,  sir.  [Snatches  the  dish. 

Po})e.  How  now !  who's  that  which  snatched 
the  meat  from  me  ? — Will  no  man  look  ?  My  lord, 
this  dish  was  sent  me  from  the  cardinal  of  Flo- 
rence. 

Faust.  Tou  say  true ;  I'll  ha't. 

[Snatches  the  dish. 

Pope.  What,  again!— My  lord,  I'll  drink  to 
your  grace. 

Faust.  I'll  pledge  your  grace. 

[Snatches  the  cup. 

C.  of  Lor.  My  lord,  it  may  be  some  ghost,  newly 
crept  out  of  Purgatory,  come  to  beg  a  pardon  of 
your  Holiness. 

Pope.  It  may  be  so. — Friars,  prepare  a  dirge  to 
lay  the  fury  of  this  ghost. — Once  again,  my  lord, 
fall  to.  [The  Pope  crosses  himself. 

Faust.  What !  are  yorx  crossing  of  yourself  ? 
Well,  use  that  trick  no  more,  I  would  advise  you. 
[The  Pope  crosses  himself  again. 
Well,  there's  the  second  time.     Aware  the  third ; 
I  give  you  fau-  warning. 

[The  Pope  crosses  himself  again,  and  Faustus 
hits  him  a  box  on  the  ear;  and  they  all  run 
away. 
Come  on,  Mephistophilis  ;  what  shall  we  do  ? 

Meph.  Nay,  I  know  not :  we  shall  be  cursed 
with  bell,  book,  and  candle. 

Faust.  How !  bell,  book,  and  candle, — candle, 
book,  and  bell, — 
Forward  and  backward,  to  curse    Faustus   to 

hell! 
Anon  you  shall  hear  a  hog  grunt,  a  calf  bleat, 

and  an  ass  bray. 
Because  it  is  Saint  Peter's  holiday. 

Re-enter  all  the  Friars  to  sing  the  Dirge. 

First  Friar.  Come,  brethren,  let's  about  our 
business  with  good  devotion. 

They  sing. 
Cursed  be  he  that  stole  axoay  his  Holiness'  meat 
from  the  table!  maledicat  Dominus !  2 

Cursed  be  he  that  struck  his  Holiness  a  blow  on 
the  face  !  maledicat  Dominus ! 

Cursed  be  he  that  took  Friar  Sandelo  a  blow  on 
the  pate  !  maledicat  Dominus  ! 

Cursed  he  he  that  disturbeth  our  holy  dirge ! 
maledicat  Dominus ! 

Cursed  be  he  that  took  away  his  Holiness''  wine  ! 
maledicat  Dominus ! 

Et  omnes  Sancti !  *  Amen ! 
[Mephistophilis  and  Faustus  beat  the  Friars, 
and  fing  freioorks   among   them ;    and  so 
exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 
Cho7:  When  Faustus  had  with  pleasure  ta'en 
the  view 

1  Sonnet,  also  Sennet,  Signet,  Cynet,  &c. — A  particular 
set  of  notes  on  the  trumpet,  or  cornet,  different  from  a 
flouvish. — Nares. 

•  '  May  the  Lord  curse  him! ' 

3  'And  all  the  saints! ' 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


135 


Of  rarest  things,  and  royal  courts  of  kings, 
He  stay'd  his  course,  and  so  returned  home  ; 
Where  such  as  bear  his  absence  but  with  grief, 
I  mean  his  friends  and  near'st  companions. 
Did  gratulate  his  safety  with  kind  words, 
And  in  their  conference  of  what  befell, 
Touching  his  joui-ney  through  the  world  and  air. 
They  put  forth  questions  of  astrology, 
Which  Faustus  answer'd  with  such  learned  skill 
As  they  admir'd  and  wonder'd  at  his  wit. 
Now  is  his  fame  spread  forth  in  every  land : 
Amongst  the  rest  the  Emperor  is  one, 
Carolus  the  Fifth,  at  whose  palace  now 
Faustus  is  feasted  'mongst  his  noblemen. 
What  there  he  did,  in  trial  of  his  art, 
I  leave  untold ;  your  eyes  shall  see['t"l  perform'd. 

\_Exil. 

Enter  Eobin  the,  Ostler,  with  a  booh  in  his  hand. 

Robin.  Oh,  this  is  admirable  !  here  I  ha'  stolen 
one  of  Dr.  Faustus'  conjuring-books,  and,  i'  faith, 
I  mean  to  search  some  circles  for  my  own  use. 
Now  will  I  make  all  the  maidens  in  our  parish 
dance  at  my  pleasure,  before  me. 

Enter  Ealph,  calling  Kobin. 

Ralph.  Kobin,  prithee,  come  away ;  there's  a 
gentleman  tarries  to  have  his  horse,  and  he  would 
have  his  things  rubbed  and  made  clean.  He  keeps 
sucli  a  chafing  with  my  mistress  about  it ;  and 
she  has  sent  me  to  look  thee  out ;  prithee,  come 
away. 

Robin.  Keep  out,  keep  out,  or  else  you  are 
blown  up,  you  are  dismembered,  Ealph :  keep 
out,  for  I  am  about  a  roaring  piece  of  work. 

Ralph.  Come,  what  doest  thou  with  that  same 
book?     Thou  canst  not  read! 

Robin.  Yes,  my  master  and  mistress  shall  find 
that  I  can  read,  he  for  his  forehead,  she  for  her 
private  study  ;  she's  born  to  bear  with  me,  or 
else  my  art  fails. 

Ralph.  Why,  Robin,  what  book  is  that  ? 

Robin.  What  book !  why,  the  most  intolerable 
book  for  conjuring  that  e'er  was  invented  by  any 
brimstone  devil. 

Ralph.  Canst  thou  conjure  with  it  ? 

Robin.  I  can  do  all  these  things  easily  with  it : 
first,  I  can  make  thee  drunk  with  ippocras  1  at  any 
tabern  ^  in  Europe  for  nothing ;  that's  one  of  my 
conjuring  works. 

Ralph.  Our  Master  Parson  says  that's  nothing. 

Robin.  No  more,  sweet  Kalph:  let's  go  and 
make  clean  our  boots,  which  lie  foul  upon  our 
hands,  and  then  to  our  conjui-ing  in  the  devil's 
name.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Emperok,  Faustus,  and  a  Knight,  with 
Attendants. 

Emp.  Master  Doctor  Faustus,  I  have  heard 
strange  report  of  thy  knowledge  in  the  black  art, 
how  that  none  in  my  empire  nor  in  the  whole 
world  can  compare  with  thee  for  the  rare  effects 
of  magic  ;  they  say  thou  hast  a  familiar  spirit,  by 
whom  thou  canst  accomplish  what  thou  list. 
This,  therefore,  is  my  request,  that  thou  let  me 
see  some  proof  of  thy  skill,  that  mine  eyes  may 
be  witnesses  to   confirm  what  mine  ears   have 


1  ippocras — generally  kippocras,  an  aromatic  medi- 
cated drink,  composed  usually  of  red  wine,  but  some- 
times white,  with  the  addition  of  spices  and  sugar. 
Derived  by  some  from  Gr.  hypo,  and  kerannumi,  to  mix; 
but  by  others  from  Hippocrates,  as  being  originally  com- 
posed by  medical  skill,  or  as  being  strained  through  a 
woollen  bag  called  by  apothecaries  Hipjpocrates'  sleeve. 
— Nares.    Still  used  on  the  continent. 

*  tabern — tavern. 


heard  reported :  and  here  I  swear  to  thee,  by  the 
honour  of  mine  imperial  crown,  that,  whatever 
thou  doest,  thou  shalt  be  no  ways  prejudiced  or 
endamaged. 
Knight.  I'  faith,  he  looks  much  like  a  conjurer. 


Faust.  My  gracious  sovereign,  though  1  must 
confess  myself  far  inferior  to  the  report  men  have 
published,  and  nothing  answerable  to  the  honour 
of  your  imperial  majesty,  yet,  for  that  love  and 
duty  binds  me  thereunto,  I  am  content  to  do  what- 
soever your  majesty  shall  command  me. 

Emp.  Then,  Doctor  Faustus,  mark  what  I  shall 
say. 
As  I  was  sometime  solitary  set 
Within  my  closet,  sundry  thoughts  arose 
About  the  honour  of  mine  ancestors. 
How  they  had  won  by  prowess  such  exploits, 
Got  such  I'iches,  subdu'd  so  many  kingdoms, 
As  we  that  do  succeed,  or  they  that  shall 
Hereafter  possess  our  throne,  shall 
(I  fear  me)  ne'er  attain  to  that  degree 
Of  high  renown  and  great  authority  : 
Amongst  which  kings  is  Alexander  the  Great, 
Chief  spectacle  of  the  world's  pi-e-eminence, 
The  bright  shining  of  whose  glorious  acts 
Lightens  the  world  with  his  reflecting  beams, 
As  when  I  hear  but  motion  made  of  him. 
It  grieves  my  soul  I  never  saw  the  man : 
If,  therefore,  thou,  by  cunning  of  thine  art, 
Canst  raise  this  man  from  hollow  vaults  below, 
Where  lies  entomb'd  this  famous  conqueror. 
And  bring  with  him  his  beauteous  paramour, 
Both  in  their  right  shapes,  gesture,'  and  attire 
They  us'd  to  wear  during  their  time  of  life, 
Thou  shalt  both  satisfy  my  just  desire, 
And  give  me  cause  to  praise  thee  whilst  I  live. 

Faust.  My  gracious  lord,  I  am  ready  to  accom- 
plish your  request,  so  far  forth  as  by  art  and 
power  of  my  spirit  I  am  able  to  perform. 

Knight.  I'  faith,  that's  just  nothing  at  all. 

[Aside. 

Faust.  But,  if  it  like  your  grace,  it  is  not  in  my 
ability  to  present  before  your  eyes  the  true  sub- 
stantial bodies  of  those  two  deceased  princes, 
which  long  since  are  consumed  to  dust. 

Knight.  Ay,  marry,  Master  Doctor,  now  there's 
a  sign  of  grace  in  you,  when  you  will  confess  the 
truth.  [Aside. 

Faust.  But  such  spirits  as  can  lively  resemble 
Alexander  and  his  paramour  shall  appear  before 
your  grace,  in  that  manner  that  they  best  lived 
in,  in  their  most  flourishing  estate ;  which  I 
doubt  not  shall  c  ufficiently  content  your  imperial 
majesty. 

Einp.  Go  to,  Master  Doctor ;  let  me  see  them 
presently. 

Knight.  Do  you  hear.  Master  Doctor?  Tou 
bring  Alexander  and  his  paramour  before  the 
Emperor ! 

Faust.  How  then,  sir  ? 

Knight.  V  faith,  that's  as  true  as  Diana  turned 
me  to  a  stag. 

Faust.  No,  sir ;  but,  when  Actason  died,  he  left 
the  horns  for  you. — Mephistophilis,  be  gone. 

[Exit  Mephktophilis. 

Knight.  Nay,  an  you  go  to  conjuring,  I'll  be 
gone.  [Exit. 

Faust.  I'll  meet  with  you  anon  for  interrupting 
me  so. — Here  they  are,  my  gracious  lord. 

Re-enter  Mephistophilis  loith  Spirits  in  the 
shapes  q/"  Alexander  and  his  Paramour. 

Emp.  Master  Doctor,  I  heard  this  lady,  while 


^  gesture — bearing,  carriage 


136 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


she  lived,  had  a  wart  or  mole  in  her  neck :  how 
shall  I  know  whether  it  be  so  or  no  ? 

Faust.  Your  highness  may  boldly  go  and  see. 

Emp.  Sure,  these  are  no  spirits,  but  the  true 

substantial  bodies  of  those  two  deceased  princes. 

[Exeunt  Spirits. 

Faust.  Wiirt  please  your  highness  now  to  send 
for  the  knight  that  was  so  pleasant  with  me  here 
of  late .' 

Emp.  One  of  you  call  him  forth. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Re-enter  the  Knight  with  a  pair  of  horns  on 
his  head. 

How  now,  sir  knight !  why,  I  had  thought  thou 
hadst  been  a  bachelor ;  but  now  I  see  thou  hast  a 
wife,  that  not  only  gives  thee  horns,  but  makes 
thee  wear  them.     Feel  on  thy  head. 

Knight.   Thou  damnfed  wretch  and  execrable 
dog, 
Bred  in  the  concave  of  some  monstrous  rock, 
How  dar'st  thou  thus  abuse  a  gentleman.' 
Villain,  I  say,  undo  what  thou  hast  done ! 

Faust.  Oh,  not  so  fast,  sir !  there's  no  haste : 
but,  good,  are  you  remembered  how  you  crossed 
me  in  my  conference  with  the  Emperor .''  I  think 
I  have  met  with  you  for  it. 

Emp.  Good  Master  Doctor,  at  my  entreaty  re- 
lease him  :  he  hath  done  penance  sufficient. 

Faust.  My  gracious  lord,  not  so  much  for  the 
injury  he  offei-ed  me  here  in  your  presence,  as 
to  delight  you  with  some  mirth,  hath  Faustus 
worthily  requited  this  injurious  knight;  which 
being  all  I  desire,  I  am  content  to  release  him  of 
his  horns : — and,  sir  knight,  hereafter  speak 
well  of  scholars. — Mephistophilis,  transform  him 
straight.  [Mephistophilis  removes  the  horns.'\ — 
Now,  my  good  lord,  having  done  my  duty,  I 
humbly  take  my  leave. 

Emp.  Farewell,  Master  Doctor :  yet,  ere  you  go. 
Expect  from  me  a  bounteous  reward. 

[Exeunt  Emperor,  Knight  and  Attendants. 

Faust.  Now,  Mephistophilis,  the  restless  course 
That  time  doth  run  with  calm  and  silent  foot, 
Shortening  my  days  and  thread  of  vital  life, 
Calls  for  the  payment  of  my  latest  years  : 
Therefore,  sweet  Mephistophilis,  let  us 
Make  haste  to  Wertenberg. 

3Ieph.  What,  will  you  go  on  horseback  or  on 
foot? 

Faust.  Nay,  till  I'm  past  this  fair  and  pleasant 
green, 
I'll  walk  on  foot. 

Enter  a  Horse-courser.i 

Borse-c.  I  have  been  all  this  day  seeking  one 
Master  Fustian :  mass,  see  where  he  is  ! — God 
save  you,  Master  Doctor ! 

Faust.  What,  horse-courser !  you  are  well  met. 

Horse-c.  Do  you  hear,  sir?  I  have  brought 
you  forty  dollars  for  your  horse. 

Faust.  I  cannot  sell  him  so  :  if  thou  likest  him 
for  fifty,  take  him. 

Horse-c.  Alas,  sir,  I  have  no  more! — I  pray 
you  speak  for  me. 

Meph.  I  pray  you,  let  him  have  him :  he  is  an 
honest  fellow,  and  he  has  a  great  charge,  neither 
wife  nor  child. 

Faust.  Well,  come,  give  me  your  money 
[Horse-courser  gives  Faustus  the  money]  -.  my 
boy  will  deliver  him  to  you.  But  I  must  tell 
you  one  thing  before  you  have  him ;  ride  him 
not  into  the  water,  at  any  hand. 


1  Hoi-se-courser — probably   horse-scourser,  i.e.  horse- 
dealer.    From  old  Eng.  sco/'ie,  to  exchange. 


Horse-c.  Why,  sir,  will  he  not  drink  of  all 
waters  ? 

Faust.  Oh,  yes,  he  will  drink  of  all  waters; 
but  ride  him  not  into  the  water  :  ride  him  over 
hedge  or  ditch,  or  where  thou  wilt,  but  not  into 
the  water. 

Horse-c.  Well,  sir. — Now  am  I  made  man  for 
ever.  [Exit. 

Faust.  What  art  thou,  Faustus,  but  a  man  con- 
demn'd  to  die  ? 
Thy  fatal  time  doth  draw  to  final  end  ; 
Despair  doth  drive  distnist  into  my  thoughts  : 
Confound  these  passions  with  a  quiet  sleep : 
Tush,  Christ  did  call  the  thief  upon  the  cross ; 
Then  rest  thee,  Faustus,  quiet  in  conceit.' 

[Sleeps  in  his  chair. 

Re-enter  Horse-courser,  all  wet,  crying. 

Horse-c.  Alas !  alas  !  Doctor  Fustian,  quoth  a  ! 
— mass,  Doctor  Lopus  ^  was  never  such  a  doctor — 
has  given  me  a  purgation,  has  purged  me  of 
forty  dollars;  I  shall  never  see  them  more.  But 
yet,  like  an  ass  as  I  was,  I  would  not  be  ruled  by 
him,  for  he  bade  me  I  should  ride  him  into  no 
water :  now  I,  thinking  my  horse  had  had  some 
rare  quality  that  he  would  not  have  had  me 
known  of,  ^  I,  like  a  venturous  youth,  rid  him 
into  the  deep  pond  at  the  town's  end.  I  was  no 
sooner  in  the  middle  of  the  pond,  but  my  horse 
vanished  away,  and  I  sat  upon  a  bottle  of  hay, 
never  so  near  drowning  in  my  life.  But  I'll  seek 
out  my  doctor,  and  have  my  forty  dollars  again, 
or  I'll  make  it  the  dearest  horse! — Oh,  yonder  is 
his  snipper-snapper.'' — Do  you  hear?  you  hey- 
pass  ;  ^  Where's  your  master  ? 

Mejjh.  Why,  sir,  what  would  you  ?  you  cannot 
speak  with  him. 

Horse-c.  But  I  will  speak  with  him. 

Meph.  Why,  he's  fast  asleep :  come  some  other 
time. 

Horse-c.  I'll  speak  with  him  now,  or  I'll  break 
his  glass-windows  about  his  ears. 

Meph.  I  tell  thee,  he  has  not  slept  this  eight 
nights. 

Horse-c.  An  he  have  not  slept  this  eight  weeks, 
I'll  speak  with  him. 

Meph.  See,  where  he  is,  fast  asleep. 

Horse-c.  Ay,  this  is  he. — God  save  you.  Master 
Doctor,  Master  Doctor,  Master  Doctor  Fustian ! 
forty  dollars,  forty  dollars  for  a  bottle  of  hay ! 

Meph.  Why,  thou  seest  he  hears  thee  not. 

Horse-c.  So-ho,  ho !  so-ho,  ho !  [Holloas  in 
his  ear.]  No;  will  you  not  wake?  I'll  make 
you  wake  ere  I  go.  [Pulls  Faustus  hy  the  leg, 
and  pulls  it  away.]  Alas,  I  am  undone!  what 
shall  I  do  ? 

Faust.  Oh,  my  leg,  my  leg! — Help,  Mephisto- 
philis! call  the  officers. — My  leg,  my  leg! 

Meph.  Come,  villain,  to  the  constable. 

Horse-c.  Oh  Lord,  sir,  let  me  go,  and  I'll  give 
you  forty  dollars  more ! 

3Ie2)h.  Where  be  they  ? 

Horse-c.  I  have  none  about  me :  come  to  my 
ostry,6  and  I'll  give  them  you. 

Meph.  Be  gone  quickly. 

[Horse-courser  runs  aioay. 


■  conceit — thought. 

-  Doctor  Lojius — i.e.  Doctor  Lopez,  domestic  physician 
to  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  was  put  to  death  for  having  re- 
ceived a  bribe  from  the  court  of  Spain  to  destroy  her. — 
Dyce. 

3  known  0/— acquainted  with. 

*  snipper-snapper — one  who  snip-snaps,  or  speaks  snap- 
pishly. 

^  A«j/-pa«— juggler ;  this  being  a  favourite  conjuring 
phrase. 

6  ostry — hostelry,  inn,  lodging. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


137 


i^i7MS<.  What!  ishegone?  Farewell  lie!  Faus- 
tus  has  liis  leg  again,  and  the  Horse-courser,  I 
take  it,  a  bottle  of  hay  for  his  labour.  Well,  this 
trick  shall  cost  him  forty  dollars  more. 

Enter  Wagner. 

How  now,  Wagner!  what's  the  news  with  thee .' 
Wag.  Su-,  the  Duke  of  Vanholt  doth  earnestly 
entreat  your  company. 

Faust.  The  Duke  of  Vanholt !  an  honourable 
geuileman,  to  whom  I  must  be  no  niggard  of  my 
cunning.' — Come,  Mephistophilis,  leVs  away  to 
liiiii-  {Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Vanholt,  the  Duchess, 
and  Faustus. 

Dulca.  Believe  me.  Master  Doctor,  this  merri- 
ment hath  much  pleased  me. 

Faust.  My  gracious  lord,  I  am  glad  it  contents 
you  so  well. — But  it  may  be,  madam,  you  take  no 
delight  in  this.  I  have  heard  that  great-bellied 
women  do  long  for  some  dainties  or  other :  what 
is  it,  madam  ?  tell  me,  and  you  shall  have  it. 

Duchess.  Thanks,  good  Master  Doctor:  and, 
for  I  see  your  courteous  intent  to  pleasure  me, 
I  will  not  hide  from  you  the  thing  my  heart 
desires;  and,  were  it  now  summer,  as  it  is 
January  and  the  dead  time  of  the  winter,  I 
would  desire  no  better  meat  than  a  dish  of  ripe 
grapes. 

Faust.  Alas,  madam,  that's  nothing! — Mephis- 
tophilis,  begone.  [iixtilMEPHisTOPHiLis.]  Were 
it  a  greater  thing  than  this,  so  it  would  content 
you,  you  should  have  it. 

Re-enter  Mephistophilis  lulih  grapes. 

Here  they  be,  madam :  will't  pleaso  you  taste  on 
them  ? 

Duke.  Believe  me.  Master  Doctor,  this  makes 
me  wonder  above  the  rest,  that  being  in  the  dead 
time  of  winter  and  in  the  month  of  January,  how 
you  should  come  by  these  grapes. 

Faust.  If  it  like  your  grace,  the  year  is  divided 
into  two  circles  over  the  whole  world,  that,  when 
it  is  here  winter  with  us,  in  the  contrary  circle 
it  is  summer  with  them,  as  in  India,  Saba,-  and 
farther  countries  in  the  east;  and  by  means  of  a 
swift  spirit  that  I  have,  I  had  them  brought 
hither,  as  you  see. — How  do  you  like  them, 
madam  ?  be  they  good  ? 

Duchess.  Believe  me.  Master  Doctor,  they  be 
the  best  grapes  that  e'er  I  tasted  in  my  Mfe 
before. 

Faust.  I  am  glad  they  content  you  so,  madam. 

Duke.  Come,  madam,  let  us  in,  where  you 
must  well  reward  this  learned  man  for  the  great 
kindness  he  hath  showed  to  you. 

Duchess.  And  so  I  wUl,  my  lord ;  and,  whilst 
I  live,  rest  beholding^  for  this  courtesy. 

Faust.  I  humbly  thank  your  grace. 

Duke,  Come,  Master  Doctor,  follow  us,  and 
receive  your  reward,  [_Exeunt. 

Enter  Wagner. 

Wag.  I  think  my  master  means  to  die  shortly, 
For  he  hath  given  to  me  all  his  goods: 
And  yet,  methinks,  if  that  death  were  near. 
He  would  not  banquet,  and  carouse,  and  swiU 
Amongst  the  students,  as  even  now  he  doth, 
Who  are  at  supper  with  such  belly-cheer 
As  Wagner  ne'er  beheld  in  all  his  hfe. 
See,  where  they  come !  belike  the  feast  is  ended. 

[Exit. 


*  cunning— %W]\. 

^  ie/ioWi/ijr— beholden. 


2  Saba — Sabaaa. 


Enter  Faustus  loith  ttoo  or  three  Scholars,  and 
Mephistophilis. 

First  Schol.  Master  Doctor  Faustus,  since  our 
coufei-ence  about  fair  ladies,  which  was  the  beau- 
tifulest  in  all  the  world,  we  have  determined 
with  ourselves  that  Helen  of  Greece  was  the 
admirablest  lady  that  ever  lived ;  therefore, 
Master  Doctor,  if  you  will  do  us  that  favour,  as 
to  let  us  see  that  peerless  dame  of  Greece,  whom 
all  the  world  admires  for  majesty,  we  should 
think  ourselves  much  beholden  unto  you. 

Faust.  Gentlemen, 
For  that  I  know  your  friendship  is  unfeign'd, 
And  Faustus'  custom  is  not  to  deny 
The  just  requests  of  those  that  wish  him  well, 
You  shall  behold  that  peerless  dame  of  Greece, 
No  otherways  for  pomp  and  majesty 
Than  when  Sir  Paris  cross'd  the  seas  with  her, 
And  brought  the  spoils  to  rich  Dardania, 
Be  silent,  then,  for  danger  is  in  words. 
\_Music  sounds,  and  ti.-EUE.^ passeth  oi-er  the  stage. 

Sec.  Schol.  Too  simple  is  my  wit  to  tell  her 
praise, 
Whom  all  the  world  admires  for  majesty. 

Third  Schol.  No    marvel  though   the  angry 
Greeks  pursu'd 
With  ten  years'  war  the  rape  of  such  a  queen. 
Whose  heavenly  beauty  passeth  all  compare. 

First  Schol.  Since  we  have  seen  the  pride  of 
Nature's  works, 
And  only  paragon  of  excellence. 
Let  us  depart;  and  for  this  glorious  deed 
Happy  and  blest  be  Faustus  evermore. 

Faust.  Gentlemen,  farewell :  the  same  I  wish 
to  you.  [Exeunt  Scholars. 

Enter  an  Old  Man. 

Old  Man.  Ah,  Doctor  Faustus,  that  I  might 

prevail 
To  guide  thy  steps  unto  the  way  of  life. 
By  which  sweet  path  thoumay'st  attain  the  goal 
That  shall  conduct  thee  to  celestial  rest ! 
Break  heart,    drop   blood,   and  mingle  it  with 

tears. 
Tears  falling  from  repentant  heaviness 
Of  thy  most  vile  and  loathsome  iilthiness. 
The  stench  whereof  corrupts  the  inward  soul 
With  such  flagitious  crimes  of  heinous  sin 
As  no  commiseration  may  expel, 
But  mercy,  Faustus,  of  thy  Saviour  sweet. 
Whose  blood  alone  must  wash  away  thy  guilt. 
Faust.  Where  art  thou,  Faustus?  wretch,  what 

hast  thou  done  ? 
Damu'd  art  thou,  Faustus,  damn'd;   despair  and 

die! 
Hell  calls  for  right,  and  with  a  roaring  voice 
Says,    'Faustus,    come;    thine    hour    is    almost 

come ; ' 
And  Faustus  now  will  come  to  do  thee  right. 

[Mephistophilis  gives  him  a  dagger. 
Old  Man.    Ah,  stay,  good  Faustus,  stay  thy 

desperate  steps ! 
I  see  an  angel  hovers  o'er  thy  head, 
And,  with  a  vial  full  of  precious  grace, 
Offers  to  pour  the  same  unto  thy  soul : 
Then  call  for  mercy,  and  avoid  despair. 

Faust.  Ah,  my  sweet  friend,  I  feel 
Thy  words  to  comfort  my  distressed  soul ! 
Leave  me  a  while  to  ponder  on  my  sins. 

Old  3Ian.  I  go,  sweet  Faustus ;  but  with  heavy 

cheer,! 
Fearing  the  ruin  of  thy  hopeless  soul.  [Exit. 

Faust.  Accui-sfed  Faustus,  where  is  mercy  now? 


•  cheer — look,  countenance ;  old  Fr.  chiere,  countenaac& 


138 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


I  do  repent ;  and  yet  I  do  despair : 

Hell  strives  with  grace  for    conquest   in    my 

breast : 
What  shall  I  do  to  shim  the  snares  of  death  ? 

Meph.  Thou  traitor,  Faustus,  I  arrest  thy  soul 
For  disobedience  to  my  sovereign  lord  : 
Eevolt,  or  I'll  in  piecemeal  tear  thy  flesh. 

Faust.  Sweet  Mephistophihs,  entreat  thy  lord 
To  pardon  my  unjust  presumption, 
And  with  my  blood  again  I  will  confirm 
My  former  vow  I  made  to  Lucifer. 
Ileph.    Do  it  then,   quickly,  with  unfeigned 
heart. 
Lest  greater  danger  do  attend  thy  drift. 
Faust.    Torment,  sweety  friend,  that  bas6  and 
crooked  age,* 
That  durst  dissuade  me  from  my  Lucifer, 
With  greatest  torments  that  our  hell  aifords. 
Meph.  His  faith  is  great;  I  cannot  touch  his 
soul; 
But  what  I  may  afflict  his  body  with 
I  will  attempt,  which  is  but  little  worth. 
Faust.  One  thing,  good  servant,  let  me  ci'ave 
of  thee, 
To  glut  the  longing  of  my  heart's  desire, — 
That  I  might  have  unto  my  paramour 
That  heavenly  Helen  which  I  saw  of  late, 
Whose  sweet  embracings  may  extinguish  clean 
Those  thoughts  that  do  dissuade  me  from  my 

vow, 
And  keep  mine  oath  I  made  to  Lucifer. 

Meph.   Faustus  this,  or  what  else  thou  shalt 
desire, 
Shall  be  perform'd  in  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Re-enter  Helen. 

Faust.  Was  this  the  face  that  launch'd  a  thou- 
sand ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless^  towers  of  Ilium  ? — 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  Idss. — 

[Kisses  her. 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul :  see,  where  it  flies! — 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips. 
And  all  is  di'oss  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee, 
Instead  of  Troy,  shall  Wertenberg  be  sack'd; 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 
And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest , 
Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 
And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
Oh,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars ; 
Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter 
When  he  appear'd  to  hapless  Semele ; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sky 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azur'd  arms ; 
And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour ! 

[Exeunt. 
Enter  the  Old  Man. 

Old  Man.  Accursed  Faustus,  miserable  man, 
That  from  thy  soul  exclud'st  the  grace  of  heaven. 
And  fly'st  the  throne  of  his  tribunal-seat ! 

Enter  Devils. 

Satan  begins  to  sift 3  me  with  his  pride: 
As  in  this  furnace  God  shall  try  my  faith, 
My  faith,  vile  hell,  shall  triumph  over  thee. 
Ambitious  fiends,  see  how  the  heavens  smile 
At  your  repulse,  and  laugh  your  state  to  scorn ! 
Hence,  hell !  for  hence  I  fly  unto  my  God. 

\_Exeunt.i — on  one  side  Devils,  on  the  other 
Old  Man. 


1  age — old  man. 

2  topless — superior  in  height  to  any. 
'  si/t — try  or  tempt. 


Enter  Faustus,  with  Scholars. 

Faust.  Ah,  gentlemen ! 

Fii-st  Schol.  What  ails  Faustus  ? 

Faust.  Ah,  my  sweet  chamber-fellow,  had  I 
lived  with  thee,  then  had  I  lived  still ;  but  now 
I  die  eternally !  Look,  comes  he  not .'  comes 
he  not  ? 

Sec.  Schol.  Whait  means  Faustus  ? 

Third  Schol.  Belike  he  is  grown  into  some 
sickness  by  being  over-solitary. 

First  Schol.  If  it  be  so,  we'll  have  physicians  to 
cure  him. — 'Tis  but  a  surfeit;  never  fear,  man. 

Faust.  A  surfeit  of  deadly  sin,  that  hath 
damned  both  body  and  soul. 

Sec.  Schol.  Yet,  Faustus,  look  up  to  heaven ; 
remember  God's  mercies  are  infinite. 

Faust.  But  Faustus'  offence  can  ne'er  be  par- 
doned: the  serpent  that  tempted  Evo  may  be 
saved,  but  not  Faustus.  Ah,  gentlemen,  hear  me 
with  patience,  and  tremble  not  at  my  speeches ! 
Though  my  heart  pants  and  quivers  to  remember 
that  I  have  been  a  student  here  these  thirty 
years,  oh,  would  I  had  never  seen  Wertenberg, 
never  read  book !  and  whait  wonders  I  have  done, 
all  Germany  can  witness,  yea,  all  the  world ;  for 
which  Faustus  hath  lost  both  Germany  and  the 
world,  yea,  heaven  itself, — heaven,  the  seat  of 
God,  the  throne  of  the  blessed,  the  kingdom  of 
joy, — and  must  remain  in  hell  for  ever,  hell,  ah, 
hell,  for  ever!  Sweet  friends,  what  shall  become 
of  Faustus,  being  in  hell  for  ever  ? 

Third  Schol.  Yet,  Faustus,  call  on  God. 

Faust.  On  God,  whom  Faustus  hath  abjured! 
On  God,  whom  Faustus  hath  blasphemed !  Ah, 
my  God,  I  would  weep !  but  the  devil  draws  in 
my  tears.  Gush  forth  blood,  instead  of  tears! 
yea,  life  and  soul !  Oh,  he  stays  my  tongue !  I 
would  lift  up  my  hands;  but  see,  they  hold 
them,  they  hold  them ! 

All.  Who,  Faustus? 

Faust.  Lucifer  and  Mephistophilis.  Ah, 
gentlemen,  I  gave  them  my  soul  for  my  cun- 
ning!' 

All.  God  forbid ! 

Faust.  God  forbade  it,  indeed;  but  Faustus 
hath  done  it:  for  vain  pleasure  of  twenty-four 
years  hath  Faustus  lost  eternal  joy  and  felicity. 
I  writ  them  a  bUl  with  mine  own  blood:  the 
date  is  expired ;  the  time  will  come,  and  he  will 
fetch  me. 

First  Schol.  Why  did  not  Faustus  teU  us  of 
this  before,  that  divines  might  have  prayed  for 
thee? 

Faust.  Oft  have  I  thought  to  have  done  so; 
but  the  devil  threatened  to  tear  me  in  pieces  if 
I  named  God,  to  fetch  both  body  and  soul  if  I 
once  gave  ear  to  divinity :  and  now  'tis  too  late. 
Gentlemen,  away,  lest  you  perish  with  me. 

Sec.  Schol.  Oh,  what  shall  we  do  to  save 
Faustus? 

Faust.  Talk  not  of  me,  but  save  yourselves, 
and  depart. 

Third  Schol.  God  will  strengthen  me ;  I  will 
stay  with  Faustus. 

First  Schol.  Tempt  not  God,  sweet  friend ; 
but  let  us  into  the  next  room,  and  there  pray 
for  him. 

Faust.  Ay,  pray  for  me,  pray  for  me  ;  and  what 
noise  soever  ye  hear,  come  not  unto  me,  for 
nothing  can  rescue  me. 

Sec.  Schol.  Pray  thou,  and  we  will  pray  that 
God  may  have  mercy  upon  thee. 

Faust.     Gentlemen,    farewell :    if    I  live    til] 


'  cunning — knowledge,  skill. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


^39 


morning,  111  visit  you ;  if  not,  Faustus  is  gone 
to  hell. 

All.  Faustus,  farewell. 

\Exe,unt  Scholars. — The  clock  strikes  eleven. 
Faust.  Ah,  Faustus, 
Kow  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live. 
And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually ! 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come ; 
Fair  Natm'e's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day ;  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul ! 
0  lente,  lente  currite,  noctis  equi!^ 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will 

strike, 
The    devil  will    come,  and   Faustus  must  be 

damn'd ! 
Oh,    ril   leap  up  to  my  God!— Who  pulls  me 

down  ? — 
See,   see,  where  Christ's  blood   streams   in  the 

firmament ! 
One  drop  would  save  my  soul,  half  a  drop :  ah, 

my  Christ! — 
Ah,  rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ ! 
Yet  will  I  call  on  Him :  Oh,  spare  me,  Lucifer ! — 
Where  is  it  now  ?  'tis  gone  :  and  see,  where  God 
S  tretcheth  out  his  arm,  and  bends  his  ireful  brows ! 
Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me, 
And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  God  ! 
No,  no! 

Then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth : 
Earth,  gape :     Oh,  no,  it  will  not  harbour  me ! 
You  stars  that  reign'd  at  my  nativity, 
Whose  influence  hath  allotted  death  and  hell, 
Now  draw  up  Faustus,  like  a  foggy  mist. 
Into  the  entraUs  of  yon  labouring  cloud. 
That,  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air. 
My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths, 
So  that  my  soul  may  but  ascend  to  heaven  ! 

The  clock  strikes  the  half-hour. 
Ah,  half  the  hour  is  past !  'twill  all  be  past  anon. 
O  God, 

If  Thou  wilt  not  have  mercy  on  my  soul, 
Yet  for  Christ's  sake,  whose  blood  hath  ransom'd 

me. 
Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain  ; 
Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 
A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  sav'd ! 
Oh,  no  end  is  limited  to  damnfed  souls ! 
Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul? 
Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast  ? 
Ah,  Pythagoras'  metempsychosis,  were  that  true. 
This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  chang'd  , 
Unto  some  brutish  beast !  all  beasts  are  happy. 
For,  when  they  die. 
Their  sovils  are  soon  dissolv'd  in  elements ; 

1 '  O  gently,  gently  run,  steeds  of  night  1 ' 


But  mine  must  live  still  to  bo  plagu'd  in  hell, 
(yurs'd  be  the  parents  that  engender'd  me ! 
No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer 
That  hath  depriv'd  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

[  The  clock  sij'ikes  twelve. 
Oh,  it  strikes,  it  strikes  !  Now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell ! 

[Thimder  and  lightning. 
Oh  soul,  be  chang'd  into  little  water-drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean,  ne'er  bo  found ! 

Enter  Devils. 

My  God,  my  God,  look  not  so  fierce  on  me ! 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  a  while ! 
Ugly  hell,  gape  not !  come  not,  Lucifer ! 
I'll  burn  my  books ! — Ah,  Mephistophilis ! 

[Exeunt  Devils  loith  Faustus. 

Enter  Scholai's.' 

Fii^st  Schol.  Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  go  visit 
Faustus, 
For  such  a  dreadful  night  was  never  seen ; 
Since  first  the  world's  creation  did  begin, 
Such  fearful  shrieks  and  cries  were  never  heard : 
Pray  heaven  the  doctor  have  escap'd  the  danger. 
Sec.  Schol.  Oh  help  us,  heaven !  see,  here  are 
Faustus'  limbs, 
All  torn  asunder  by  the  hand  of  death  ! 

Third  Schol.  The  devils  whom  Faustus  serv'd 
have  torn  him  thus; 
For,  'twixt  the   hours   of  twelve  and  one,  me- 

thought 
I  heard  him  shriek  and  call  aloud  for  help  ; 
At  which  self  time  the  house  seem'd  all  on  fire 
With  dreadful  horror  of  these  damnfed  fiends. 
Sec.  Schol.  Well,  gentlemen,  though  Faustus' 
end  be  such 
As  every  Christian  heart  laments  to  think  on. 
Yet,  for  he  was  a  scholar  once  admir'd 
For  wondrous  knowledge  in  our  German  schools. 
We'll  give  his  mangled  limbs  due  burial ; 
And  all  the  students  clothed  in  mourning  black. 
Shall  wait  upon  his  heavy  funeral. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Char.  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown 
full  straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel-bough. 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man. 
Faustus  is  gone  :  regard  his  hellish  fall. 
Whose  fiendful  fortune  may  exhort  the  wise. 
Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things, 
Whose  deepness  doth  entice  such  forward  wits 
To  practise  more  than  heavenly  power  permits. 

[Exit. 

TcTTninat  hora  diem ;  terminal  auctor  opus^'^ 


This  scene  is  not  in  the  early  edition. 

'  The  hour  ends  the  day ;  the  author  ends  his  work.' 


BEN    JONSON. 


[Benjamin,  or  as  lie  himself  and  his  friends  were  frequently  in  the  habit  of  abbreviating  his 
name,  Ben  Jonson,  was  born  in  Westminster  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1574.  His  grand- 
father belonged  to  Annandale  in  Scotland,  and  subsequently  settled  in  Carlisle.  His  father 
was  a  clergyman,  and  died  before  Ben  was  born  ;  his  mother,  shortly  after  her  son's  birth, 
marrying  a  bricklayer.  Ben  was  sent  by  his  stepfather  to  a  private  school  near  St.  Martin's- 
in-the-Fields,  and  subsequently  to  "Westminster  School,  where  he  had  the  celebrated  Camden 
for  his  teacher,  whom  he  ever  afterwards  revered,  and  whom  he  thus  addresses  in  one  of  his 
epigrams : — 

*  Camden,  most  reverend  head,  to  whom  I  owe 
All  that  I  am  in  arts,  and  all  I  know. ' 

Jlalone  says  that  Ben  went  straight  from  school  to  Cambridge  University  ;  but  this  state- 
ment appears  to  have  little  authority.  If  he  was  at  college  at  all,  it  was  only  for  a  few 
weeks.  He  was  forced,  probably  from  the  poverty  of  his  parents,  to  enter  upon  his  father's 
occupation,  to  which,  however,  he  had  such  an  antipathy  that  he  ran  off  and  enlisted  as  a 
soldier,  and  was  sent  to  serve  in  Flanders.  Here  he  behaved  himself  with  great  bravery  ; 
but  probably  did  not  stay  longer  than  one  campaign,  either  disliking  the  service  or  despair- 
ing of  promotion.  Shortly  after  his  return  home,  prompted  both  by  inclination  and 
necessity,  he  adopted  the  profession  of  an  actor,  making  his  debut  at  a  low  theatre  in 
Clerkenwell.  In  this  profession  he  appears  to  have  completely  failed.  A  quarrel  with 
another  actor  led  to  a  duel,  in  which  Ben  killed  his  antagonist,  he  himself  being  severely 
wounded  ;  he  was  committed  to  prison  on  a  charge  of  murder,  but  was  shortly  released  with- 
out trial.  AVhile  in  prison  he  was  visited  by  a  Koman  Catholic  priest,  who  induced  him  to 
renounce  the  Protestant  faith  and  become  a  Roman  Catholic.  He,  however,  returned  to  the 
bosom  of  the  English  Church  in  1606.  Shortly  after  his  release  from  prison,  probably  not 
later  than  1594,  he  married  a  woman  who  appears  to  have  made  Ben  a  good,  patient,  and 
faitliful  wife.  Having  renounced  the  stage  as  an  actor,  he  now  began  to  support  himself  as 
a  writer  of  l)lays,  his  earliest  known  piece,  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  appearing  in  1596. 
The  scene  was  laid  in  Italy,  but  in  1598  it  was  reproduced  at  the  Globe  Theatre  with  the 
scene  changed  to  England ;  Shakespeare,  whose  friendship  with  Jonson  commenced  about 
this  time,  is  said  to  have  supported  one  of  the  characters  in  this  play.  In  1599  appeared  his 
Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour,  the  representation  of  which  was  honoured  by  the  presence  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  who  patronized  the  new  poet,  and  ever  afterwards  he  was  '  a  man  of  mark 
and  likelihood.'  Afterwards  appeared  Cynthia^ s  Revels,  and,  in  1600,  The  Poetaster,  in  which 
he  satirized  two  of  his  brother  dramatists,  Marston  and  Dekker.  The  latter  replied  with 
some  spirit  in  his  Satiromastix.  '  Since  the  comic  muse  had  proved  so  ominous '  to  him,  he 
resolved  to  try  tragedy,  and  in  1603  appeared  his  Sejanus.  Shortly  after  the  accession  of 
King  James  to  the  English  throne  appeared  a  comedy.  Eastward  Hoe,  written  conjunctly  by 
Jonson,  Chapman,  and  Marston,  in  which  there  were  some  passages  reilecting  on  the  Scottish 
nation.  Chapman  and  Marston  were  sent  to  prison,  and  Jonson  voluntarily  accompanied 
them  ;  but  they  were  soon  released  without  being  tried,  although  there  had  been  some  talk  of 
their  getting  their  ears  and  noses  slit.  On  Jonson's  release,  his  mother,  it  is  said,  produced  a 
paper  of  poison,  which,  she  declared,  had  the  mutilation  and  disgrace  taken  place,  she  intended 
to  have  given  to  her  son  in  his  drink  ;  and,  *  to  show  that  she  was  no  churl, '  says  her  son,  '  she 

designed  to  have  drunk  first  herself. '    Jonson's  three  great,  undoubtedly  his  best  comedies, 

140 


BEN  JONS  ON.  141 


were  his  next  most  important  works :  Volpone,  or  the  Fox,  appearing  in  1605,  Epicene,  or 
the  Silent  Woman,  in  1609,  and  The  Alchemist  in  1610.  Between  1605  and  1609  Jonson 
produced,  sometimes  for  the  court,  sometimes  for  the  civic  bodies,  a  number  of  the  repre- 
sentations known  as  pageants  or  masques,  so  popular  in  his  time.  In  1611  appeared  his 
second  classical  tragedy  Catiline;  and  in  1612  he  went  abroad,  but  how  long  he  remained  is 
not  known.  He  was  in  London  again  in  1614,  in  which  year  appeared  his  Bartholomcio 
Fair,  and  in  1616  his  comedy  of  The  Devil  is  an  Ass.  Either  in  this  year  or  in  1619,  Jonson 
was  created  poet-laureate,  with  a  salary  of  100  merks.  In  161S  he  made  a  journey  to 
Scotland  on  foot,  and  appears  to  have  been  well  received  by  the  Scottish  gentry.  The  last 
visit  he  paid  was  to  the  poet  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  who  took  copious  notes  of  the 
conversations  he  had  with  Jonson,  which  were  afterwards  given  to  the  world.  How  far 
these  notes  C£.n  be  depended  on  for  faithfulness  it  is  difficult  to  say :  one  would  fain  hope 
that  Drummond  was  guilty  of  considerable  exaggeration,  as  he  presents  Jonson  in  no  very 
agreeable  light,  as  full  of  bitterness  and  spite  towards  his  brother  authors.  The  following 
is  Dmmmond's  character  of  Ben  : — 

'  Ben  Jonson  was  a  great  lover  and  praiser  of  himself,  a  contemner  and  scorner  of  others, 
given  rather  to  lose  a  friend  than  a  jest,  jealous  of  every  word  and  action  of  those  about  him, 
especially  after  drink,  which  is  one  of  the  elements  in  which  he  lived :  a  dissembler  of  the 
parts  which  reign  in  him  ;  a  bragger  of  some  good  that  he  wanted  ;  thinketh  nothing  well 
done  but  what  either  he  himself  or  some  of  his  friends  have  said  or  done.  He  is  passionately 
kind  and  angry,  careless  either  to  gain  or  keep  ;  vindictive,  but  if  he  be  Avell  answered  at 
himself ;  interprets  best  sayings  and  deeds  often  to  the  worst.  He  was  for  any  religion,  as 
being  versed  in  both  ;  oppressed  with  fancy  which  hath  overmastered  his  reason,  a  general 
disease  in  many  poets  :  his  inventions  are  smooth  and  easy,  but  above  all  he  escelleth  in  a 
translation. ' 

'This  character,'  says  one  of  Jonson's  biographers,  'it  must  be  confessed,  is  far  from 
being  a  flattering  one  ;  and  probably  it  was,  unconsciously,  overcharged,  owing  to  the  recluse 
habits  and  staid  demeanour  of  Drummond.  "We  believe  it,  however,  to  be  substantially 
correct.  Inured  to  hardships  and  to  a  free  boisterous  life  in  his  early  days,  Jonson  seems  to 
have  contracted  a  roughness  of  manner  and  habits  of  intemperance  which  never  wholly  left 
him.  Priding  himself  immoderately  on  his  classical  acquirements,  he  was  apt  to  slight 
and  condemn  his  less  learned  associates  ;  while  the  conflict  between  his  limited  means  and 
his  love  of  social  pleasures  rendered  him  too  often  severe  and  saturnine  in  his  temper. 
Whatever  he  did  was  done  with  labour,  and  hence  was  highly  prized.  His  contemporaries 
seemed  fond  of  mortifying  his  pride,  and  he  was  often  at  war  with  actors  and  authors. 
When  his  better  natui-e  prevailed,  and  exorcised  the  demon  of  envy  or  spleen,  Jonson  was 
capable  of  a  generous  warmth  of  friendship,  and  of  just  discrimination  of  genius  and  cha- 
racter. His  literary  reputation,  his  love  of  conviviality,  and  his  high  colloquial  powers, 
rendered  his  society  much  courted,  and  he  became  the  centre  of  a  band  of  wits  and  revellers. 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  founded  a  club,  known  to  all  posterity  as  the  Mermaid  Club,  at  which 
Jonson,  Shakespeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  and  other  poets  exercised  themselves  with  "wit 
combats,"  more  bright  and  genial  than  their  wine.  One  of  the  favourite  haunts  of  tliese 
bright-minded  men  was  the  Falcon  Tavern,  near  the  theatre  in  Bankside. '  After  his  return 
to  London  in  1619,  Jonson  continued  writing,  producing  a  few  inferior  dramas,  a  great  many 
masques,  and  one  or  two  prose  works,  including  an  English  Grammar  and  a  translation  of 
Aristotle's  Poetics.  His  best  days  were  however  past,  his  pen  had  lost  much  of  its  vigour 
and  cunning ;  but  as  his  extravagant  living  kept  him  very  poor,  he  was  compelled  to  write 
hurriedly  what  would  pay  best.  In  1625  he  was  attacked  by  palsy,  which  enfeebled  both 
his  body  and  mind.  In  1630,  nevertheless,  he  produced  the  comedy  of  The  New  Inn,  which 
shows  a  lamentable  falling  off  from  his  earlier  productions,  and  which  proved  unsuccessful 
on  the  stage.  King  Charles,  however,  sent  him  a  present  of  £100,  and  raised  his  salary  as 
laureate  to  the  same  sum,  adding  a  yearly  tierce  of  canary  wine.  Even  this,  however,  did 
not  suffice  to  supply  his  necessities,  as  we  find  him  shortly  after  begging  assistance  from  the 
Lord  Chancellor.  In  1632  he  produced  The  Magnetic  Lady,  and,  the  year  after.  The  Tale  of 
a  Tub.  His  last  work,  which  he  left  unfinished,  was  the  Sad  Shepherd,  which  is  much 
superior  to  anything  he  wrote  for  years  before.     He  died  in  1637,  and  was  buried  in  West- 


142 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS, 


minster  Abbey,  a  plain  stone  being  placed  over  bis  remains,  witb  tbe  sbort  inscription, 
*  0  Eare  Ben  Jonson. ' 

To  quote  again  the  biographer  above  referred  to  :  *  Jonson  founded  a  style  of  regular 
English  comedy,  massive,  well  compacted,  and  fitted  to  endure,  yet  not  very  atti-active  in 
its  materials.  His  Koman  tragedies  may  be  considered  literal  impersonations  of  classical 
antiquity,  "robust  and  richly  graced, "  yet  stiff  and  unnatural  in  style  and  construction. 
They  seem  to  bear  about  the  same  relation  to  Shakespeare's  classic  dramas  that  sculpture 
does  to  actual  life.  The  strong  delineation  of  character  is  the  most  striking  feature  in 
Jonson's  comedies.  Generally  his  portraits  of  eccentric  characters — men  in  whom  some 
peculiarity  has  grown  to  an  egregious  excess — are  ludicrous  and  impressive.  His  scenes  and 
character  show  the  labour  of  the  artist,  but  still  an  artist  possessing  rich  resources  ;  an 
acute  and  vigorous  intellect ;  great  knowledge  of  life,  down  to  its  lowest  descents  ;  wit,  lofty 
declamation,  and  a  power  of  dramatising  his  knowledge  and  observation  with  singular  skill 
and  effect.  His  pedantry  is  often  misplaced  and  ridiculous.  .  .  .  His  comic  theatre  is  a 
gallery  of  strange,  clever,  original  porti-aits,  powerfully,  drawn,  and  skilfully  disposed,  but 
many  of  them  repulsive  in  expression,  or  so  exaggerated  as  to  look  like  caricatures  or  libels 
on  hiunanity.  We  have  little  deep  passion,  or  winning  tenderness,  to  link  the  beings  of  his 
drama  with  those  we  love  or  admire,  or  to  make  us  sympathize  with  them  as  with  existing 
mortals.  The  charm  of  reality  is  generally  wanting,  or,  when  found,  it  is  not  a  pleasing 
reality.  When  the  great  artist  escapes  entirely  from  his  elaborate  wit  and  personified 
humours  into  the  region  of  fancy,  we  are  struck  with  the  contrast  it  exhibits  to  his  ordinary 
manner.  He  thus  presents  two  natm-es  —  one  hard,  rugged,  gross,  and  sarcastic,  "a 
mountain  belly  and  a  rocky  face, "  as  he  describes  his  own  person  ;  the  other  airy,  fanciful, 
and  graceful,  as  if  its  possessor  had  never  combated  with  the  world  and  its  bad  passions,  but 
nursed  his  understanding  and  his  fancy  to  poetical  seclusion  and  observation. ' 

The  selections  we  have  made  are  two  of  his  three  best  comedies,  TM  Alchemist,  and 
Epiccene,  or  The  Silent  Woman,  with  neither  of  which  have  we  deemed  it  necessary  to  take 
much  liberty  in  the  way  of  emasculation  ;  also  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  not  only  on 
account  of  its  intrinsic  excellence  as  a  comedy,  but  as  serving  to  illustrate  the  use  of  the 
word  humour  so  common  in  Jonson's  time,  and  as  containing  one  of  his  most  celebrated 
creations,  Captain  Bobadill.] 

THE     ALCHEMIST:' 

A   COMEDY. 
ACTED  m  THE  YEAR  1610  BY  THE  KING'S  MA.JESTY'S  SEEVANTS. 

THE  ATJTHOE,  B.    J. 

London:  Printed  by  William  Stansby,  1616. 


rO  THE  LADY  MOST  DESERVING  HER  NAME  AND   BLOOD, 

LADY    MARY   WROTH. 


Madam, — In  the  age  of  sacrifices,  the  truth  of 
religion  was  not  in  the  greatness  and  fat  of  the 
offerings,  but  in  the  devotion  and  zeal  of  the 
sacriflcers:  else  what  could  a  handful  of  gums 
have  done  in  the  sight  of  a  hecatomb  ?  or  how 
might  I  appear  at  this  altar,  except  with  those 
affections  that  no  less  love  the  light  and  witness, 
than  they  have  the  conscience  of  your  virtue  ? 
If  what  I  offer  bear  an  acceptable  odour,  and 
hold  the  first  strength,  it  is  your  value  of  it, 
which  remembers  where,  when,  and  to  whom  it 


1  By  this  expression,  says  Whalley,  is  meant  one  who 
pretends  to  the  knowledge  of  what  is  called  the  philo- 
sopher's stone,  which  was  supposed  to  have  the  faculty 
of  transmuting  baser  metals  into  gold.  Alchemy  bears  the 
same  relation  to  chemistry  that  astrology  does  to  astro- 
nomy.   Our  poet  in  the  choice  of  his  subj  ect  was  happy ; 


was  kindled.  Otherwise,  as  the  times  are,  there 
comes  rarely  forth  that  thing  so  full  of  authority 
or  example,  but  by  assiduity  and  custom  grows 
less,  and  loses.  This,  yet,  safe  in  your  judgment 
(which  is  a  Sidney's)  is  forbidden  to  speak  more, 
lest  it  talk  or  look  like  one  of  the  ambitious  faces 
of  the  time,  who,  the  more  they  paint,  are  the 
less  themselves. 

Your  ladyship's  true  honourer, 

Ben  Jonson. 


for  the  age  was  then  extremely  addicted  to  the  pursuit 
of  alchemy,  and  favourable  to  the  professors  of  it.  The 
following  comedy  was  therefore  no  unseasonable  satire 
upon  the  reigning  foible,  since,  among  the  few  real 
artists,  there  was  undoubtedly  a  far  greater  number  of 
impostors. 


BEN  yONSON. 


143 


TO   THE    READER. 


If  thou  beest  more,  thou  art  an  understander, 
and  then  I  trust  thee.  If  thou  art  one  that  takest 
up,  and  but  a  pretender,  beware  of  what  hands 
thou  receivest  thy  commodity;  for  thou  wert 
never  more  fair  in  the  way  to  be  cozened,  than 
in  this  age,  in  poetry,  especially  in  plays :  wherein, 
now  the  concupiscence  of  dances  and  of  antics 
so  reigneth,  as  to  run  away  from  nature,  and  be 
afraid  of  her,  is  the  only  point  of  art  that  tickles 
the  spectators.  But  how  out  of  purpose,  and 
place,  do  I  name  art  ?  When  the  professors  are 
^  grown  so  obstinate  contemners  of  it,  and  pre- 
sumers  on  their  own  naturals, '  as  they  are 
deriders  of,all  diligence  that  way,  and,  by  simple 
mocking  at  the  terms,  when  they  understand  not 
the  things,  think  to  get  off  wittily  with  their 
ignorance.  Nay,  they  are  esteemed  the  more 
learned  and  sufficient  for  this,  by  the  many, 
through  their  excellent  vice  of  judgment.  For 
they  commend  writers,  as  they  do  fencers  or 
wrestlers;  who,  if  they  come  in  robustuously, 
and  put  for  it  with  a  great  deal  of  violence,  are 
received  for  the  braver  fellows:   when  many 


times  their  own  rudeness  is  the  cause  of  their 
disgrace,  and  a  little  touch  of  their  adversary 
gives  all  that  boisterous  force  the  foil.  I  deny 
not,  but  that  these  men,  who  always  seek  to  do 
more  than  enough,  may  some  time  happen  on 
some  thing  that  is  good,  and  great;  but  very 
seldom ;  and  when  it  comes  it  doth  not  recom- 
pense the  rest  of  their  ill.  It  sticks  out,  perhaps, 
and  is  more  eminent,  because  all  is  sordid  and 
vile  about  it :  as  lights  are  more  discerned  in  a 
thick  darkness,  than  a  faint  shadow.  I  speak 
not  this,  out  of  a  hope  to  do  good  to  any  man 
against  his  will ;  for  I  know,  if  it  were  put  to 
the  question  of  theirs  and  mine,  the  worse  would 
find  more  suffrages:  because  the  most  favour 
common  errors.  But  I  give  thee  this  warning, 
that  there  is  a  great  difference  between  those 
that,  to  gain  the  opinion  of  copy,^  utter  all  they 
can,  however  unfitly;  and  those  that  use  elec- 
tion ^  and  a  mean.  For  it  is  only  the  disease  of 
the  unskilful,  to  think  rude  things  greater  than 
polished ;  or  scattered  more  numerous  than  com- 
posed. 


^ramatb  'Bn^au'Si, 


Subtle,  the  Alchemist. 
Face,  the  Housekeeper. 
DoL  Common,  their  Colleague. 
Dapper,  a  Lawyer's  Clerk. 
Drugger,  a  Tobacco  Man. 
LovEwrr,  Master  of  the  House. 
Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  a  Knight. 
PERxraAX  Surly,  a  Gamester. 


Tribulation  Wholesome,  a  Pastor  of  Am- 
Ananias,  a  Deacon  there  [sterdam. 

Kastrill,  the  Angry  Boy. 

Dame  Pliant,  his  Sister,  a  Widow. 
Neighbours. 

Officers,  Attendants,  &c. 


S  CENE — London. 


ARGUMENT. 

T  he  sickness  hot,<  a  master  quit,  for  fear, 

H  is  house  in  town,  and  left  one  servant  there ; 

E   ase  him  corrupted,  and  gave  means  to  know 


A  Cheater,  and  his  punk ;  who  now  brought  low, 
L  eaving  their  narrow  practice,  were  become 
C   ozeners  at  large ;  and  only  wanting  some 
H  ouse  to  set  up,  with  him  they  here  contract, 
E  ach  for  a  share,  and  all  begin  to  act. 
M  uch  company  they  draw,  and  much  abuse, 
I    n  casting  figures,  telling  fortunes,  news, 
S   elling  of  flies,*  flat  bawdry  with  the  stone, 
T  ill  it,  and  they,  and  all  in  fume  are  gone. 


*  naturals — native  dispositions,  natural  gifts. 

*  election — choice,  discrimination. 
'Jlies — famOiar  spirits. 


2  copj/— copiousness,  plenty. 
*  The  sickness  hot— the  plague. 


144 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


PROLOGUE, 


Fortune,  that  favours  fools,  these  two  stort  hours. 

We  wish  away  both  for  your  sakes  and  ours, 
Judging  spectators ;  and  desire,  in  place. 

To  the  author  justice,  to  ourselves  but  grace. 
Our   scene   is   London,  'cause   we  would  make 
known, 

No  country's  mirth  is  better  than  our  own : 
No  clime  breeds  better  matter  for  your  whore, 

Bawd,  squire,  impostor,  many  persons  more, 
Whose  manners,  now  call'd  humours,  feed  the 


And  which  have  still  been  subject  for  the  rage 
Or  spleen  of  comic  writers.     Though  this  pen 
Did  never  aim  to  grieve  but  better  men ; 


Howe'er  the  age  he  loves  in  doth  endure 

The  vices  that  she  breeds,  above  their  cure. 
But  when  the  wholesome  remedies  are  sweet, 

And  in  their  working  gain  and  profit  meet. 
He  hopes  to  find  no  spirit  so  much  diseased. 

But  will  with  such  fair  correctives  be  pleased : 
For  here  he  doth  not  fear  who  can  apply. 

If  there  be  any  that  will  sit  so  nigh 
Unto  the  stream,  to  look  what  it  doth  run. 

They  shall  find  things,  they'd  think  or  wish 
were  done ; 
They  are  so  natural  follies,  but  so  shown. 

As  even  the  doers  may  see,  and  yet  not  own. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  Lovewit's  House. 

Enter  Face,  in  a  captain^s  uniform,  with  his  sword 
drmvn,  and  Subtle  with  a  vied,  quarrelling,  and 
followed  by  DoL  Common. 

Face.  Believe't,  I  will. 

Siib.  Thy  worst.     I  fart  at  thee.  * 

Dol.  Have  you  your  wits  ?    Why,  gentlemen ! 
for  love — 

Face.  Sirrah,  I'll  strip  you — 

Sub.  What  to  do  ?     Lick  figs 
Out  at  my — 

Face.  Kogue,  rogue ! — out  of  all  your  sleights. 

Dol.  Nay,  look  ye,  sovereign,  general,  are  you 
madmen  ? 

Sub.  Oh,  let  the  wild  sheep  loose.     I'll  gum 
your  silks 
With  good  strong  water,  an  you  come. 

Dol.  Will  you  have 
The  neighbours  hear  you  ?   Will  you  betray  all  ? 
Hark!  I  hear  somebody. 

Face.  Sirrah — 

Sub.  I  shall  mar 
All  that  the  tailor  has  made,  if  you  approach. 

Face.  You  most  notorious  whelp,  you  insolent 
Dare  you  do  this  ?  [slave. 

Sub.  Yes,  faith ;  yes,  faith. 

Face.  Why,  who 
Am  I,  my  mongrel  ?     Who  am  I  ? 

Sub.  I'll  tell  you, 
Since  you  know  not  yourself. 

Face.  Speak  lower,  rogue. 

Sub.  Yes,  you  were  once  (time's  not  long  past) 
the  good. 
Honest,    plain,   livery-three-pound-thrum, »    that 

kept 
Your  master's  worship's  house  here  in  the  Friars, 
For  the  vacations — 

Face.  Will  you  be  so  loud  ? 

Sub.  Since,  by  my  means,  translated  suburb- 
captain. 

Face.  By  your  means,  doctor  dog ! 

Sub.  Within  man's  memory. 
All  this  I  speak  of. 


1  three-pound-thmm — one  whose  livery  was  made  of 
the  ends  of  a  weaver's  wai-p  (thrums)  or  course  yarn,  of 
which  three  pounds  were  sufficient  to  make  him  a  suit. 
— Whalley.  ,  Gifford  tiiinlcs  it  may  mean  that  his  livery 
cost  him  but  three  pounds. 


Face.  Why,  I  pray  you,  have  I 
Been  countenanced  by  you,  or  you  by  me  ? 
Do  but  collect,'  sir,/where  I  met  you  first. 

Sub.  I  do  not  hear  well. 

Face.  Not  of  this,  I  think  it. 
But  I  shall  put  you  in  mind,  sir; — at  Pie-comer, 
Taking  your  meal  of  steam  in,  from  cooks'  stalls, 
Where,  like  the  father  of  hunger,  you  did  walk 
Piteously  costive,^  with  your  pinch'd-horn-nose, 
And  your  complexion  of  the  Roman  wash. 
Stuck  full  of  black  and  melancholic  worms, 
Like  powder  corns  shot  at  the  artillery-j'ard. 

Sub.  I  wish  you  could  advance  your  voice  a 
httle.3 

Face.  When  you  went  pinn'd  up  in  the  several 
rags 
You  had  raked  and  pick'd  from  dunghills,  before 

day; 
Your  feet  in  mouldy  slippers,  for  your  kibes ;  * 
A  felt  of  rug,  and  a  thin  threaden  cloke. 
That  scarce  would  cover  your  no  buttocks — 

Sub.  So,  sir! 

Face.  When  all  your  alchemy,  and  your  algebra. 
Your  minerals,  vegetals,  and  animals. 
Your  conjuring,   cozening,   and  your  dozen   of 

trades. 
Could  not  relieve  your  corps  with  so  much  linen 
Would  make  you  tinder,  but  to  see  a  fire ; 
I  gave  you  countenance,  credit  for  your  coals, 
Your  stills,  your  glasses,  your  materials ; 
Built  you  a  furnace,  drew  you  customers, 
Advanced  all  your  black  arts ;  lent  you,  beside, 
A  house  to  practise  in — 

Sub.  Your  master's  house ! 

Face.  Where  you  have  studied  the  more  thriv- 
ing skill 
Of  bawdry  since. 

Sub.  Yes,  in  your  master's  house. 
You  and  the  rats  here  kept  possession. 
Make  it  not  strange.     I  know  you  were  one  could 

keep 
The  buttei-y-hatch  still  lock'd,  and  savo  the  chip- 

pings, 
Sell  the  dole  beer*  to  aqua- vitro  men ; « 


1  collect — recollect. 

2  costive — dried  up,  pinched. 

3  advance  your  voice — speak  louder. 

♦  kibes— cUapa  or  broken  chilblains,  especially  in  the 
heel. 

*  dole  beer—heev  to  be  doled,  or  dealt  out  to  the  poor, 
fi  aqua-vitx  jnere— sellers  of  aqua-vitiE,  or  spirits. 


BEN  JONSON. 


145 


The  which,  together  with  yoTir  Christmas  vails ' 
At  post-aud-paii-,  your  letting  out  of  counters, 
Made  you  a  pretty  stock,  some  twenty  marks, 
And  gave  you  credit  to  converse  with  cobwebs, 
Here,  since  your  mistress'  death  hath  broken  up 
house. 

Face.  Tou  might  talk  softlier,  rascal. 

Suh.  No,  you  scarab," 
I'll  thunder  you  in  pieces :  T  will  teach  you 
How  to  beware  to  tempt  a  Fury  again. 
That  carries  tempest  in  his  hand  and  voice. 

Face.  The  place  has  made  you  valiant. 

Sub.  No,  your  clothes. — 
Thou  vermin,  have  I  ta'en  thee  oiit  of  dung. 
So  poor,  so  wretched,  when  no  living  thing 
Would  keep  thee  company,  but  a  spider,  or  worse  ? 
Kais'd  thee  from  brooms,  and  dust,  and  watering- 
pots, 
Sublimed  thee,  and  exalted  thee,  and  fix'd  thee 
In  the  third  region,  call'd  our  state  of  grace  ? 
Wrought  thee  to  spirit,  to  quintessence,  with  pains 
Would  twice  have  won  me  the  philosopher's  work  "i 
Put  thee  in  words  and  fashion,  made  thee  fit 
For  nioi-e  than  ordinary  fellowships  1 
Giv'n  thee  thy  oaths,  thy  quarrelling  dimensions. 
Thy  rales  to  cheat  at  horse-race,  cock-pit,  cards, 
Dice,  or  whatever  gallant  tincture  else  .' 
Made  thee  a  second  in  mine  own  great  art .' 
And  have  I  this  for  thanks  !     Do  you  rebel  ? 
Do  you  fly  out  in  the  projection  ? 
Would  you  be  gone  now  ? 

Dol.  Gentlemen,  what  mean  you  ? 
Will  you  mar  all  ? 

Suh.  Slave,  thou  hadst  had  no  name — 

Dol.  Will  you  undo  yourselves  with  civil  war  ? 

Suh.  Never  been  known,  past  equi  clihunum,'^ 
The  heat  of  horse-dung,  under  ground,  in  cellars. 
Or  an  ale-house  darker  than  deaf  John's ;  been 

lost 
To  all  mankind,  but  laundresses  and  tapsters^ 
Had  not  I  been. 

Dol.  Do  you  know  who  hears  you,  sovereign? 

Face.  Sirrah — 

Dol.  Nay,  general,  I  thought  you  were  civil. 

Face.  I  shall  turn  desperate,  if  you  grow  thus 
loud. 

Suh.  And  hang  thyself,  I  care  not. 

Face.  Hang  thee,  collier. 
And  all  thy  pots,  and  pans,  in  picture,  I  will, 
Since  thou  hast  moved  me — 

Dol.  Oh,  this  will  o'erthrow  all. 

Face.  Write  thee  up  bawd  in  Paul's,  have  all 
thy  tricks 
Of  cozening  with  a  hollow  cole,  dixst,  scrapings,* 
Searching  for  things  lost,  with  a  sieve  and  sbeers. 
Erecting  figures  in  your  rows  of  houses,* 
And  taking  in  of  shadows  with  a  glass,6 


1  vails  at  post-and-pair,  &c. —  Vails  was  money  given 
to  servants.  Post-and-pair  was  a  card  game  played 
with  three  cards  each,  wherein  much  depended  on 
vyinr/  or  betting  on  the  goodness  of  your  own  hand ; 
somewliat  like  hrag.  The  servants  received  a  small 
giatuity  '  for  the  letting  out  of  counters '  to  count  with 
at  play. 

-  scarah—heetle ;  Lat.  scaraheus. 

3  equi  clibanum — '  horses  oven,'  whatever  that  may 
mean. 

*  cozening  with  a  hollow  cole,  &c. — cheating  the  simple 
by  pretending  to  conjure  with  a  hit  of  charcoal  having 
a  hole  in  it,  in  which  was  put  the  '  dust  and  scrapings' 
of  gold  and  silver.  Searching  for  things  lost,  &c. — tliis 
method  of  divination,  says  Gitford,  of  remote  antiquity, 
yet  retains  its  credit  among  the  vulgar. 

^  Erecting  figures,  &c. — delineating  schemes  of  the 
different  positions  of  the  planets,  with  respect  to  the 
several  constellations.  House,  in  astrology,  is  the  twelfth 
part  of  the  zodiac. — Gifford. 

<<  talcing  in,  &c. — this  was  a  common  mode  of  divina- 
tion.   The  glass  was  a  globular  crystal,  or  beryl,  into 


Told  in  red  letters ; '  and  a  face  cut  for  thee, 
Worse  than  Gamaliel  Eatsey's.- 

Dol.  Are  you  sound  .' 
Have  you  your  senses,  masters  ? 

Face.  I  will  have 
A  book,  but  barely  reckoning  thy  impostures, 
Shall  prove  a  true  philosopher's  stone  to  printers. 

Sub.  AM^ay,  you  trencher-rascal ! 

Face.  Out,  you  dog-leach ! 
The  vomit  of  all  prisons — 

Dol.  Will  you  be 
Your  own  destructions,  gentlemen  ? 

Face.  Still  spew'd  out 
For  lying  too  heavy  on  the  basket.^ 

Suh.  Cheater! 

Face.  Bawd ! 

Suh.  Cow-herd ! 

Face.  Conjurer ! 

Suh.  Cut-purse ! 

Face.  Witch  ! 

Dol.  Oh  me! 
We  are  ruin'd,  lost !  have  you  no  more  regard 
To  your  reputations.'     Where's  your  judgment  ? 

'slight. 
Have  yet  some  care  of  me,  of  your  republic — 

Face.  Away,  this  brach !  ■>  I'll  bring  thee,  rogue, 
within 
The  statute  of  sorcery,'  tricesimo  tertio 
Of  Hany  the  Eighth :  ay,  and  perhaps,  thy  neck 
Within  a  noose,  for  laundi-ing°  gold  and  barb- 
ing it. 

Dol.  [Snatches  Face's  sword.l  You'll  bring  your 
head  within  a  cockscomb,  will  you  ? 
And  you,  sir,  with  your  menstrue ' — 

[Dashes  Subtle's  vial  out  of  his  hand. 

Gather  it  up. — 
'Sdeath,  you  abominable  pair  of  stinkards. 
Leave  off  your  barking,  and  grow  one  again. 
Or,  by  the  light  that  shines,  I'll  cut  your  throats. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  prey  unto  the  marshal. 
For  ne'er  a  snarling  dog-bolt  *  of  you  both. 
Have  you  together  cozen'd  all  this  while. 
And  all  the  world,  and  shall  it  now  be  said. 
You've  made  most  courteous  shift  to  cozen  your- 
selves .' 
You  will  accuse  him !  you  will  bring  him  in 

[To  Face. 
Within  the  statute  !    Who  shall  take  your  word  ? 
A  whoreson,  upstart,  apocrj'phal  captain. 
Whom  not  a  Puritan  in  Blackfi-iars "  wiU  trust 
So  much  as  for  a  feather  :  and  you  too, 

[To  Subtle. 
Will  give  the  cause,  forsooth  !  you  will  insult. 


which  the  angels  Gabriel,  Uriel,  &c.,  entered  and  gave 
responses,  as  Lilly  says,  '  in  a  voice,  like  the  Irish, 
much  in  the  throat.'  This  was  one  of  the  most  artful 
and  impudent  modes  of  imposture,  and  was  usually 
conducted  by  confederacy. 

1  Told  in  red  letters— i.e.  all  these  tricks  were  to  be 
printed  in  red  letters,  and  hung  up  by  Face  in  St. 
Paul's. 

2  Gamaliel  Ratsey  was  a  notorious  highwayman,  who 
always  robbed  in  a  mask,  no  doubt,  as  hideous  as  pos- 
sible. 

3  For  lying,  &c. — i.e.  for  eating  more  than  his  share 
of  the  broken  provisions,  collected  and  sent  in  for  the 
prisoners. — Giffokd. 

*  brach— axij  fine-nnsed  hound  ;  here  used  as  '  a 
mannei'ly  name  for  a  bitch.' 

s  By  this  statute  all  witchcraft  and  sorcery  were  de- 
clared to  be  felony  without  benefit  of  clergy. 

"  Umndring — washing;  hence  totwid/'j/,  from  the  same 
root  as  lave;  harhing — clipping. 

'  menstrue,  or  menstruum — solvent. 

8  dog-holt — see  p.  45,  note  5,  col.  1. 

9  Blackfriars  was  the  fixvourite  residence  of  Puritans 
at  the  time  ;  tlie  principal  dealers  in  feathers  and  other 
vanities  of  the  age. 


146 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


And  claim  a  primacy  in  the  divisions ! 

Ton  must  be  chief  !  as  if  you  only  had 

The  powder  to  project  with,  and  the  work 

Were  not  begun  out  of  equality  ? 

The  venture  tripartite  ?  all  things  in  common  ? 

Without  priority  ?    'S death!  you  perpetual  curs, 

Fall  to  your  couples  again,  and  cozen  kindly, 

And  heartily,  and  lovingly,  as  you  should, 

And  lose  not  the  beginning  of  a  term, 

Or,  by  this  hand,  I  shall  grow  factious  too, 

And  take  my  part,  and  quit  you. 

Face.  'Tis  his  fault ; 
He  ever  murmurs,  and  objects '  his  pains. 
And  says,  the  weight  of  all  lies  upon  him. 

Suh.  Why,  so  it  does. 

Dol.  How  does  it  ?     Do  not  we 
Sustain  our  parts  1 

Sub.  Yes  ;  but  they  are  not  equal. 

Dol.  Whj',  if  your  part  exceed  to-day,  I  hope 
Ours  may,  to-morrow,  match  it. 

Sub.  Ay,  they  may. 

Dol.   May,   miirmuring  mastiff!  ay,    and   do. 
Death  on  me ! 
Help  me  to  throttle  him. 

[Seizes  Sub.  hy  the  throat. 

Sub.  Doi-othy !  Mistress  Dorothy  I 
Ods  precious,  I'll  do  anything.      What  do  you 
mean  ? 

Dol.  Because  o'  your  fermentation  and  cibation  2 

Sub.  Not  I,  by  heaven — 

Dol.  Your  Sol  and  Luna. — Help  me. 

[To  Pace. 

Sub.  Would  I  were  hang'd,  then !    I'll  conform 
myself. 

Dol.  Will  you,  sir  ?   Do  so  then,  and  quickly  : 
swear. 

Sub.  What  should  I  swear .' 

Dol.  To  leave  yoixr  faction,  sir, 
And  labour  kindly  in  the  common  work. 

Sub.  Let  me  not  breathe  if  I  meant  aught  beside. 
I  only  used  those  speeches  as  a  spur 
To  him. 

Dol.  I  hope  we  need  no  spurs,  sir.     Do  we  ? 

Face.  'Slid,  prove  to-day,  who  shall  shark  best. 

Sub.  Agreed. 

Dol.  Yes,  and  work  close  and  friendly. 

Sub.  'Slight,  the  knot 
Shall  grow  the  stronger  for  this  breach,  with  me. 
[They  shake  hands. 

Dol.  Why,  so,  my  good  baboons !    Shall  we  go 
make 
A  sort  of  sober,  scurvy,  precise  neighbours, 
That  scarce  have  smiled  twice  since  the  king 

came  in,^ 
A  feast  of  laughter  at  our  follies  ?     Eascals, 
Would  run  themselves  from  breath,  to  see  me  ride,< 
Or  you  t'  have  but  a  hole  to  thrust  your  heads  in, 
For  which  you  should  pay  eai'-rent  ?     No,  agree. 
And  may  Don  Provost  ride  a  feasting  long. 
In  his  old  velvet  jerkin  and  stain'd  scarfs. 
My  noble  sovereign,  and  worthy  general, 
Ere  we  contribute  a  ncAV  crewel  *  garter 
To  his  most  worsted  worship. 

1  objects — urges. 

2  fermentation  is  the  sixth  process  in  alchemy,  and 
means  the  mutation  of  any  substance  into  the  nature  of 
the  ferment ;  cibation,  the  seventh,  is  feeding  the  matter 
with  fresh  substances,  to  supply  the  waste.  Sol  and  Luna 
are  gold  and  silver,  each  of  the  planets  representing  a 
metal. — Gifford.  As  Gifford  remarks,  an  adept  him- 
self might  be  puzzled  by  some  of  these  terms,  and  there- 
fore the  reader  need  not  expect  an  explanation  of  all. 

^  King  James  succeeded  to  the  English  thi'one  in 
1603;  this  was  ^vritten  in  1610. 

*  to  see  me  ride,  <fcc. — 'To  see  me  carted,'  as  Upton 
says,  '  as  a  bawd,  and  you,  as  a  couple  of  rogues,  to 
lose  your  cars  in  the  pillory.' 

3  creviel—ix  kind  of  fine  worsted. 


Sub.  Eoyal  Dol ! 
Spoken  like  Claridiana,i  and  thyself. 
Face.  For  which  at  supper,  thou  shalt  sit  in 
triiunph, 
And  not  be  styled  Dol  Common,  but  Dol  Proper, 
Dol  Singular:  the  longest  cut  at  night. 
Shall  draw  thee  for  his  Doll  Particular. 

[Bell  rings  without. 
Sub.  Who's  that?  one  rings.     To  the  window, 
Dol.    [Exit  Dol.] — Pray  heaven 
The  master  do  not  trouble  ns  this  quarter. 
Face.  Oh,  fear  not  him.     While  there  dies  one 
a  week 
0'  the  plague,  he's  safe,  from  thinking  toward 

London : 
Beside,  he's  busy  at  his  hop-yards  now ; 
I  had  a  letter  from  him.     If  he  do. 
He'll  send  such  word,  for  airing  of  the  house. 
As  you  shall  have  sufficient  time  to  quit  it : 
Though  we  break  up  a  fortnight,  'tis  no  matter. 

Re-enter  Dol. 

Sub.  AVhoisit,  Dol? 

Dol.  A  fine  young  quodling.2 

Face.  Oh, 
My  lawyer's  clerk,  I  lighted  on  last  night 
In  Holborn,  at  the  Dagger.     He  would  have 
(I  told  j'ou  of  him)  a  familiar. 
To  rifle  with  at  horses,  and  win  cups. 

Dol.  Oh,  let  him  in. 

Sub.  Stay.     Who  shall  do't  ? 

Face.  Get  you 
Your  robes  on  :  I  will  meet  him  as  going  out. 

Dol.  And  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Face.  Not  to  be  seen  ;  away !  [Exit  Dol. 

Seem  you  very  reserv'd. 

Sub.  Enough.  [Exit. 

Face,  [aloud  and  retiring.']    God  be  wi'  you,  sir, 
I  pray  you  let  him  know  that  I  was  here ! 
His  name  is  Dapper.   I  would  gladly  have  stayed, 
but— 

Dap.  [iDithin.']  Captain,  I'm  here. 

Face.  Who's  that  ? — He's  come,  I  think,  doctor. 

Enter  Dapper. 

Good  faith,  sir,  I  was  going  away. 

Dap.  In  truth, 
I  am  very  sorry,  captain. 

Face.  But  I  thought 
Sure  I  should  meet  you. 

Dap.  Ay,  I  am  very  glad. 
I  had  a  scurvy  writ  or  two  to  make. 
And  I  had  lent  my  watch  last  night  to  one 
That  dines  to-day  at  the  Sheriff's,  and  so  was 

robb'd 
Of  my  pass-time. 

Re-enter  Subtle,  in  his  velvet  Cap  and  Gown. 

Is  this  the  cunning-man  ?  s 

Face.  This  is  his  worship. 

Dap.  Is  he  a  doctor? 

Face.  Yes. 

Dap.  And  you  have  broke  with  him,  captain  ? 

Face.  Ay. 

Dap.  And  how  ? 

Face.  Faith,  he  does  make  the  matter,  sir,  so 
dainty, 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 


1  Claridiana  is  the  hero  of  the  romance  called  Th» 
Mirror  of  Knighthood. 

.  •  quodling — Gifford,  with  some  countenance  from  the 
conte.xt,  thinks  this  a  sportive  appellation  for  a  young 
quill-driver,  derived  from  the  quods  and  quids  of  legal 
phraseology.  Nares  and  others  think  Dol  means  codling 
— a  young  raw  apple,  fit  for  nothing  without  dressing. 

s  cunning-man — man  of  skill. 


BEN  JONSON. 


147 


Dap.  Not  so,  good  captain. 
Face.  Would  I  were  f aii-ly  rid  of  it,  believe  me. 
Dap.  Nay,  now  you  grieve  me,  sir.  Wlty  should 
you  wish  so  ? 
I  dare  assure  you,  I'll  not  be  ungrateful. 

Face.  I  cannot  think  you  will,  sii\  But  the  law 
Is  such  a  thing — and  then  he  says,  Head's '  matter 
Falling  so  lately. 

Dap.  Eead !  he  was  an  ass, 
And  dealt,  sir,  with  a  fool. 
Face.  It  was  a  clerk,  sir. 
Dap.  A  clerk ! 

Face.  Nay,  hear  me,  sir,  you  know  the  law 
Better,  I  think — 

Dap.  I  should,  sir,  and  the  danger : 
Tou  know,  I  show'd  the  statute  to  you. 
Face.  You  did  so. 

Dap.  And  will  I  tell  then!  By  this  hand  of  flesh. 
Would  it  might  never  write  good  court-hand  more. 
If  I  discover.     What  do  you  think  of  me, 
That  I  am  a  chiaus  ?  2 
Face.  What's  that  "> 
Dap.  The  Turk  was  here. 
As  one  would  say,  do  you  think  I  am  a  Turk  ? 
Face.  I'll  tell  the  doctor  so. 
Dap.  Do,  good  sweet  captain. 
Face.  Come,  noble  doctor,  pray  thee  let's  prevail; 
This  is  the_  gentleman,  and  he  is  no  chiaus. 

Sub.  Captain,  I  have  return'd  you  all  my  answer. 
I  would  do  much,  su-,  for  your  love. — But  this 
I  neither  may,  nor  can. 

Face.  Tut,  do  not  say  so. 
Tou  deal  now  with  a  noble  fellow,  doctor. 
One  that  will  thank  you  richly ;  and  he  is  no 
Let  that,  su-,  move  you.  [chiaus  : , 

Sub.  Pray  you,  forbear — 
Face.  He  has 
Pour  angels  3  here. 

Sub.  You  do  me  wrong,  good  sir. 

Face.  Doctor,  wherein.''  to  tempt  you  with  these 

spirits  ? 
Sub.  To  tempt  my  art  and  love,  sir,  to  my  peril. 
'Pore  heaven,  I  scarce  can  think  you  are  my  friend, 
That  so  would  draw  me  to  apparent  danger. 
Face.  I  draw  you!  a  horse  draw  you,  and  a 
halter, 
Tou,  and  your  flies  together — 
Dap.  Nay,  good  captain. 
Face.  That  know  no  difference  of  men. 
Suh.  Good  words,  sir. 

Face.  Good    deeds,    sir,    Doctor   Dogs -meat. 
'Slight,  I  bring  you 
No  cheating  Clim  o'  the  Cloughs,  or  Claribels,* 
That  look  as  big  as  five-and-fifty,5  and  flush ; 
And  spit  out  secrets  like  hot  custard — 
Dap.  Captain! 

Face.  Nor  any  melancholic  under-scribe. 
Shall  tell  the  vicar ;  but  a  special  gentle, 
That  is  the  heir  to  forty  marks  a  year. 
Consorts  with  the  small  poets  of  the  time. 
Is  the  sole  hope  of  his  old  grandmother ; 
That  knows  the  law,  and  writes  you  six  fair 
hands, 


1  Read  was  a  conjurer  of  the  time,  convicted  of 
practising  the  black  ait. 

2  Chiaus  -was  a  special  envoy  sent  from  the  Porte.  In 
1609,  a  chiaus  was  sent  by  Sir  Robert  Shirley  from  Con- 
stantinople, who,  before  his  employer  arrived,  had 
chiaused  (choused  or  cheated)  the  Turkish  and  Persian 
merchants  out  of  £4000,  and  decamped. 

3  An  anc/el  was  worth  about  10  shUlings. 

*  Clim  of  the  Cloughs,  &c. — i.e.  no  ranting  heroes  of 
old  ballads  and  romances.  Clim  was  a  celebrated  archer 
often  mentioned  in  the  Robin  Hood  ballads. 

5  That  look  as  big,  &c. — five-and-fifty  was  the  highest 
number  to  stand  on  at  the  old  game  of  Primero.  If  a 
flush  (a  ron  of  cards  of  the  same  suit)  accompanied  this, 
the  hand  swept  the  table. — GirroED. 


Is  a  fine  clerk,  and  has  his  cyphering  perfect, 
Will  take  his  oath  o'  the  Greek  Testament, 
If  need  be,  in  his  pocket ;  and  can  court 
His  mistress,  out  of  Ovid. 
Dap.  Nay,  dear  captain — 
Face.  Did  you  not  tell  me  so  ? 
Dap).  Yes ;  but  I'd  have  you 
Use  master  doctor  with  some  more  respect. 
Face.  Hang  him,  proud  stag,  with  his  broad 
velvet  head ! — 
But  for  yotir  sake,  I'd  choak,  ere  I  would  change 
An  article  of  breath  with  such  a  puckflst :  '■ 
Come,  let's  be  gone.  [_Going. 

Sub.  Pray  you,  let  me  speak  with  you. 
Dap.  His  worship  calls  you,  captain. 
Face.  I  am  sorry 
I  e'er  embark'd  myself  in  such  a  business. 
Dap.  Nay,  good  sir ;  he  did  call  you. 
Face.  Will  he  take  then  ? 
Sub.  First,  hear  me — 
Face.  Not  a  syllable,  'less  you  take. 
Suh.  Pray  you,  sir — 
Face.  Upon  no  terms,  but  an  assumpsit. 
Sub.  Your  humour  must  be  law. 

[i/e  takes  the  four  angels. 
Face.  Why  now,  sir,  talk. 
Now  I  dare  hear  you  with  mine  honour.     Speak. 
So  may  this  gentleman  too. 
Sub.  Why,  sir —   [^Offering  to  whisper  Pace. 
Face.  No  whispering. 

Sub.  Fore  heaven,  you  do  not  apprehend  the 
loss 
You  do  yourself  in  this. 
Face.  Wherein  ?  for  what  ? 
Sub.  Marry,  to  be  so  importunate  for  one, 
That,  when  he  has  it,  will  undo  you  all : 
He'll  win  itp  all  the  money  in  the  town. 
Face.  How ! 

Sub.  Yes,  and  blow  up  gamester  after  gamester, 
As  they  do  crackers  in  a  puppet  play. 
If  I  do  give  him  a  familiar. 
Give  you  him  all  you  play  for ;  never  set  =  him  : 
For  he  will  have  it. 

Face.  You  are  mistaken,  doctor. 
Why,  he  does  ask  one  but  for  cups  and  horses, 
A  rifling  fly ;  ^  none  of  your  great  familiars. 
Dapi.  Yes,  captain,  I  would  have  it  for  aU  games. 
Sub.  I  told  you  so. 

Face.  [Taking  Dap.  aside.l    'Slight,  that  is  a 
new  business ! 
I  understood  you,  a  tame  bird,  to  fly 
Twice  in  a  term,  or  so,  on  Friday  nights, 
When  you  had  left  the  office,  for  a  nag 
Of  forty  or  fifty  shillings.  1 

Dap.  Ay,  'tis  true,  sir; 
But  I  do  think  now  I  shall  leave  the  law, 
And  therefore — 

Face.  Why,  this  changes  quite  the  case. 
Do  you  think  that  I  dare  move  him  ? 

Dap.  If  you  please,  sir ; 
All's  one  to  him,  I  see. 

Face.  What !  for  that  money  ? 
I  cannot  with  my  conscience ;  nor  should  you 
Make  the  request,  methinks. 

Dap.  No,  sir,  I  mean 
To  add  consideration. 

Face.  Why  then,  sir, 
I'll  try. — {Goes  to  Subtle.]  Say  that  it  were  for 
all  games,  doctor  ? 


1  pucTc-fist — perhaps  originally,  puff-fist ;  the  fungus 
called  puff-ball  or  j'uz-baU.  Metaphorically,  a  term  of 
reproach,  equal  to  'vile  fungus,'  'scum  of  the  earth.' — 
Nares. 

2  set — stake  a  wager  with. 

3  A  rifling  fly.  Rifling  was  a  game  at  dice ;  or  does  it 
here  mean  simply  '  robbing  ? '  fly — a  familiar  spirit. 


148 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


iduh.  I  say,  then,  not  a  mouth  shall  eat  for  him 
At  any  ordinary,  but  on  the  score, 
That  is  a  gaming  mouth,  conceive  me. 

Face.  Indeed! 

Suh-  He'll    draw  you  all  the  treasure  of   the 
realm, 
If  it  be  set '  him. 

Face,.  Speak  you  this  from  art  ? 

Suh.  Ay,  sir,  and  reason  too,  the  ground  of  art. 
He  is  of  the  only  best  complexion, 
The  queen  of  Fairy  loves. 

Face.  What !  is  he  ? 

Suh.  Peace ! 
He'll  overhear  you.  Sir,  should  she  but  see  him. — 

Face.  What.' 

Suh.  Do  not  you  tell  him. 

Face.  Will  he  win  at  cards  too  ? 

Suh.  The  spirits  of  dead  Holland,  living  Isaac," 
You'd  swear  were  in  him ;  such  a  vigorous  luck 
As  cannot  be  resisted.     'Slight,  he'll  put 
Six  of  your  gallants  to  a  cloke,^  indeed. 

Face.  A  strange  success,  that  some  man  shall 
be  born  to ! 

Suh.  He  hears  you,  man — 

Dap.  Sir,  I'll  not  be  ingrateful. 

Face.  Faith,  I   have  confidence  in   his  good 
nature : 
You  hear,  he  says  he  Tvill  not  bo  ingrateful. 

Suh.  Why,  as  you  please ;  my  venture  follows 
yours. 

Face.  Troth,  do  it,  doctor;  think  him  trusty, 
and  make  him. 
He  may  make  us  both  happy  in  an  hour ; 
Wiu  some  iive  thousand  pound,  and  send  us  two 
ou't. 

Dap.  Believe  it,  and  I  will,  sir. 

Face.  And  you  shall,  sir.         \Tuhes  htm  aside. 
You  have  heard  all .'' 

Dap.  No,  what  was't  ?    Nothing,  I,  sir. 

Face.  Nothing! 

Dap.  A  little,  sir. 

Fcwe.  Well,  a  rare  star 
Eeigu'd  at  your  birth. 

Dap.  At  mine,  sir !  No. 

Face.  The  doctor 
Sweai's  that  you  are — 

Suh.  Nay,  caj^tain,  you'll  tell  all  now. 

Face.  Allied  to  the  queen  of  Fairy. 

Dap.  AVho  .'  that  I  am  ? 
Believe  it.  no  sucli  matter — 

Face.  Yes,  .and  that 
You  were  born  with  a  cawl  on  your  head.* 

Dap.  Who  says  so.' 

Face.  Come, 
You  knowit  well  enough,  though  you  dissemble  it. 

Dap.  I'fac,5  I  do  not :  "you  are  mistaken. 

Face.  How! 
Swear  by  your  fac,  and  in  a  thing  so  known 
Unto  the  doctor?     How  shall  we,  sir,  trust  you 
In  the  other  matter.'  cau  wo  ever  think. 
When  you  have  won  five  or  six  thousand  pound, 
You'll  send  us  shares  in't,  by  this  rate  ? 

Dap.  By  Jove,  sir, 
I'll  wiu  ten  thousand  pound,  and  send  you  half. 
I'  fac's  no  oath. 

Sub.  No,  no,  he  did  but  jest. 


'  set — staked. 

2  The  poet  allucles  to  the  two  famous  cliemists,  Isaac 
and  John  Isaac  IIoUandus,v/ho  flourished  about  this  time, 
and  wrote  .several  treatises  on  alchemy. — Whallev. 

^  fie'll  put,  itc. — i.e.  strip  them  to  the  cloali,  the  last 
tiling  a  gallant  parted  with. — Gifford. 

■*  Tliis  was,  and  probably  by  some  is  still,  supersti- 
tiously  supposed  to  be  a  token  of  good  fortune  through 
life. 

*  //ac— also  i'/ac/,  iyaguis—Vi&ith. 


Face.  Go  to.     Go,  thank  the  doctor :  he's  your 
friend, 
To  take  it  so. 

Daj}.  I  thank  his  worship. 

Face.  So ! 
Another  angel. 

Dap.  Must  I  ? 

Face.  Must  yoii !  'slight, 
What  else  is  thanks.'  will  you  betrival? — Doctor, 

[Dapper  f/ives  him  the  money. 

When  mxtst  he  come  for  his  familiar  ? 

Dap.  Shall  I  not  have  it  with  me  ? 

Sub.  Oh,  good  sir! 
Tliere  must  a  world  of  ceremonies  pass ; 
You  must  be  bath'd  and  fumigated  iirst : 
Besides  the  queen  of  Fairy  does  not  rise 
Till  it  be  noon. 

Face.  Not,  if  she  danced,  to-night. 

Sub.  And  she  must  bless  it. 

Face.  Did  you  never  see 
Her  royal  grace  yet  ? 

Dap.  Whom .' 

Face.  Your  aunt  of  Fairy  ? 

Suh.  Not  since   she   kist   him  iu  the  cradle, 
captain : 
I  can  resolve  you  that. 

Face.  AVell,  see  her  grace, 
Whate'er  it  cost  you,  for  a  thing  that 'I  know. 
It  will  be  somewhat  hard  to  compass ;  but 
However,  see  her.     You  are  made  believe  it. 
If  you  can  see  her.     Her  grace  is  a  lone  woman. 
And  very  rich ;  and  if  she  take  a  fancy. 
She  will  do  strange  things.    See  her,  at  any  hand. 
'Slid,  she  may  hap  to  leave  you  all  she  has  : 
It  is  the  doctor's  fear. 

Dap.  How  will't  be  done,  then? 

Face.  Let  me  aloue,  take  you  no  thought.     Do 
you 
But  say  to  me.  Captain,  I'll  see  her  grace. 

Dap.  Captain,  Fll  see  her  grace. 

Face.  Enough.  \_KnocTcing  within. 

Sub.  Who's'there .' 
Anon. — Conduct  him  forth  by  the  back  way. — 

l^Aside  to  Face. 
Sir,  against  one  o'clock  prepare  yourself; 
Till  when  you  must  be  fasting ;  only  take 
Three  droj)s  of  vinegar  in  at  your  nose, 
Two  at  your  mouth,  and  one  at  either  ear; 
Thea  batho  your  fingers  ends  and  wash  your  eyes. 
To  sharpen  your  five  senses,  and  cry  hutn 
Thrice,  and  then  buz  as  often ;  and  then  come. 

\^Fxit. 

Face.  Can  you  remember  this? 

Daj).  I  warrant  you. 

Face.    Well  then,  away.     It  is  but  your  be- 
stowing 
Some  twenty  nobles  'mong  her  grace's  servants, 
And  put  on  a  clean  shirt:  you  do  not  know 
What  grace  her  grace  may  do  you  iu  clean  linen. 
^Exeunt  Face  and  Dapper. 

Sub.  [zoiihiii].  Come  iu !     Good  wives,  I  pray 
you  forbear  me  now ; 
Troth  I  cau  do  you  no  good  till  afternoon. — 

Re-enters,  folloiced  hy  Dp.ugger. 

What  is  your  name?  say  you,  Abel  Drugger  ? 

Druy.  Ye.s,  .sir. 

Sub.  A  seller  of  tobacco? 

Dnty.  Yes,  sir. 

Siih.  Umph! 
Free  of  the  gi-ocers? 

Drug.  Av,  an't  please  you. 

Sub.  Well— 
Your  business,  Abel  ? 

Drug.  This,  an't  please  your  worship : 
I  am  a  young  beginner,  and  am  building 


BEN  JONSON. 


149 


Of  a  new  shop,  an't  likei  your  worship,  just 

At  coruer  of  a  street: — Here  is  tlie  plot'-  on't — 

And  I  would  know  by  art,  sir,  of  your  worship, 

Which  way  I  should  make  my  door,  by  necro- 
mancy, 

And  where  my  shelves  ;   and  which  should  be 
for  boxes, 

And  which  for  pots.     I  woiild  be  glad  to  thrive, 
sir: 

And  I  was  wish'd^  to  your  worship  by  a  gentle- 
man, 

One  Captain  Face,  that  says  you  know  men's 
planets, 

And  their  good  angels,  and  their  bad. 
Sub.  I  do. 

If  I  do  see  them — * 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  What !  my  honest  Abel  ? 
Thou  art  well  met  here. 

Drug.  Troth,  sir,  I  was  speaking, 
Just  as  your  worship  came  here,  of  your  worship : 
I  pray  you  speak  for  me  to  master  doctor. 

Face.  He  shall  do  anything. — Doctor,  do  you 
hear! 
This  is  my  friend,  Abel,  an  honest  fellow ; 
He  lets  me  have  good  tobacco,  and  he  does  not 
Sophisticate 5  it  with  sack-lees  or  oil, 
Nor  washes  it  in  muscadel  and  grains," 
Nor  buries  it  in  gravel  under  ground, 
Wrapp'd  up  in  greasy  leather  or  ftiss'd  clouts ; 
But  keeps  it  in  fine  lily  pots,  that,  open'd. 
Smell  like  conserve  of  roses,  or  French  beans. 
He  has  his  maplo  block,  his  silver  tongs, 
Winchester  pipes,  and  tire  of  Juniper : ' 
A  neat,  spruce,  honest  fellow,  and  no  goldsmith.^ 

Sub.  He  is  a  fortunate  fellow,  that  I  am  sm-e  on. 

Face.  Alread}',   sir,   have  you  found  it?     Lo 
thee,  Abel ! 

Sub.  And  in  right  way  toward  riches — • 

Face.  Sir! 

Sub.  This  summer^ 
He  will  be  of  the  clothing  of  his  company, 
And  next   spring  call'd   to   the  scarlet;    spend 
what  he  can. 

Face.  What !  and  so  little  beard  ? 

Sub.  Sir,  you  must  think. 
He  may  have  a  receipt  to  make  hair  come: 
But  he'll  be  wise,  preserve  his  youth,  and  fine  for't; 
His  fortune  looks  for  him  another  way. 

Face.  'Slid,  doctor,  how  canst  thou  know  this 
so  soon  ? 
I  am  amused  at  that! 

Sub.  By  a  rule,  captain. 
In  metoposcopy,!"  which  I  do  work  by; 


*  ZiXe— please.  -  pJot—gi-ci\m<i.-y)\ot  or  plan. 
3  wisJCd — recommended. 

*  Subtle  is  facetious,  and  plays  on  the  word  angel, 
which  he  takes  for  a  coin,  and  poor  Abel  for  an  atten- 
dant spirit. — GiFFORD. 

^  Sophisticate — adulterate. 

"  grains — perhaps  the  grains  that  remain  after  brew- 
ing. 

'  It  should  be  observed  that  the  houses  of  druggists 
(tobacconists)  were  not  merely  furnished  witli  tobacco, 
but  with  conveniences  for  smoking  it.  Every  well- 
ficquented  shop  was  an  academy  of  this  'noble  art,' 
where  professors  regularly  attended  to  initiate  the 
country  aspirant.  The  maple  block  was  for  shredding 
the  tobacco  leaf,  the  silver  tongs  for  holding  the  coal, 
and  the  fire  of  Juniper  for  the  customers  to  light  their 

pipes. — GiFFORD. 

*  no  goldsmith — i.e.  no  usurer — goldsmiths  being  the 
bankers  and  money-lenders  of  these  days. 

3  This  summer,  &c. — i.e.  he  will,  this  j'oar,  be  brought 
upon  the  livery  of  the  grocers'  company,  and  the  uu.\t, 
be  drunk  to  as  sheriff. — Gifford. 

'"  metoposcopy — divination  by  the  lines  on  the  forehead 
— Gr.  melopon,  the  forehead,  skopeo,  to  examine. 


A  certain  star  in  the  forehead,  which  you  see  not. 
Your  chestnut  or  your  olive-colour'd  face 
Does  never  fail :  and  your  long  ear  doth  promise. 
I  knew't  by  certain  spots,  too,  in  his  teeth, 
And  on  the  nail  of  his  mercurial  finger. 

Face.  Which  finger's  that? 

Sub.  His  little  linger.     Look. 
You  were  born  upon  a  Wednesday  ? 

Drug.  Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

Sub.  The  thumb,  in  chiromancy,' we  give  Venus; 
The  fore-finger,  to  Jove  ;  the  midst,  to  Saturn  ; 
The  ring,  to  Sol ;  the  least,  to  Mercury, 
Who  was  the  lord,  sir,  of  his  horoscope ; 
His  house  of  life  being  Libra;  which  fore-show'd 
He  should  be  a  merchant,  and  should  trade  with 
balance. 

Face.  Why,  this  is  strange !     Is  it  not,  honest 
Nab? 

Sub.  There  is  a  ship  now,  coming  from  Ormus, 
That  shall  yield  him  such  a  commodity 
Of  drugs. — This  is  the  west,  and  this  the  south  ? 
[Pointinf/  to  tlie plan. 

Drug.  Yes,  sir. 

Sub.  And  those  are  your  two  sides  ? 

Drug.  Ay,  sir. 

Sub.  Make  mo  your  door,  then,  south ;    your 
broad  side,  west : 
And  on  the  east  side  of  your  shop,  aloft, 
Write  Mathlai,  Tarmiel,  and  Baraborat ; 
Upon  the  north  part,  Kael,  Velel,  Thiol. 
They  are  the  names  of  those  mercurial  spirits, 
That  do  fright  flies  from  boxes. 

Drug.  Yes,  sir. 

Sub.  And 
Beneath  your  threshold,  bury  me  a  load-stone 
To  draw  in  gallants  that  wear  spurs :  the  rest. 
They'll  seem  to  follow. 

Face.  That's  a  secret.  Nab ! 

Sub.  And,  on  your  stall,  a  puppet,  with  a  vice*' 
And  a  court-fucus^  to  call  city  dames: 
You  shall  deal  much  with  minerals. 

Drug.  Sir,  I  have 
At  home,  already — 

Sub.  Ay,  I  know  you  have  arsenic, 
Vitriol,  sal-tartar,  argaile,"*  alkali, 
(jiuoper:^  I  know  all. — This  fellow,  captain, 
Will  come,  in  time,  to  be  a  great  distiller. 
And  give  a  say" — I  will  not  say  direcilj', 
But  very  fair — at  the  philosopher's  stone. 

Face.  Why,  how  now,  Abel !  is  this  true  ? 

Drug.  Good  captain. 
What  must  I  give  ?  \_Aside  to  Face. 

Face.  Nay,  I'll  not  counsel  thee. 
Thou  hear'st  what  wealth  (he  says,  Spend  what 

thou  canst) 
Thou'rt  like  to  come  to. 

Drug.  I  would  gi'  him  a  crown. 

Face.  A  crown !  and  toward  such  a  fortune  ? 
heart. 
Thou  shalt  rather  gi'  him  thy  shop.     No  gold 
about  thee  ? 

Drug.    Yes,  I  have  a  portaguo,'  I  have  kept 
this  half  year. 


1  chiromancy — divination  by  e.xamining  the  hand — Gr. 
cheir,  hand,  manteia,  soothsaying. 

-  vice.  This  probably  is  an  allusion  to  the  '  droll 
antic  character  so  often  mentioned  in  "our  old  plays,"' 
thougli  Gifford  thinks  it  is  merely  some  kind  of  ma- 
chinery. 

^  Afucus  was  a  paint  or  wash  for  the  face. 

■1  aryaile—tXiQ  impure  salt  from  the  lees  of  wine ; 
crude  tartar,  or  tartar  of  wine. 

^  Cinoper — cinnabar. 

''  say — assay,  attempt. 

'  l)urtague—3.  Portuguese  gold  coin,  worth  from  £3, 
10s.  to  £4,  10s. 


ISO 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Face.   Out  on  tliee,  Nab!     'Slight,  there  was 
such"  an  offer — 
Shalt  keep't  no  longer,  I'll  give't  him  for  thee. 

Doctor, 
Nab  prays  your  worship  to  drink  this,  and  swears 
He  will  appear  more  grateful,  as  your  skill 
Does  raise  him  in  the  world. 

Drug.  I  would  entreat 
Another  favour  of  his  worship. 

Face.  What  is't.  Nab  ? 

Drug.  But  to  look  over,  sir,  my  almanack, 
And  cross  out  my  ill  days,  that  I  may  neither 
Bargain,  nor  trust  upon  them. 

Face.  That  he  shall.  Nab; 
Leave  it,  it  shall  be  done,  'gainst  afternoon. 
,,   Sub.  And  a  direction  for  his  shelves. 

Face.  Now,  Nab, 
Art  thou  well  pleased.  Nab  ? 

Drug.  'Thank,  sir,  both  your  worships. 

Face.  Away. —  \_Exit  Druggee. 

Why,  now,  you  smoky  persecutor  of  nature ! 
Now  do  you  see,  that  something's  to  be  done, 
Beside  your  beech-coal,  and  your  corsive'  waters, 
Tour  crosslets,2  crucibles,  and  cucurbites  ? 
Ton  must  have  stuff  brought  home  to  you,  to 

work  on : 
And  yet  you  think  I  am  at  no  expense 
In  searching  out  these  veins,  then  following  them, 
Then  trying  them  out.     'Fore  God,  my  intelh- 

gence 
Costs  me  more  money  than  my  share  oft  comes  to. 
In  these  rare  works. 

Sub.  You  are  pleasant,  sir. — 

Re-enter  DoL. 

How  now ! 

What  says  my  dainty  Dolkin  ? 

Dol.  Yonder  fish-wife 
Will  not  away.     And  there's  your  giantess, 
The  bawd  of  Lambeth. 

Sub.  Heart,  I  cannot  speak  with  them. 

Dol.  Not  afore  night,  I  have  told  them  in  a 
voice. 
Thorough  the  trunk,  like  one  of  your  familiars. 
But  I  have  spied  Sir  Epicure  Mammon — 

Sub.  Where? 

Dol.  Coming  along,  at  far  end  of  the  lane, 
Slow  of  his  feet,  but  earnest  of  his  tongue 
To  one  that's  with  him. 

Sub.  Face,  go  you  and  shift. —        [Exit  Face. 
Dol,  you  must  pi-esently  make  ready  too. 

Dol.  Why,  what's  the  matter .' 

iSub.  Oh,  I  did  look  for  him 
With  the  suu's  rising :  'marvel  he  could  sleep. 
This  is  the  day  I  am  to  perfect  for  him 
The  magisterium,^  our  great  work,  the  stone ; 
And  yield  it,  made,  into  his  hands :  of  which 
He  has,  this  month,  talk'd  as  he  were  possess'd. 
And  now  he's  dealing  pieces  on't  away. — 
Methinks  I  see  him  entering  ordinaries, 
Dispensing  for  the  pox,  and  plaguy  houses. 
Reaching  his  dose,  walking  Moorfields  for  lepers. 
And  offering  citizens'  wives  pomander-bracelets, ■« 
As  his  preservative,  made  of  the  elixir; 
Seaching  the  spittal,'  to  make  old  bawds  young; 
And  the  highways,  for  beggars,  to  make  rich : 
I  see  no  end  of  his  labours.     He  will  make 
Nature  asham'd  of  her  long  sleep :  when  art. 


•  corsu^e— corrosive. 

2  crosslet — a  sort  of  crucible. 

»  magisterium — a  fine  substance  deposited  by  precipi- 
totion. 

<  pomander-bracelets.  Pomander  was  a  perfumed  ball 
in  a  box  containing  perfumery,  formerly  carried  by 
ladies  at  the  end  of  a  cliain,  etc 

*  spiltal — hospital 


Who's  but  a  step-dame,  shall  do  more  than  she, 
In  her  best  love  to  mankind,  ever  could : 
If  his  dream  lasts,  he'll  turn  the  age  to  gold. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  L 

An  Outer  Room  in  Lovewit's  House. 

Enter  Sm  Epicure  Mamsion  and  Surly. 

Mam.  Come  on,  sir.    Now,  you  set  your  foot 
on  shore 
In  Novo  Orbe;'-  here's  the  rich  Peru: 
And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  mines. 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir !  he  was  sailing  to't 
Three  years,  but  we  have  reach'd  it  in  ten  months. 
This  is  the  day,  wherein,  to  all  my  friends, 
I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word.  Be  rich  ; 
This  day  you  shall  be  spectatissimi.2 
You  shall  no  more  deal  with  the  hollow  dye,' 
Or  the  frail  card.    No  more  be  at  charge  of  keeping 
The  livery-punk  for  the  young  heu-,  that  must 
Seal,  at  all  hours,  in  his  shht:  no  more. 
If  he  deny,  have  him  beaten  to't,  as  he  is 
That  brings  him  the  commodity.     No  more 
Shall  thirst  of  satin,  or  the  covetous  hunger 
Of  velvet  entrails  for  a  rude-spun  cloke. 
To  be  display'd  at  Madam  Augusta's,*  make 
The  sons  of  Sword  and  Hazard  fall  before  , 
The  golden  calf,  and  on  their  knees,  whole  nights 
Commit  idolatry  with  wine  and  trumpets  : 
Or  go  a  feasting  after  drum  and  ensign. 
No  more  of  this.      You  shall   start  up   young 

viceroys, 
And  have  your  punks,  and  punketees,  my  Surly. 
And  unto  thee  I  speak  it  first.  Be  rich. 
Where  is  my  Subtle,  there?     Within,  ho. 

Face.  [  Within.^  Sir,  he'll  come  to  you  by  and 
by. 

Mam.  That  is  his  fire-drake. 
His  Lungs,^  his  Zephyrus,  he  that  puffs  his  coals, 
Till  he  firks  nature  up,  in  her  o^vn  centre.      ^ ,  . 
You  are  not  faithful,'  sir.     This  night,  I'll  change 
All  that  is  metal  in  my  house  to  gold: 
And,  early  in  the  morning,  will  I  send 
To  all  the  plumbers  and  the  pewterers. 
And  buy  their  tin  and  lead  up ;  and  to  Lothbury  * 
For  all  the  copper* 

Sur.  What !  and  turn  that  too  ? 

Mam.  Yes,  and  I'll  purchase  Devonshire  and 
Cornwall, 
And  make  them  perfect  IndesP   you  admire'" 
now  ? 

Sur.  No,  faith. 

Mam.  But  when  you  see  th'  effects  of  the  Great 
Medicine, 
Of  which  one  part  projected  on  a  hundred 
Of  Mercui-y,ii  or  Venus,  or  the  moon, 


1  '  The  new  world.' 

2  '  Most  respected.' 

3  Alluding  to  loaded  dice. 

*  The  keeper  of  a  brothel  or  an  ordinary. 

5  Lungs  was  a  term  of  art  for  the  under-operators  in 
chemistry,  whose  business  principally  was  to  take  care 
of  the  fire. 

"/ri-— beat. 

'  /aiV/i/uZ— believing. 

s  Lothbury  was  at  that  time  famous  for  its  copper 
works. 

9  He  meant  to  turn  aU  the  tin  of  these  counties  into 
gold. 

1"  admire — in  old  writers  generally  means  wonder, 
here  it  seems  to  be  equal  to  believe. 

11  In  the  nomenclature  of  alchemy  the  Sun  represented 
gold,  the  Moon,  silver,  Mars,  iron,  Meraay,  quicksilver, 
Saturn,  lead,  Jupiter,  tin,  and  Venus,  copper. 


BEN  JONS  ON. 


151 


Shall  turn  it  to  as  many  of  tliesuu ; 
Nay,  to  a  thousand,  so  ad  injinitum: 
You  will  believe  me  ? 

Sur.  Yes,  when  I  see't,  I  will. 
But  if  my  eyes  do  cozen  me  so,  and  I 
Giving  them  no  occasion,  sm-e  I'll  have 
Them  out  next  day. 

Alam.  Ha  !  why  ? 
Do  you  think  I  fable  with  you  7  I  assure  you, 
He  that  has  once  the  flower  of  the  sun. 
The  perfect  ruby,  which  we  call  elixir, 
Not  only  can  do  that,  but,  by  its  virtue, 
Can  confer  honour,  love,  respect,  long  life  ; 
Give  safety,  valour,  yea,  and  victory. 
To  whom  he  will.     In  eight-and-twenty  days, 
I'll  make  an  old  man  of  fourscore  a  child. 

Sur.  No  doubt ;  he's  that  abeady. 

3Iam.  Nay,  I  mean. 
Restore  his  years,  renew  him,  like  an  eagle. 
To  theiifth  age ;  make  him  get  sons  and  daughters, 
Young  giants  ;  as  our  philosophers  have  done, 
The  ancient  patriarchs,  afore  the  flood. 
But  taking,  once  a  week,  on  a  knife's  point, 
The  quantity  of  a  grain  of  mustard  of  it, 
Become  stout  Marses,  and  beget  young  Cupids. 

Sur.  The  decay'd  vestals  of  Piot-hatch '  would 
thank  you. 
That  keep  the  fire  alive  there. 

Mam.  'Tis  the  secret 
Of  nature  naturiz'd^  'gainst  all  infections, 
Cures  all  diseases  coming  of  all  causes  ; 
A  month's  grief  in  a  day,  a  year's  in  twelve ; 
And,  of  what  age  soever,  in  a  month : 
Past  all  the  doses  of  your  drugging  doctors. 
I'll  undertake  withal,  to  fright  the  plague 
Out  of  the  kingdom  in  three  months. 

Sur.  And  I'U 
Be  bound,  the  players  shall  sing  you  praises,^ 

then, 
Without  their  poets. 

Mam.  Sir,  I'll  do't.    Meantime, 
I'll  give  away  so  much  unto  my  man, 
Shall  serve  the  whole  city,  with  preservative, 
Weekly ;  each  house  his  dose,  and  at  the  rate — 

Sur.  As  he   that  built  the  Waterwork,   does 
with  water  ? 

Mam.  You  are  incredulous. 

Sur.  Faith  I  have  a  humoui-,* 
I  would  not  willingly  be  gull'd.     Your  stone 
Cannot  transmute  ui"e. 

Mam.  Pertinax,  [my]  Surly, 
Will  you  believe  antiquity  ?  records  ? 
I'll  show  you  a  book  where  Moses  and  his  sister, 
And  Solomon,  have  written  of  the  art ; 
Ay,  and  a  ti-eatise  penn'd  by  Adam — 

Sur.  How! 

Mam.  Of  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  in  High 
Dutch. 

Sur.  Did  Adam  write,  sir,  in  High  Dutch  ? 

Mam.  He  did ; 
Which  proves  it  was  the  primitive  tongue. 

Sur.  What  paper  ? 


1  Pict-hatch—3,  noted  tavern  or  brothel  in  Turnmill  or 
Turnbull  Street,  Cow-Cross,  Clejiien-ivell ;  a  haunt  of 
the  worst  part  of  both  sexes.  A  hatch  with  pikes  upon 
it  was  a  common  mark  of  a  bad  house. — Nares. 

"  Our  poet  iseems  here  to  allude  to  the  theological  dis- 
tinction of  natura  naiurans  and  naim-a  nuturata.  The 
fonner  applied  to  the  Creator,  as  having  imparted  ex- 
istence and  nature  to  all  things ;  and  the  latter  to  the 
creatures,  as  having  received  their  nature  and  properties 
ii-om  the  power  of  another. — Gifford. 

3  The  theatres  were  shut  up  during  the  plague. 

*  humour — whim,  way.  This  was  a  favourite  and 
much-abused  word  in  Jonson's  days,  and  had  a  great 
variety  of  meanings.  It  is  ridiculed  both  by  him  and 
Shakespeare. 


Mam.  On  cedar  board. 

Sur.  Oh  that,  indeed,  they  say, 
Will  last  'gainst  worms. 

Mam.  'Tis  like  your  Irish  wood, 
'Gainst  cobwebs.    I  have  a  piece  of  Jason's  fleece, 

too. 
Which  was  no  other  than  a  book  of  alchemy. 
Writ  in  large  sheep-skin,  a  good  fat  ram  velltuiL 
Such  was  Pythagoras'  thigh,  Pandora's  tub. 
And,  all  that  fable  of  Medea's  charms. 
The  manner  of  our  work  ;  the  bulls,  our  furnace, 
Still  breathing  fire;  our  argent-vive,  the  dragon; 
The  dragon's  teeth,  mercury  subhmate. 
That  keeps   the  whiteness,   hardness,   and   the 

biting ; 
And  they  are  gather'd  into  Jason's  helm. 
The  alembic,  and  then  sow'd  in  Mars  his  field. 
And  thence  sublimed  so  often,  till  they're  fix'd. 
Both  this,  the  Hesperian  garden,  Cadmus'  story, 
Jove's  shower,  the  boon  of  Midas,  Argus'  eyes, 
Boccace  his  Demogorgon,  thousands  more, 
All  abstract  riddles  of  our  stone. — 

Enter  Pace,  as  a  Servant. 

How  now ! 
Do  we  succeed  ?    Is  our  day  come  ?  and  holds  it? 

Face.  The  evening  will  set  red  upon  you,  sir  ; 
You  have  colour  for  it,  crimson :  the  red  ferment 
Has  done  his  ofiSce ;  three  hours  hence  prepare 

you 
To  see  projection. * 

Mam.  Pertina'x,  my  Suriy, 
Again  I  say  to  thee,  aloud.  Be  rich. 
This  day  thou  shalt  have  ingots ;  and,  to-morrow, 
Give  lords  th'  affrout.2 — Is  it,  my  Zephyrus,  right? 
Blushes  the  bolt's-head  ?  ^ 

Face.  Like  a  wench  with  child,  sir', 
That  were  but  now  discover'd  to  her  master. 

Mam.  Excellent  witty  Lungs !  my  only  care 
Where  to  get  stuff  enough  now,  to  project  on; 
This  town  will  not  half  serve  me. 

Face.  No,  sir!  buy 
The  covering  off  o'  churches. 

Mam.  That's  true. 

Face.  Yes. 
Let  them  stand  bare,  as  do  their  auditory ; 
Or  cap  them,  new,  with  shingles. 

Mam.  No,  good  thatch  : 
Thatch  will  lie  light  upon  the  rafters.  Lungs. — 
Lungs,  I  will  manumit  thee  from  the  furnace ; 
I  will  restore  thee  thy  complexion,  Puffe, 
Lost  in  the  embers  ;  and  rei^air  this  brain, 
Hurt  with  the  fume  o'  the  metals. 

Face.  1  have  blown,  sir,; 
Hard  for  your  worship  ;  thrown  by  many  a  coal. 
When  'twas  not  beech ;  weigh'd  those  I  put  in, 

just, 
To  keep  your  heat  still  even ;  these  blear'd  eyes 
Have  wak'd  to  read  your  several  colours,  sir. 
Of  the  pale  citron,  the  green  lion,  the  crow. 
The  peacock's  tail,  the  plumed  swan.* 

Mam.  And,  lastly. 
Thou  hast  descry'd  the  flower,  the  sanguis  agni  ?  ' 

Face.  Yes,  sir. 

Mam.  Where's  master  ? 


1  projection — the  twelfth  and  last  process  in  alchemy; 
nothing  is  left  but  to  pour  tlie  medicine  on  the  baser 
metals,  and  make  gold  and  silver  amain. — Gifford. 

2  i.e.  look  them  in  t\\&  front  or  face. 

3  bolt's-head — a  long  straight-necked  glass  vessel,  gra- 
dually rising  to  a  conical  figure. — Whalley. 

■*  These  are  all  terms  used  bj'  alchemists  to  express 
the  several  effects  arising  from  the  different  de;4rees  of 
fermentation.  It  would  occupy  too  much  space  to  ex- 
plain them  intelligibly;  but  an  explanation  of  these  is 
not  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  drama. 

^  sanguis  agni — 'blood  of  the  Uimb.' 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Face.  At  his  prayers,  sir,  he  ; 
Good  man,  he's  doing  Lis  devotions 
For  the  success. 

Mam.  Lungs,  I  will  set  a  period 
To  all  thy  labours ;  thou  shalt  be  tlie  master 
Of  my  seraglio. 

Face.  Good,  sir. 

Mam.  But,  do  you  hear? 
I'll  geld  you,  Lungs. 

Face.  Yes,  sir. 

Main.  For  I  do  mean 
To  have  a  list  of  wives  and  concubines 
Equal  with  Solomon,  who  had  the  stone 
Alike  with  me  ;  and  I  will  make  me  a  back 
With  the  elixir,  that  shall  be  as  tough 
As  Hercules. — 
Thou  art  sure  thou  saw'st  it  blood  ? 

Face.  Both  blood  and  spirit,  sir. 

Mam.  I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up,  not 
stuf t : 
Down  is  too  hard :  and  then,  mine  oval  room 
Fill'd  with  such  pictures  as  Tiberius  took 
From  Elephantis,  and  dull  Aretine 
But  coldly  imitated.     Then,  my  glasses 
Cut  in  more  subtle  angles,  to  disperse 
And  multiply  the  figures,  as  I  walk 
Naked  between  my  succubee.     My  mists 
I'll  have  of  perfume,  vapour'd  'bout  the  room, 
To  lose  ourselves  in  ;  and  my  baths,  like  pits 
To  fall  into;  from  whence  we  will  coaio  fortli, 
And  roll  us  dry  in  gossamer  and  roses. — 
Is  it  arrived  at  ruby  'i — 
And  my  flatterers 

Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines. 
That  I  can  get  for  moneJ^     My  mei'e  foola, 
Eloquent  burgesses  ;  and  then  my  poets 
The  same  that  writ  so  subtly  of  the  fart, 
Whom  I  will  entertain  still  for  that  subject. 
The  few  that  wovild  give  out  themselves  to  be 
Court  and  town-stallions,  and  each-where,  bely 
Ladies  who  are  known  most  innocent  for  them  ; 
Those  will  I  beg,  to  make  me  euniichs  of  : 
And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  ostrich  tails 
Apiece,  made  in  a  plume  to  gather  wind. 
We   will   be   brave,    Puffe,    now   we   have  the 

med'cine. 
My  meat  shall  all  come  in,  in  Indian  shells, 
Dishes  of  agate  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  I'ubies. 
The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camels'  heels, 
Boiled  in  the  spirit  of  sol,  and  dissolv'd  pearl, 
Apicius'  diet,i  'gainst  the  epilepsy : 
And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber. 
Headed  with  diamond  and  carbuncle. 
My  foot-boy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd^  salmons, 
Knots,3  godwits,  lampreys  :  I  myself  will  have 
The  beards  of  barbels  served,  instead  of  sallads  : 
Oil'd  mushrooms ;  and  the  swelling  unctuous  paps 
Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 
Drest  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce  ; 
For  which,  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  There's  gold, 
Go  forth  and  he  a  knight. 

Face.  Sir,  I'll  go  look 
A  little,  how  it  heightens.  [Exit. 

Mam.  Do. — My  shirts 
I'll  have  of  taffeta-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 
As  cobwebs  ;.  and  for  all  my  other  raiment 


1  Apicius'  diet.  Apicius  was  the  name  of  three  noto- 
rious gluttons ;  the  one  alluded  to  above  lived  in  tlie  time 
of  Tiberius,  and  is  said  to  have  squandered  £SOU,000 
on  his  stomach,  and  then  hanged  himself  because  he 
had  only  a  pittance  of  £80,0U0  left. 

2  calver'd  salmun—i.e.  salmon  cut  in  slices,  scalded 
■with  wine,  water,  and  salt,  boiled  up  in  white  wine 
vinegar,  and  set  by  to  coBl. — Nares. 

3  Knots— a,  small  bird  of  the  t.nipc  kind,  as  was  also 
the  godwit. 


It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 
My  gloves  of  fishes  and  birds'  skins,  perfumed 
With  gums  of  pai'adise,  and  eastern  air — 

Sur.  And  do  you  think  to  have  the  stone  with 
this  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  do  think  t'  have  all  this  with  the 
stone. 

Sur.  Why,  I  have  heard,  he  must  be  homo 
frugi,^ 
A  pious,  holy,  and  religious  man, 
One  free  from  mortal  sin,  a  very  virgin. 

Mam.  That  makes  it,  sir ;  he  is  so  :  but  I  buy  it ; 
My  venture  brings  it  me.     He,  honest  wretch, 
A  notable,  superstitious,  good  soul. 
Has  worn  his  knees  bare,  and  his  slippers  bald, 
With  prayer  and  fasting  for  it:  and  sir,  let  him 
Do  it  alone,  for  me,  still.     Here  he  comes. 
Not  a  iDrofane  word  afore  him :  'tis  poison. — 

Filter  Subtle. 

Good  morrow,  father. 

Sub.  Gentle  son,  good  morrow. 
And  to  your  friend  there.     What  is  he,  is  with 
you"? 

Mam.  An  heretic,  that  I  did  bring  along, 
In  hope,  sir,  to  convert  him. 

Sub.  Son,  I  doubt 
You  are  covetous,  that  thus  you  meet  your  time 
In  the  just  point:  prevent  ^  your  day  at  morning. 
This  argues  something,  worthy  of  a  fear 
Of  importune  and  carnal  appetite. 
Take  heed  you  do  not  cause  the  blessing  leave 

you. 
With  your  ungovern'd  haste.     I  should  be  sorry 
To  see  my  labours,  now  even  at  perfection. 
Got  by  long  watching  and  large  patience. 
Not  prosper  where  my  love  and  zeal  hath  placed 

them. 
Which  (heaven  I  call  to  witness,  with  yourself. 
To  whom  I  have  pom-'d  my  thoughts)  in  all  my 

ends. 
Have  look'd  no  w^y,  but  unto  public  good, 
To  pious  uses,  and  dear  charity. 
Now  grown  a  prodigy  with  men.     Wherein, 
If  you,  my  sou,  should  now  prevaricate. 
And,  to  your  own  particular  lusts  employ 
So  great  and  catholic  a  bliss,  be  sure 
A  curse  will  follow,  yea,  and  overtake 
Your  subtle  aud  most  secret  ways. 

Mam.  I  know,  sir  ; 
You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me :  I  but  come, 
To  have  j'ou  confute  this  gentleman. 

Sur.  Who  is. 
Indeed,  sir,  somewhat  costive  *  of  belief. 
Toward  your  stone  ;  would  not  be  gull'd. 

Sub.  Well,  son. 
All  that  I  can  convince  him  in  is  this, 
The  WORK  IS  DONE,  bright  sol  is  in  his  robe. 
We  have  a  medicine  of  the  triple  soul. 
The  glorified  spirit.     Thanks  be  to  heaven. 
And  make  us  worthy  of  it !— Ulen  Spiegel!  * 

Face  {^within.]  Anon,  sir. 

Sub.  Look  well  to  the  register. 
And  let  your  heat  still  lessen  by  degrees, 
To  the  aludels.5 

Face.  Iwithin.']  Yes,  sir. 

Sub.  Did  you  look 
On  the  bolt's-head  yet  ? 


1  homo  frurji — explained  in  the  next  line. 

2  prevent — anticipate. 

3  costive — stitf. 

*  Ulen  Spic'id—i.e.  Owl  Glass,  the  hero  of  a  German 
jest-book,  which  seums  to  have  been  very  popular. 

a  a^Kc/cis— pear-shaped  earthen  vessels  open  at  both 
ends. 


BEN  JONSON. 


153 


Face.  \j,oUhin.\  Which  ?  on  D,  sh-  ? 

Suh.  Ay; 
What's  the  complexion  ? 

Face.  {loliMn^  Whitish. 

Sub.  Infuse  vinegar, 
To  draw  his  volatile  substance  and  his  tincture  : 
And  let  the  water  in  glass  E  be  Alter' d, 
And  put  into  the  gripe's  egg.i     Lute  '^  him  well ; 
And  leave  him  closed  in  balneo.3 

Face,  [ivithiii.']  I  will,  sir. 

Sw.  What  a  brave  language  here  is !  next  to 
canting. 

Sub.  I  have  another  work,  you  never  saw,  son, 
That  three  days  since  passed  the  philosopher's 

wheel  * 
In  the  lent  5  heat  of  Athanor,^  and's  become 
Sulphur  of  nature. 

Mam.  But  'tis  for  me  ? 

Sub.  What  need  j'ou .' 
You  have  enough  iu  that  is  perfect. 

3fam.  Oh,  but — 

Sub.  Why,  this  is  covetise ! ' 

Mam.  No,  I  assure  you, 
I  shall  employ  it  all  in  isious  iises. 
Founding  of  colleges  and  grammar  schools, 
Marrying  young  virgins,  building  hospitals, 
And  now  and  then  a  church. 

Re-enter  Face. 

S^ib.  How  now ! 

Face.  Sii',  please  you. 
Shall  I  not  change  the  filter? 

Sub.  Marry,  yes ; 
And  bring  me  the  complexion  of  glass  B. 

\_Exit  Face. 

Mam.  Have  you  another  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  sou ;  were  I  assured — 
Your  piety  were  firm,  we  would  not  want 
The  means  to  glorify  it :  but  I  hope  the  best. — 
I  mean  to  tinct  C  iu  sand-heat  to-morrow, 
And  give  him  imbibition.* 

Mam.  Of  white  oil .' 

Sub.  No,  sir,  of  red.  F  is  come  over  the  helm  too, 
I  thank  my  Maker,  in  S.  Mary's  bath,s 
And  shows  lac  virf/inis.^"    Blessed  be  heaven  ! 
I  sent  you  of  his  fseces  there  calcined  : 
Out  of  that  calx,  I  have  won  the  salt  of  mercury. 

Mam.  By  pouring  on  your  rectified  water  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  and  reverberating  in  Athanor. 

Re-enter  Face. 
How  now !  what  colour  says  it  ? 

Face.  The  ground  black,  sir. 

Mani.  That's  your  crow's  head? 

Sur.  Your  cock's-comb's,  is  it  not  ? 

Sub.  No,  'tis  not  perfect.     Would  it  were  the 
crow ! 
That  work  wants  something. 

Sur.  Oh,  I  look'd  for  this. 
The  hay's  ''  a  pitching.  l_Aside. 

Sub.  Are  you  sure  j'ou  loosed  them 
In  their  own  menstrue  ? 


1  gripe's  egg — i.e.  vulture's  egg;  the  name  of  a  vessel. 
Gripe  properly  means  griffin,  fi'om  G-r.  gryps. 

2  Lute — stop  up  witli  lute  or  clay.  Lute — clay  or  mud, 
from  Lat.  luo,  to  wash. 

3  in  balneo — Lat.  '  in  the  hath.' 

■*  philosopher's  wheel — some  important  process. 

^  lent — gentle;  Lat.  lentus. 

8  Athanor — a  digesting  furnace,  calculated  for  the  re- 
tention of  heat. 

'  covetise — covetousness. 

8  imbibition — some  kind  of  washing. 

3  St.  Mary's  lath — setting  a  vessel  in  a  larger  one 
filled  witli  water,  over  the  fire. 

10  '  virgin's  milk.' 

'1  hays  were  nets  for  catching  rahbits,  being  usually 
Btretclied  before  their  holes ;  probably  from  same  root 
as  haw,  hedge. 


Face.  Yes,  sir,  and  then  married  them, 
And  put  them  iu  a  bolt's-head  nij^p'd  to  digestion, 
According  as  you  bade  me,  when  I  set 
The  liquor  of  Mars  to  circulation 
In  the  same  heat. 

Sub.  The  process  then  was  right. 

Face.  Yes,  by  the  token,  sir,  the  retort  brake. 
And  what  was  saved  was  put  into  the  pelican,  1 
And  sign'd  with  Hermes'  seal." 

Sub.  I  think  'twas  so. 
We  should  have  a  new  amalgama. 

Sur.  Oh,  this  ferret 
Is  rank  as  any  pole-cat.  \_Aside. 

Sub.  But  I  care  not : 
Let  him  e'en  die ;  we  have  enough  beside, 
In  embrion.     H  has  his  white  shirt  on  ? 

Face.  Yes,  sir, 
He's  rijpe  for  inceration,'  he  stands  warm. 
In  his  ash-fire.     I  would  not  you  should  let 
Any  die  now,  if  I  might  counsel,  sir. 
For  luck's  sake  to  the  rest :  it  is  not  good. 

Mam.  He  says  right. 

Sur.  Ay,  are  you  bolted  ?  *  [^Aside. 

Face.  Nay,  I  know't,  sir, 
I  have  seen  the  ill  fortune.     What  is  some  three 

ounces 
Of  fresh  materials  ? 

Mam.  Is't  no  more  ? 

Face.  No  more,  sir, 
Of  gold,  t'  amalgame  ^  with  some  six  of  mercury. 

Mam.  Away,  here's  money.    What  will  serve  ? 

Face.  Ask  him,  sir. 

31am,.  How  much  ? 

Sub.  Give  him  nine  pound : — you  may  give  him 
ten. 

Sur.  Yes,  twenty,  and  be  cozen'd,  do. 

Mam.  There  'tis.  [_Gives  Face  the  money. 

Sub.  This  needs  not ;  but  that  you  will  have  it 
To  see  conclusions  of  all :  for  two  [so, 

Of  our  inferior  works  are  at  fixation, 
A  third  is  in  ascension.     Go  j'our  ways. 
Have  3'ou  set  the  oil  of  luna  in  kemia  ? 

Face.  Yes,  sir. 

Sub.  And  the  philosopher's  vinegar  ? 

Face.  Ay,  \Exlt. 

Sur.  We  shall  have  a  salad ! 

Mam.  When  do  you  make  projection  ? 

Sid).  Son,  be  not  hasty,  1  exalt  our  med'ciue, 
By  hanging  him  in  balneo  raporoso,^ 
And  giving  him  solution  ;  then  congeal  him ; 
And  then  dissolve  him  ;  then  again  congeal  him : 
For  look,  how  oft  I  iterate  the  work. 
So  many  times  I  add  unto  his  virtue. 
As,  if  at  first  one  ounce  convert  a  himdred. 
After  his  second  loose,  he'll  turn  a  thousand ; 
His  third  solution,  ten  ;  his  fourth,  a  hundred : 
After  his  fifth,  a  thousand  thousand  ounces 
Of  any  impei'fect  metal,  into  pure 
Silver  or  gold,  in  all  examinations. 
As  good  as  any  of  the  natural  mine. 
Get  you  your  stuff  here  against  aftei-noon, 
Your  brass,  your  pe^vter,  aud  your  andirons. 

Mam.  Not  those  of  iron  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  you  may  bring  them  too : 
"We'll  change  all  metals. 

Sur.  I  believe  you  in  that. 

Mam.  Then  I  may  send  my  spits  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  and  your  racks. 


1  pelican — a  kind  of  alembic. 

-  signed  with  Hermes'  seal — i.e.  hermetically  sealed. 

3  inceration — reducing  to  the  consistency  of,  or  cover- 
ing with  wax. 

4  bolted — started,  dislodged,  still  alluding  to  the  rabbit- 
net. — GlFFOKD. 

^  amalgame — amalgamate. 
8  '  a  vapour  bath.' 


154 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Bur.  And  dripping  pans,  and  pot-hangers,  and 
hooks, 
Shall  he  not? 

Suh.  If  he  please. 

Sur.  — To  be  an  ass. 

Siib.  How,  sir! 

Mam.  This  gentleman  yon  must  bear  withal : 
I  told  you  he  had  no  faith. 

8ur.  And  little  hope,  sir ; 
But  much  less  charity,  should  I  gull  myself. 

Suh.  Why,  what  have  you  observ'd,  sir,  in  our 
art, 
Seems  so  impossible  ? 

Sur.  But  your  whole  work,  no  more. 
That  you  should  hatch  gold  in  a  furnace,  sir, 
As  they  do  eggs  in  Egypt ! 

Suh.  Sir,  do  you 
Believe  that  eggs  are  hatch'd  so  ? 

Sur.  If  I  should? 

Suh.  Why,  I  think  that  the  greater  miracle. 
No  egg  but  differs  from  a  chicken  more 
Than  metals  in  themselves. 

Sur.  That  cannot  be. 
The  egg's  ordain'd  by  nature  to  that  end, 
And  is  a  chicken  in  potentia. 

Suh.  The  same  we  say  of  lead  and  other  metals, 
Which  would  be  gold,  if  they  had  time. 

Mam.  And  that 
Our  art  doth  further. 

Suh.  Ay,  for  'twere  absurd 
To  think  that  nature  in  the  earth  bred  gold 
Perfect  in  the  instant :  something  went  before. 
There  must  be  remote  matter. 

Sur.  Ay,  what  is  that  ? 

Suh.  Marry,  we  say — 

Mam.  Ay,  now  it  heats:  stand,  father, 
Pound  him  to  dust. 

Sub.  It  is,  of  the  one  part, 
A  humid  exhalation,  which  we  call 
Materia  liquida,  or  the  unctuous  water; 
On  the  other  part,  a  certain  crass  and  vicious 
Portion  of  earth ;  both  which,  concorporate. 
Do  make  the  elementary  matter  of  gold ; 
Which  is  not  jet  j^ropria  materia, 
But  common  to  all  metals  and  all  stones ; 
For,  where  it  is  forsaken  of  that  moisture. 
And  hath  more  dryness,  it  becomes  a  stone : 
Where  it  retains  more  of  the  humid  fatness, 
It  turns  to  sulphur,  or  to  quicksilver. 
Who  are  the  parents  of  all  other  metals. 
Nor  can  this  remote  matter  suddenly 
Progress  so  from  extreme  uuto  extreme, 
As  to  grow  gold,  and  leap  o'er  all  the  means. 
Nature  doth  first  beget  the  imperfect,  then 
Proceeds  she  to  the  perfect.     Of  that  airy 
And  oily  water,  mercury  is  engender'd; 
Sulphur  of  the  fat  and  earthy  .part;  the  one, 
Which  is  the  last,  supplying  the  place  of  male, 
The  other  of  the  female,  in  all  metals. 
Some  do  believe  hei-mapbrodeity. 
That  both  do  act  and  suffer.     But  these  two 
Make  the  rest  ductile,  malleable,  extensive. 
And  even  in  gold  they  are ;  for  we  do  find 
Seeds  of  them,  by  our  fire,  and  gold  in  them ; 
And  can  i^roduce  the  species  of  each  metal 
More  perfect  thence,  than  nature  doth  in  earth. 
Beside,  who  doth  not  see  in  daily  practice 
Art  can  beget  bees,  hornets,  beetles,  wasps, 
Out  of  the  carcases  and  dung  of  creatures ; 
Yea,  scorpions  of  an  herb,  being  rightly  placed  ? 
And  these  are  living  creatures,  far  more  perfect 
And  excellent  than  metals. 
Mum.  Well  said,  father ! 
Nay,  if  he  take  you  in  hand,  sir,  with  an  argument, 
He'll  bray  you  in  a  mortar. 
Sur.  Pray  you,  sii",  stay. 
Eather  than  I'll  be  bray'd,  sir,  I'll  believe 


That  alchemy  is  a  pretty  kind  of  game, 
Somewhat  like  tricks  o'  the  cards,  to  cheat  a  man 
With  charming. 

Suh.  Sir? 

Sur.  What  else  are  all  your  terms, 
Whereon  no  one  of  your  writers  'grees  with  other? 
Of  your  elixir,  your  lac  virginis, 
Your  stone,  your  med'cine,  and  your  chrysosperme, 
You  sal,  your  sulphur,  and  your  mercury. 
Your  oil  of  height,  your  tree  of  life,  your  blood, 
Your  marchesite,  your  tutie,  your  magnesia, 
Your  toad,  your  crow,  your  dragon,  and  your 

panther ; 
Your  sun,  your  moon,  yom-  firmament,  your  adrop. 
Your  lato,  azoch,  zemich,  chibrit,  heautarit. 
And  then  your  red  man,  and  your  white  woman. 
With  all  your  broths,  your  menstrues,  and  mate- 
rials, 
Of  piss  and  egg-shells,  women's  terms,   man's 

blood. 
Hair  o'  the  head,  burnt  clouts,  chalk,  merds,  and 

clay. 
Powder  of  bones,  scalings  of  iron,  glass. 
And  worlds  of  other  strange  ingredients. 
Would  burst  a  man  to  name  ? 

Suh.  And  all  these  named, 
Intending  but  one  thing :  which  art  our  writers    , 
Used  to  obscure  their  art. 

Mam.  Sir,  so  I  told  him — 
Because  the  simple  idiot  should  not  learn  it. 
And  make  it  vulgar. 

Sub.  Was  not  all  the  knowledge 
Of  the  .2i!gyptians  A\Tit  in  mystic  symbols; 
Speak  not  the  Scriptures  oft  in  parables? 
Are  not  the  choicest  fables  of  the  poets, 
That  were  the  fountains  and   first   springs  of 

wisdom, 
Wrapp'd  in  perplexed  allegories  ? 

Mam.  1  urg'd  that. 
And  clear'd  to  him,  that  Sysiphus  was  damn'd 
To  roll  the  ceaseless  stone,  only  because 
He  would  have  made  ours  •  common.  [Dol  appears 
at  the  door.'] — Who  is  this  ? 

Sub.  'Sprecious! — What  do  you  mean?  go  in, 
good  lady. 
Let  me  entreat  you.  [Dol  retires.'] — Where's  this 
varlet  ? 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  Sir. 

Suh.  You  very  knave !  do  you  use  me  thus  ? 

Face.  Wherein,  sir?  > 

Sub.  Go  in  and  see,  you  traitor.    Go ! 

lExit  Face. 

Mam.  Who  is  it,  su-  ? 

Suh.  Nothing,  sir;  nothing. 

Mam.  What's  the  matter,  good  sir? 
I  have  not  seen  y»u  thus  distemper'd:  who  is't? 

Suh.  All  arts  have  still  had,  sir,  their  adver- 
saries. 
But  ours  the  most  ignorant. — 

Re-enter  Face. 
What  now  ? 

Face.  'Twas  not  my  fault,  sir;  she  would  speak 
with  you. 

Suh.  Would  she,  sir !     Follow  me.  [^Exit, 

Mam.  [stopping  him.]  Stay,  Lungs. 

Face.  1  dare  not,  sir. 

Mam.  Stay,  man;  what  is  she? 

Face.  A  lord's  sister,  sir. 

Mam.  How !  pray  thee,  stay. 

Face.  She's  mad,  sir,  and  sent  hither — 
He'll  be  mad  too — 

Mam.  I  warrant  thee. — 
Why  sent  hither  ? 

1  ours~i.e.  the  philosopher's  stone. 


BEN  JONSON. 


155 


Face.  Sir,  to  be  cured. 

Suh.  \}oitlnn.'\  Why,  rascal ! 

Face.  Lo  you ! — Here,  sir !  \_Exlt. 

Mam.  'Fore  God,  a  Bradamante,i  a  brave  piece. 

Sur.  'Heart,  this  is  a  bawdy-house !  I  will  be 
burnt  else. 

Mam.  Oh,  by  this  light,  no :  do  not  wrong  Mm. 
He's 
Too  scrupulous  that  way :  it  is  his  vice. 
No,  he's  a  rare  physician,  do  him  right, 
An  excellent  Paracelsian,  and  has  dono 
Strange  cures  with  mineral  physic.    He  deals  all 
With  spirits,  he ;  he  will  not  hear  a  word 
Of  Galen,  or  his  tedious  recipes. — 

Ee-eniei'  Face. 
How  now,  Lungs ! 

Face.  Softly,  sir;  speak  softly.    I  meant 
To  have  told  your  worship  all.     This  must  not 
hear. 

Mam.  No,  he  will  not  be  '  guH'd : '  let  him  alone. 

Face.  You  are  very  right,  sir,  she  is  a  most 
rare  scholar, 
And  is  gone  mad  with  studying  Broughton's- 

works. 
If  you  but  name  a  word  touching  the  Hebrew, 
She  falls  into  her  fit,  and  will  discourse 
So  learnedly  of  genealogies. 
As  you  would  run  mad  too,  to  hear  her,  sir. 

Main.  How  might  one  do  t'  have  conference 
with  her,  Lungs  ? 

Face.  Oh  divers  have  run  mad  upon  the  con- 
ference : 
I  do  not  know,  sir.     I  am  sent  in  haste 
To  fetch  a  vial. 

Sur.  Be  not  guU'd,  Sir  JIammou. 

Mam.  Whei-ein .'  Pray  ye,  be  patient. 

Sur.  Yes,  as  j'ou  are, 
And  trust  confederate  knaves,  and  bawds,  and 
whores. 

Mam.  You  are  too  foul,  believe  it. — Come  here, 
Ulen, 
One  word. 

Face.  I  dare  not,  in  good  faith.  {Going. 

Mam.  Stay,  knave. 

Face.  He  is  extreme  angry  that  you  saw  her,  sir. 

Mam.  Drink  that.     [Gives  him  money.'}     What 
is  she  when  she's  out  of  her  fit  ? 

Face.  Oh,  the  most  affablest  creature,  sir!    so 
merry ! 
So  pleasant !  she'll  mount  you  up,  like  quicksilver, 
Over  the  helm ;  and  circulate  like  oil, 
A  very  vegetal :  discourse  of  state. 
Of  mathematics,  bawdry,  anything — 

Mam.  Is  she  no  way  accessible  ?  no  means. 
No  trick  to  give  a  man  a  taste  of  her — wit — 
Or  so  ? 

Suh.  [within.']  TJlen! 

Face.  I'll  come  to  you  again,  sir.  [Exit. 

Mam.  Surly,    I    did   not  think  one  of   your 
breeding 
Would  traduce  personages  of  worth. 

Sur.  Sir  Epicure, 
Your  friend  to  use;  yet  still  loth  to  be  guU'd: 
I  do  not  Uke  your  philosophical  bawds. 
Theii-  stone  is  lechery  enough  to  pay  for, 
Without  this  bait. 

Mam.  'Heart,  you  abuse  yourself. 
I  know  the  lady,  and  her  friends,  and  means. 
The  original  of  this  disaster.     Her  brother 
Has  told  me  all. 

Sur.  And  yet  you  never  saw  her 
TiU  now ! 


*  Tlie  name  of  a  heroine  In  Orlando  Furioso. 
-  Mr.  Hugh  Brougliton,  a  celebrated  rabbin  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  days,  and  a  great  publisher.— Whalley. 


Jfam.  Oh  yes,  but  I  forgot.  I  have,  believe  it, 
One  of  the  treacherousest  memories,  I  do  think, 
Of  all  mankind. 

Sur.  What  call  you  her  brother  ? 

Mam.  My  lord — 
He  will  not  have  his  name  known,  now  I  think 
on't. 

Sur.  A  very  treacherous  memory ! 

Mam.  On  my  faith — 

Sur.  Tut,  if  you  have  it  not  about  you,  pass  it, 
Till  we  meet  next. 

Mam.  Nay,  by  this  hand,  'tis  true. 
He's  one  I  honour,  and  my  noble  friend ; 
And  I  respect  his  house. 

Sur.  'Heart,  can  it  be. 
That  a  grave  sir,  a  rich,  that  has  no  need, 
A  wise  sir,  too,  at  other  times,  should  thus. 
With  his  own  oaths  and  arguments,  make  hard 

means 
To  gull  himself  ?     An  this  be- your  elixir. 
Your  lapis  viineralis,^  and  your  lunary, 
Give  me  your  honest  trick  yet  at  primero,^ 
Or  gleek ;  and  take  your  latum  sapientis.^ 
Your  menstruum  simj>lex!  I'll  have  gold  before  you, 
And  with  less  danger  of  the  quicksilver. 
Or  the  hot  sulphur.* 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  Here's  one  from  Captain  Face,  sir  [to 

Suely], 
Desires  you  meet  him  in  the  Temple  church. 
Some  half  hour  hence,  and  upon  earnest  business. — 
Sir  [whisjiers  Mabision],  if  you  please  to  quit  us 

now ;  and  come 
Again  within  two  hours,  you  shall  have 
Jly  master  busy  examining  o'  the  works ; 
And  I  will  steal  you  in,  unto  the  party, 
That  you  may  see  her  converse. — Sir,  shall  I  say, 
You'll  meet  the  captain's  worship  ? 

Sur.  Sir,  I  will. —  [Walks  aside. 

But,  bj'  attorney,'  and  to  a  second  purpose. 
Now,  I  am  sure  it  is  a  bawdy-house ; 
I'll  swear  it,  were  the  marshal  hereto  thank  me  : 
The  naming  this  commander  doth  confirm  it. 
Don  Face !  why  he's  the  most  authentic  dealer 
In  these  commodities,  the  superintendent 
To  all  the  quainter  traffickers  in  town ! 
He  is  the  visitor,  and  does  appoint. 
Who  lies  with  whom,  and  at  what  hour ;  what 

price ; 
Which  gown,  and  in  what  smock;  what  fall;* 

what  tu-e. 
Him  will  I  prove,  by  a  third  person,  to  find 
The  subtleties  of  this  dark  labyrinth  : 
Which,  if  I  do  discover,  dear  Sir  Mammon, 
You'll  give  your  poor  friend  leave,  though  no 

philosopher, 
To  laugh :  for  you  that  are,  'tis  thought,  shall 

weep. 


^  'Mineral  stone.' 

^  A  once  very  fashionable  game.  Each  player  got  four 
cards :  the  7  was  the  highest  in  point  of  number  he  could 
avail  himself  of,  which  counted  for  21 ;  the  6  counted  for 
IS  ;  the  5  and  ace  for  15  each ;  the  2,  4,  and  knave  for 
their  respective  points.  The  knave  of  diamonds  was 
commonly  fixed  on  for  chief  card.  If  the  cards  were  of 
different  suits,  the  highest  number  was  the  primero,  or 
prime  ;  but  if  all  of  one  colour,  he  that  held  them  won 
the  flush. — iMAUKs.  Gleek  was  played  by  three  persona 
Mith  forty-four  cards,  each  hand  having  twelve,  and 
eight  being  left  for  the  stock. 

3  'lute  of  the  wise.'  Lute  was  a  composition  for 
securing  the  joints  of  chemical  vessels. 

*  Meaning  with  less  danger  of  being  salivated  for  it. 
— Uptox. 

5  bt/  altorney — by  proxy. 

8  The  full  was  a  ruff  or  band  tmned  back  over  tie 
shoulders. 


156 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Face.  Sir,  lie  does  pray,  you'll  not  forget. 

Sur.  I  will  not,  sir. 
Sir  Epicvire,  I  shall  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Mam.  I  follow  you,  straight. 

Face.  But  do  so,  good  sir,  to  avoid  suspicion. 
This  gentleman  has  a  parlous^  head. 

Mam.  But  wilt  thou,  Ulen, 
Be  constant  to  thy  promise  ? 

Face.  As  my  life,  sir. 

Mam.  And  wilt  thou  insinuate  what  I  am,  and 
praise  me, 
And  say,  I  am  a  noble  fellow  ? 

Face.  Oh,  what  else,  sir  ? 
And  that  you'll  make  her  royal  with  the  stone, 
An  empress,  and  yourself  king  of  Bantam. 

Mam.  Wilt  thou  do  this  ? 

Face.  Will  I,  sir ! 

Mam.  Lungs,  my  Lungs  ! 
I  love  thee. 

Face.  Send  your  stuff,  sir,  that  my  master 
May  busy  himself  about  projection. 

Mam.  Thou  hast  witch'd  me,  rogue  :  take,  go. 
[Gives  him  money. 

Face.  Your  jack,  and  all,  sir. 

Mam.  Thou  art  a  villain— I  will  send  my  jack. 
And  the  weights  too.  S  lave,  I  could  bite  thine  ear. 
Away,  thou  dost  not  care  for  me. 

Face.  Not  I,  sir ! 

Mam.  Come,  I  was  born  to  make  thee,  my  good 
weasel, 
Set  thee  on  a  bench,  and  have  thee  twirl  a  chain 
With  the  best  lord's  vermin  of  'em  all. 

Face.  Away,  sir. 

Mam.  A  count,  nay,  a  count  palatine — 

Face.  Good,  sir,  go 

3Iam.  Shall  not  advance  thee  better:  no,  nor 
faster.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Subtle  and  Doi;,. 

Sub.  Has  he  bit  ?  has  he  bit  ? 

Face.  And  swallowed  too,  my  Subtle. 
I  have  given  him  line,  and  now  he  plays,  i'  faith. 

Sub.  And  shall  we  twitch  him? 

Face.  Thorough  both  the  gills. 
A  wench  is  a  rare  bait,  with  which  a  man 
No  sooner's  taken,  but  he  straight  firks-  mad. 

Sub.  Dol,  my  lord   What'ts'hums  sister,  you 
must  now 
Bear  yourself  statelich.^ 

Dol.  Oh,  let  me  alone. 
I'll  not  forget  my  race,  I  warrant  you. 
I'll  keep  my  distance,  laugh  and  talk  aloud  ; 
Have  all  the  tricks  of  a  proud  scurvy  lady, 
And  be  as  rude  as  her  woman. 

Face.  Well  said,  sanguine  ! 

Sub.  But  will  he  send  his  andirons  ? 

Face.  His  jack  too, 
And's  iron  shoeing  horn  ;  I  have  spoke  to  him. 

Well, 
I  must  not  lose  my  wary  gamester  yonder. 

Sub.  0  Monsieur  Caution,  that  will  not  beguWd. 

Face.  Ay, 
If  I  can  strike  a  fine  hook  into  him,  now ! 
The  Temple  church,  there  I  have  cast  mine  angle. 
Well,  pray  for  me.     I'll  about  it. 

[Knoching  without. 

Sub.  What !  more  gudgeons  ? 
Dol,  scout,  scout!  [Dol  joes  to  the  window.'] — Stay, 

Pace,  you  must  go  to  the  door, 
'Pray  God  it  be  my  Anabaptist. — Who  is't,  Dol  ? 


1  parlous — perilous. 

2  Jirks — drives;  expressive  of  any  sudden  motion. 

*  siaielkh—atntely.  Tliis  affectation  of  introducing 
Dutch  and  Hemisli  words  was  common  to  our  old 
writers. 


Dol.  I  know  him  not :  he  looks  like  a  gold-end- 
man,  i 
Sub.  Ods  so  !  'tis  he  ;  he  said  he  would  send, 
what  call  you  him  ? 
The  sanctified  elder,  that  should  deal 
For  Mammon's  jack  and  andirons.     Let  him  in. 
Stay,  help  me  off,  first,  with  my  gown.     [Exit 

Face  with  the  goivn.']     Away, 
Madam,  to  your  withdrawing  chamber.     [Exit 

Dol.] — Now, 
In  a  new  tune,  new  gesture,  but  old  langiiage. — 
This  fellow  is  sent  from  one  negociates  with  me 
About  the  stone  too ;  for  the  holy  brethren 
Of  Amsterdam,  the  exiled  saints,  that  hope 
To  raise  their  discipline  by  it.     I  must  use  him 
In  some  strange  fashion,  now  to  make  him  admire 
me. — 

Enter  Ananias. 

Where  is  my  drudge  ?  [Aloud. 

He-enter  Face. 

Face.  Sir! 

Sub.  Take  away  the  recipient. 
And  rectify  your  menstrue  from  the  phlegma. 
Then  pour  it  on  the  Sol,  in  the  cucurbite, 
And  let  them  macerate  together. 

Face.  Yes,  sir. 
And  save  the  ground  ? 

Sub.  No  :  teri-a  damnata^ 
Must  not  have  entrance  in  the  work. — Who  arc 
you? 

Ana.  A  faithful  brother,  if  it  please  you. 

Sub.  What's  that  ? 
A  Lullianist?  a  Ripley  ?^  Filius  artis  ?* 
Can  you  sublime  and  dulcify  ?  calcine  ? 
Know  you  the  sapor  pontic  ?  sapor  stiptic  ?* 
Or  what  is  homogene,  or  heterogcne  ? 

Ana.  I  understand  no  heathen  language,  truly. 

Sub.  Heathen!   you  Knipper-doling?"  is  Ars 
sacra. 
Or  chrysopceia,  or  spagyrica, 
Or  the  pamphysic,  or  pauarchic  knowledge, 
A  heathen  language  ? 

Ana.  Heathen  Greek,  I  take  it. 

Sub.  How  !  heathen  Greek  ? 

Ana.  AU's  heathen  but  the  Hebrew. 

Stib.  Sirrah,  my  varlet,'  stand  you  forth  and 
speak  to  him 
Like  a  philosopher :  answer  in  the  language. 
Name  the  vexations,  and  the  martyrizaticns 
Of  metals  in  the  work. 

Face.  Sir,  putrefaction, 
Solution,  ablution,  sublimation, 
Cohobation,  calcination,  ceration,  and 
Fixation. 

Sub.  This  is  heathen  Greek,  to  you,  now ! — ■ 
And  when  comes  vivification  ? 

Face.  After  mortification. 

Sub.  What's  cohobation  ? 

Face.  'Tis  the  pouring  on 
Your  aqua  regis,  and  then  drawing  him  off, 
To  the  trine  circle  of  the  seven  sj^heres. 


*  A  gold-end-man  was  one  who  touglit  broken  pieces 
of  gold  and  silver. — Giffokd. 

-  '  damned  earth.' 

3  A  Lullianist,  &c.,  i.e.  a  follower  of  Raymond  Lully, 
one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  the  13th  century.  George 
Ripley  was  Canon  of  Bridlington,  in  Yorkshire,  in  the 
15th  century,  and  wrote  a  poem  on  alchemy. 

*  'Son  of  the  art.' 

*  '  So  is  the  sowerish  taste  called  sapor  pontic. 

And  less  sower,  also  called  sapoi-  stiptic' 

— Quoted  by  Giffokd. 
«  Knipper-doling  was  a  fanatic  Anabaptist  of  Munster, 
in  Germany. 
'  varlet — servant. 


BEN  yONSON. 


157 


Sub.  What's  the  proper  passion  of  metals  ? 

Face.  Malleation. 

Suh.  What's  your  uUimum  supplicium  auri?^ 

Face.  Antimoniuni. 

iSuh.  This   is  heathen   Greek   to   you! — And 
what's  your  mercury  ? 

Face.  A  very  fugitive,  he  will  be  gone,  sir. 

Sub.  How  know  you  him  ? 

Face.  By  his  viscosity, 
His  oleositj^,  and  his  suscitability. 

Sub.  How  do  you  sublime  him  ? 

Face.  With  the  calce  of  egg-shells, 
White  marble,  talc. 

Sub.  Your  magisterium,  now, 
What's  that .' 

Face.  Shifting,  sir,  your  elements. 
Dry  into  cold,  cold  into  moist,  moist  into  hot. 
Hot  into  diy. 

Sub.  This  is  heathen  Greek  to  you  still ! 
Your  lapis  philosophicus  ?- 

Face.  'Tis  a  stone, 
And  not  a  stone  ;  a  spirit,  a  soul,  and  a  body  : 
Which  if  you  do  dissolve,  it  is  dissolved  ; 
If  you  coagulate,  it  is  coagulated  ; 
If  you  make  it  to  fly,  it  flieth. 

Suh.  Enough.  {^Exit  Face. 

This  is  heathen  Greek  to  you  !  What  are  you,  sir? 

Ana.  Please    you,    a   servant    of    the    exiled 
brethren, 
That  deal  with  widows  and  with  orphans'  goods ; 
And  make  a  just  account  unto  the  saints : 
A  deacon. 

Sub.  Oh,  you  are  sent  from  Master  Wholesome, 
Your  teacher  ? 

Ana.  Fi-om  Tribulation  Wholesome, 
Our  very  zealous  pastor. 

Sub.  Good !  I  have 
Some  orphans'  goods  to  come  here. 

Ana.  Of  what  kind,  sir? 

Sub.  Pewter  and  brass,  andirons  and  kitchen- 
ware, 
Metals,  that  we  must  use  our  medicine  on  : 
Wherein  the  brethren  may  have  a  pennyworth. 
For  i-eady  money. 

Ana.  "Were  the  orphans'  uarents 
Sincere  professors  ? 

Sub.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Ana.  Because 
We  then  are  to  deal  justly,  and  give,  in  trath, 
Their  utmost  value. 

Sub.  'Slid,  you'd  cozen  else, 
And  if  their  parents  were  not  of  the  faithful ! — 
I  will  not  trust  you,  now  I  think  on  it, 
'Till  I  have  talk'd  with  your  pastor.    Have  you 

brought  money 
To  buy  more  coals  ? 

Ana.  No,  surely. 

Sub.  No  !  how  so  ? 

Ana.  The  brethren  bid  me  say  unto  you,  sir, 
Sui-ely,  they  will  not  venture  any  more, 
Till  they  may  see  projection. 

Sub.  How ! 

Ana.  You  have  had 
For  the  instruments,  as  bricks,  and  lome,  and 

glasses, 
Already  thirty  pound ;  and  for  materials. 
They  say,    some  ninety  more:   and  they  have 

heard  since. 
That  one  at  Heidelberg  made  it  of  an  egg, 
And  a  small  paper  of  pin-dust. 

Sub.  What's  your  name  ? 

Ana.  My  name  is  Ananias. 

Sub.  Out,  the  varlet 
That  cozen'd  the  apostles!     Hence,  away! 


*  '  last  test  of  gold.' 


*  'philosopher's  stone.' 


Flee,  mischief  !  had  your  holy  consistory 

No  name  to  send  me,  of  another  sound. 

Than  wicked  Ananias?  send  your  elders 

Hither  to  make  atonement  for  you  quickly, 

And  give  me  satisfaction  ;  or  out  goes 

The  tire;  and  down  th'  alembics,  and  the  furnace, 

Piger  Henricus,  or  what  not.     Thou  wretch  ! 

Both  sericon  and  bufo '  shall  be  lost, 

Tell  them.     All  hope  of  rooting  out  the  bishops. 

Or  the  antichristian  hierarchj',  shall  perish 

If  they  stay  threescore  minutes:  the  aqueity, 

Terreity,  and  sulphureity 

Shall  i-un  together  again,  and  all  be  annull'd, 

Thou  wicked  Ananias !     [Exit  Ananias.] — This 

will  fetch  'em, 
And  make  them  haste  towards  their  gulling  more. 
A  man  must  deal  like  a  rough  nurse,  and  fright 
Those  that  are  fro  ward  to  an  appetite. 

Re-enter  Face  in  his  uniform,  follovied  by 
Drugger. 

Fctce.  He  is  busy  with  his   spirits,  but  we'll 

upon  him. 
Sub.  How  now!   what  mates,  what  Baiards^ 

have  we  here  ? 
Face.  I  told  you  he  would  be  furious. — Sir, 
here's  Nab, 
Has  brought  you  another  piece  of  gold  to  look 

on, — 
We  must  appease  him.    Give  it  me, — and  prays 

you. 

You  would  devise — what  is  it.  Nab  ? 

Drug.  A  sign,  sir. 

Face.  Ay,  a  good  lucky  one,  a  thriving  sign, 
doctor. 

Sub.  I  was  devising  now. 

Face.  'Slight,  do  not  say  so. 
He  will  repent  he  gave  you  any  more. — 
What  say  you  to  his  constellation,  doctor. 
The  Balance  ? 

Sub.  No,  that  way  is  stale,  and  common. 
A  townsman  born  in  Taurus,  gives  the  bull, 
Or  the  bull's  head :  in  Aries,  the  ram,^ 
A  poor  device !     No,  I  will  have  his  name 
Form'd  in  some  mystic  character,  whose  radii. 
Striking  the  senses  of  the  passers  by, 
Shall,  by  a  virtual  influence,  breed  affections, 
That  may  result  upon  the  party  owns  it : 
As  thus — 

Face.  Nab ! 

Sub.  He  shall  have  a  bel,  that's  Abel; 
And  by  it  standing  one  whose  name  is  Bee,* 
In  a  ruff  gown,  there's  D,  and  Ejiff,  that's  drur;: 
And  right  anenst*  him  a  dog  snarling  er; 
There's  Drugger,  Abel  Drugger.    That's  his  sign. 
And  here's  now  mystery  and  hieroglyphic ! 

Face.  Abel,  thou  art  made. 

Drug.  Sir,  I  do  thank  his  worship. 

Face.  Six  o'  thy  legs  more  will  not  do  it.  Nab. — 
He  has  brought  you  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  doctor. 

Drug.  Yes,  sir: 
I  have  another  thing  I  would  impart — 

Face.  Out  with  it.  Nab. 

Drug.  Sir,  there  is  lodged,  hard  by  me, 
A  rich  young  widow — 

Face.  Good !  a  bona  roba  ? 

Drug.  But  nineteen,  at  the  most. 


^  Both  sericon,  &c. — both  the  red  and  the  black  tinc- 
ture. These  terms  are  adopted  to  confound  and  terrify 
the  simple  deacon. 

2  Alluding  to  the  proverb,  'As  bold  as  blind  Baiard.' 
Baiardo  is  the  horse  of  Rinaldo  in  Ariosto Whalley. 

3  These  are  all  names  of  constellations. 

*  This  is  evidently  levelled  at  the  celebrated  Dr.  John 
Dee,  a  good  mathematician,  and  a  great  pretender  to 
astrology,  alchemy,  and  magic. 

^  anensi— against,  opposite. 


158 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Face.  Veiry  good,  Abel. 

Drug.  Marry,  she's  not  in  fashion  yet;   she 
wears 
A  hood,  but  it  stands  a  cop.* 
Face.  No  matter,  Abel. 
Drug.  And  I  do  now  and  then  give  her  a 

fucus — 2 
Face.  What,  dost  thou  deal.  Nab  ? 
Suh.  I  did  tell  you,  captain. 
Drug.   And    physic    too,   sometime,   sir ;    for 
which  she  trusts  me 
With  all  her  mind.    She's  come  up  here  of  pvir- 

pose 
To  learn  the  fashion. 
Face.  Good  (his  match  too !) — On,  Nab. 
Drug.  And  she  doth  strangely  long  to  know 

her  fortune. 
Face.  Ods  lid,  Nab,  send  her  to  the  doctor, 

hither. 
Drug.  Yes,  I  have  spoke  to  her  of  his  worship 
already ; 
But  she's  afraid  it  will  be  blown  abroad, 
And  hurt  her  marriage. 

Face.  Hurt  it !  'tis  the  way 
To  heal  it,  if  'twere  hurt ;  to  make  it  more 
Follow'd  and  sought:  Nab,  thou  shalt  tell  her 

this. 
She'll  be  more  known,  more  talk'd  of ;  and  your 

widows 
Are  ne'er  of  any  price  till  they  be  famous ; 
Their  honour  is  their  multitude  of  suitors : 
Send  her,  it  may  be  thy  good  fortune.    What! 
Thou  dost  not  know. 

Drug.  No,  sir,  she'll  never  marry 
Under  a  knight :  her  brother  has  made  a  vow. 
Face.  What !  and  dost  thou  despair,  my  little 
Nab, 
Knowing  what  the  doctor  has  set  down  for  thee. 
And  seeing  so  many  of  the  city  dubb'd  ? 
One  glass  o'  thy  water,  with  a  madam  I  know. 
Will  have  it  done,  Nab:   what's  her  brother,  a 
knight? 
Drug.  No,  sir,  a  gentleman  newly  warm  in  his 
land,  sir. 
Scarce  cold  in  his  one  and  twenty,  that  does 

govern 
His  sister  here ;  and  is  a  man  himself 
Of  some  three  thousand  a  year,  and  is  come  up 
To  learn  to  quarrel,  and  to  live  by  his  wits. 
And  will  go  down  again,  and  die  in  the  coimtry. 
Face.  How  !  to  quarrel  ? 
Drug.  Yes,  sir,  to  can-y  quarrels. 
As  gallants  do ;  to  manage  them  by  line. 

Face.  'Slid,  Nab,  the  doctor  is  the  only  man 
In  Christendom  for  him. .   He  has  made  a  table, 
With  mathematical  demonstrations, 
Touching  the  art  of  quarrels :  he  will  give  him 
An  instrument  to  quarrel  by.     Go,  bring  them 

both. 
Him  and  his  sister.     And,  for  thee,  with  her 
The  doctor  haply  may  persuade.     Go  to : 
'Shalt  give  his  worship  a  new  damask  suit 
Upon  the  premises. 

Suh.  Oh,  good  captain ! 
Face.  He  shall ; 
He  is  the  honestest  fellow,  doctor. — Stay  not. 
No  offers ;  bring  the  damask,  and  the  parties. 
Drug.  I'll  try  my  power;  sir. 
Face.  And  thy  will  too,  Nab. 
Suh.  'Tis  good  tobacco,  this !  what  is't    an 

ounce  ? 
Face.  He'll  send  you  a  pound,  doctor. 
Suh.  Oh  no. 


1  a  cop — conical,  terminating  in  a  point;  cop  or  coppe 
is  Anglo-Saxon  for  head. 
'^  fucus— a,  paint  for  the  face. 


Face.  He  will  do't. 
It  is  the  goodest  soul ! — Abel,  about  it. 
Thou  shalt  know  more  anon.     Away,  be  gone. — 

\_Exit  Abel. 
A  miserable  rogue,  and  lives  with  cheese. 
And  has  the  worms.    That  was  the  cause,  indeed, 
Why  he  came  now :  he  dealt  with  me  in  private, 
To  get  a  med'cine  for  them. 

Sub.  And  sliall,  sir.     This  works. 

Face.  A  wife,  a  yfile  for  one  of  us,  my  dear 
Subtle! 
We'll  e'en  draw  lots,  and  he  that  fails  shall  have 
The  more  in  goods,  the  other  has  in  tail. 

Sub.  Eather  the  less :  for  she  may  be  so  light 
She  may  want  grains. 

Face.  Ay,  or  be  such  a  burden, 
A  man  would  scarce  endure  her  for  the  whole. 

Sub.  Faith,  best  let's  see  her  first,  and  then 
determine. 

Face.  Content:  but  Dol  must  have  no  breath 
on't. 

Suh.  Mum. 
Away  you,  to  your  Surly  yonder,  catch  him. 

Face.  'Pray  God  I  have  not  stayed  too  long. 

Sub.  I  fear  it.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

The  Lane  before  Lovewit's  House. 

Enter  Tribulation  Wholesome  and  Ananias. 

Tri.  These  chastisements  are  common  to  the 

saints. 
And  such  rebukes,  we  of  the  separation 
Must  bear  with  willing  shoulders,  as  the  trials 
Sent  forth  to  tempt  our  frailties. 

Ana.  In  pure  zeal, 
I  do  not  like  the  man,  he  is  a  heathen. 
And  speaks  the  language  of  Canaan,  truly. 

Tri.  I  think  him  a  profane  person  indeed. 

Ana.  He  bears 
The  visible  mark  of  the  beast  in  Tiis  forehead. 
And  for  his  stone,  it  is  a  work  of  darkness, 
And  with  philosophy  blinds  the  eyes  of  man. 

Tri.   Good  brother,   we  must  bend  unto  all 
means 
That  may  give  furtherance  to  the  holy  cause. 

Ana.  Which  his  cannot :  the  sanctified  cause 
Should  have  a  sanctified  course. 

■  Tri.  Not  always  necessary : 
The  children  of  perdition  are  ofttimes 
Made  instruments  even  of  the  greatest  works: 
Beside,  we  should  give  somewhat  to  man's  nature. 
The  place  he  lives  in,  still  about  the  fire 
And  fume  of  metals,  that  intoxicate 
The  brain  of  man,  and  make  him  prone  to  passion. 
Where  have  you  greater  atheists  than  your  cooks  ? 
Or  more  profane,  or  choleric,  than  your  glass- 
men.' 
More  antichristian  than  your  bell-founders  ? 
What  makes  the  devil  so  devilish,  I  would  ask 

you, 
Sathan,  our  common  enemy,  but  his  being 
Perpetually  about  the  fu-e,  and  boiling     , 
Brimstone  and  arsenic  ?     We  must  give,  I  say. 
Unto  the  motives,  and  the  stirrers  up 
Of  humours  in  the  blood.     It  may  be  so. 
When  as  the  work  is  done,  the  stone  is  made, 
This  heat  of  his  may  turn  iuto  a  zeal. 
And  stand  up  for  the  beattteous  discipline, 
Against  the  menstruous  cloth  and  rag  of  Eome. 
We  must  await  his  calling,  and  the  coming 
Of  the  good  spirit.     You  did  fault,  t'  upbraid  him 
With    the    brethren's    blessing    of    Heidelberg, 

weighing 


BEN  JONSON. 


159 


What  need  we  have  to  hasten  on  the  work, 

For  the  restoring  of  the  silenced  saints, 

Which  ne'er  will  be,  but  by  the  philosopher's 

stone. 
And  so  a  learned  elder,  one  of  Scotland, 
Assiired  me  ;  auruni potabile  being 
The  only  med'cine,  for  the  civil  magistrate, 
T'  incline  him  to  a  feeling  of  the  cause ; 
And  must  be  daily  used  in  the  disease. 

Ana.  I  have  not  edified  more,  truly,  by  man ; 
Not  since  the  beautiful  light  first  shone  on  me  : 
And  I  am  sad  my  zeal  hath  so  offended. 

TH.  Let  us  call  on  him,  then. 

Ana.  The  notion's  good. 
And  of  the  spuit ;  I  will  knock  first.     [Knocks.'] 
Peace  be  within ! 

[The  door  is  opened,  and  they  enter. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 
A  Room  in  Lovewit's  House. 

Enter  Bvrtim,  followed  by  Teibulation  and 
Ananias. 

Suh.    Oh,  ai-o  you  come?   'twas   time.     Tour 

threescore  minutes 
Were  at  last  thread,  you  see ;  and  down  had  gone 
Furnus  acedix,  turris  circulatorius : ' 
Lembec,  bolt's-head,  retort  and  pelican 
Had  all  been  cinders. — Wicked  Ananias ! 
Art  thou  returu'd  ?     Nay  then,  it  goes  down  yet. 

Tri.  Sir,  be  appeased ;  he  is  come  to  humble 
Himself  in  spirit,  and  to  ask  your  patience, 
If  too  much,  zeal  hath  carried  him  aside 
From  the  due  path. 
Sub.  Why,  this  doth  qualify ! 
Tri.  The  brethren  had  no  purpose,  verily. 
To  give  you  the  least  grievance  :  but  are  ready 
To  lend  their  willing  hands  to  any  prfiject 
The  spirit  and  you  direct. 
Sub.  This  qualifies  more !  ' 

Tri.  And  for  the  orphan's  goods,  let  them  be 

valued. 
Or  what  is  needful  else  to  the  holy  work, 
It  shall  be  nximbered ;  here,  by  me,  the  saints 
Throw  down  their  purse  before  you. 

Sub.  This  qualifies  most ! 
Why,  thus  it  should  be,  now  you  understand. 
Have  I  discours'd  so  unto  you  of  our  stone, 
And  of  the  good  that  it  shall  bring  your  cause  ? 
Show'd  you  (beside  the  main  of  hiring  forces 
Abroad,  drawing  the  Hollanders,  your  friends. 
From   the   Indies,  to  serve  you,  with  all  their 

fleet) 
That  even  the  med'cinal  use  shall  make  you  a 

faction 
And  party  in  the  realm  ?     As,  put  the  case, 
That  some  great  man  in  state,  he  have  the  gout, 
Why,  you  but  send  three  drops  of  your  elixir, 
You  help  him  straight :  there  you  have  made  a 

friend. 
Another  has  the  palsy  or  the  dropsy. 
He  takes  of  your  incombustible  stuff. 
He's  young  again  :  there  you  have  made  a  friend. 
A  lady  that  is  past  the  feat  ^  of  body. 
Though  not  of  mind,  and  hath  her  face  decay'd 
Beyond  all  cure  of  paintings,  you  restore. 
With  the  oil  of  talc ;  there  you  have  made  a  friend ; 
And  aU  her  friends.     A  lord  that  is  a  leper, 
A  knight  that  has  the  bone-ache,  or  a  squu'e 


'^Furnus  acedise — a  peculiar  kind  of  furnace;  turris 
circulatorim — a  glass  vessel  ir  which  the  infusion  went 
round  about  as  in  a  circle. 

*/ea< — elegant,  handsome. 


That  hath  both  these,  you  make  them  smooth  and 

sound, 
With  a  bare  f ricace  *  of  your  med'cine :  still 
You  increase  your  friends. 

Tri.  Ay,  it  is  veiy  prcgnant." 

Sub.  And  then  the  tm-niug  of  this  lawyer's  pewter 
To  plate  at  Christmas. — 

Ana.  Christ-tide,3  I  pray  you. 

Sub.  Yet,  Ananias! 

Ana.  I  have  done. 

Sub.  Or  changing 
His  parcel  gilt''  to  massy  gold.    You  cannot 
But  raise  you  friends.     Withal,  to  be  of  power 
To  pay  an  army  in  the  field,  to  buy 
The  king  of  France  out  of  his  realms,  or  Spain 
Out  of  his  Indies.     What  can  you  not  do 
Against  lords  spiritual  or  temporal, 
That  shall  oppone  s  you? 

Tri.  Verily,  'tis  true. 
We  may  be  temporal  lords  ourselves,  I  take  it. 

Sub.  You  may  be  anything,  and  leave  off  to 
make 
Long-winded  exercises  ;  or  suck  up 
Your  ha  !  and  hum  !  in  a  tune.     I  not  deny, 
But  such  as  are  not  graced  in  a  state, 
May,  for  their  ends,  be  adverse  in  religion. 
And  get  a  tune  to  call  the  flock  together : 
For,  to  say  sooth,  a  tune  does  much  with  women, 
And  other  phlegmatic  people ;  it  is  your  bell. 

Ana.  Bells  are  profane ;  a  tune  may  be  religious. 

Sub.  No  warning  with  you !  then  farewell  my 
patience. 
'Slight,  it  shall  down :  I  will  not  be  thus  tortured. 

Tri.  I  pray  you,  sir. 

Sub.  All  shall  perish.     I  have  spoke  it. 

Tri.  Let  me  find  grace,  sir,  in  your  eyes ;  the 
man 
He  stands  corrected  :  neither  did  his  zeal, 
But  as  your  self,  allow  a  tune  somewhere. 
Which  now,  being  tow'rd  the  stone,  we  shall  not 
need. 

Sub^  No,  nor  your  holy  vizard,  to  win  widows 
To  give  you  legacies  ;  or  make  zealous  wives 
To  rob  their  husbands  for  the  common  cause  : 
Nor  take  the  start  =  of  bonds  broke  but  one  day, 
And  say,  they  were  forfeited  by  providence. 
Nor  shall  you  need  o'er  night  to  eat  huge  meals, 
To  celebrate  your  next  day's  fast  the  better; 
The  whilst  the  brethren  and  the  sisters  humbled. 
Abate  the  stiffness  of  the  flesh.     Nor  cast 
Before  your  hungry  hearers  scrupulous  bones; 
As  whether  a  Christian  may  hawk  or  hunt, 
Or  whether  matrons  of  the  holy  assembly 
May  lay  their  hair  out,  or  wear  doublets, 
Or  have  that  idol  starch  about  their  linen. 

Ana.  It  is  indeed  an  idoh 

Tri.  Mind  him  not,  sir. 
I  do  command  thee,  spirit  of  zeal,  but  trouble. 
To  peace  within  him !  Pray  you,  sir,  go  on. 

Sub.  Nor  shall  you  need  to  libel  'gainst  the 
prelates. 
And  shorten  so  your  ears  against  the  hearing  _ 
Of  the  next  wire-drawn  grace.    Nor  of  necessity 
Eail  against  plays,  to  please  the  alderman 
Whose  daily  custard  you  devour  :  nor  lie 
With  zealous  rage  till  you  are  hoarse.    Not  one 
Of  these  so  singular  arts.     Nor  call  yourselves 
By  names  of  Tribulation,  Persecution, 
Eestraint,  Long-patience,  and  such  like,  affected 
By  the  whole  family  or  wood '  of  you, 

1  fricace — ^rubbing ;  Lat.  frico,  to  rub. 

2  pregnant — evident. 

3  Ananias  abliorred  the  word  mass. 

*  parcel  5r(7<— partly  gilt.  ^  oppone— oppose. 

''  start — advantage. 

'  wood  is  used  to  signify  any  miscellaneous  collectio!* 
or  stock  of  materials. — Upton. 


i6o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Only  for  glory,  and  to  catch  the  ear 
Of  the  disciple. 

Tri.  Truly,  sir,  they  are 
Ways  that  the  godly  brethren  have  invented, 
Per  propagation  of  the  glorious  cause. 
As  very  notable  means,  and  whereby  also 
Themselves  grow  soon,  and  profitably,  famous. 

Siib.  Oh,  but  the  stone,  all's  idle  to  it !  nothing ! 
The  art  of  angels'  nature's  miracle. 
The  divine  secret  that  doth  fly  in  clouds 
From  east  to  west ;  and  whose  tradition 
Is  not  from  men,  but  spirits. 

Ana.  I  hate  traditions  ; 
I  do  not  trust  them. — 

Tri.  Peace! 

Ana.  They  are  popish  all. — 
I  will  not  peace  :  I  will  not — 

Tri.  Ananias ! 

Ana.  Please  the  profane,  to  grieve  the  godly ; 
I  may  not. 

Suh.  Well,  Ananias,  thou  shalt  overcome. 

Tri.  It  is  an  ignorant  zeal  that  haunts  him,  sir ; 
But  truly,  else,  a  very  faithful  brother, 
A  botcher,  and  a  man,  bj'  revelation. 
That  hath  a  competent  knowledge  of  the  truth. 

Siih.  Has  he  a  competent  sum  there  in  the  bag 
To  buy  the  goods  within  ?    I  am  made  guardian, 
And  must,  for  charity,  and  conscience'  sake, 
Now  see  the  most  be  made  for  my  poor  orphan  ; 
Though  I  desire  the  bretliren  too  good  gainers: 
There  they  are  within.    When  you  have  view'd, 

and  bought  'em. 
And  ta'en  the  inventory  of  what  they  are. 
They  are  ready  for  projection ;  there's  no  more 
To  do  :  cast  on  the  med'cine,  so  much  silver 
As  there  is  tin  there,  so  much  gold  as  brass, 
I'll  give't  you  in  by  weight. 

Tri.  But  how  long  time. 
Sir,  must  the  saints  expect  yet  ? 

Suh.  Let  uie  see, 
IIo%v's  the  moon  now .'     Eight,  nine,  ten  days 

hence, 
He  will  be  silver  potate  ;  then  three  days 
Before  he  citronise  :  some  fifteen  days, 
The  magisterium  will  be  jDcrfected. 

Ana.  About  the  second  day  of  the  third  week, 
In  the  ninth  month  ? 

Bah.  Yes,  my  good  Ananias. 

Tri.  AVhat  will  the  orphan's  goodS  arise  to, 
think  you .'' 

Suh.  Some  hundred  marks,  as  much  as  fiU'd 
three  cars, 
Unladed  now:  you'll  make  six  millions  of  them. — 
But  I  must  have  more  coals  laid  in. 

Tri.  How! 

Suh.  Another  load. 
And  then  we  have  finish'd.  We  must  now  increase 
Our  fire  to  icjnis  ardens ;  i  we  are  past 
Fimus  equinus,  halnei,  cineris,'^ 
And  all  those  lenter^  heats.     If  the  holy  pui-se 
Should  with  this  draught  fall  low,  and  that  the 

saints 
Do  need  a  present  sum,  I  have  a  trick 
To  melt  the  pewter,  you  shall  buy  now,  instantly. 
And  with  a  tincture  make  you  as  good  Dutch 
As  any  are  in  Holland.  [dollars 

Tri.  Can  you  so  .-' 

Sub.  Ay,  and  shall  'bide  the  third  examination. 

Ana.  It  will  be  joyful  tidings  to  the  brethren. 

Suh.  But  you  must  carry  it  secret. 

Tri.  Ay  ;  but  stay. 
This  act  of  coining,  is  it  lawful? 

A7ia.  Lawful! 


>  '  glowing  heat.'         2  '  horse-dung,  the  bath,  ashes.' 
*  ie«<er— gentler. 


We  know  no  magistrate  ;  or,  if  we  did, 
This  is  foreign  coin. 

Sub.  It  is  no  coining,  sir. 
It  is  but  casting. 

Tri.  Ha !  you  distinguish  well : 
Casting  of  money  may  be  lawful. 

Ana.  'Tis,  sir. 

Tri.  Truly,  I  take  it  so. 

Suh.  There  is  no  scruple. 
Sir,  to  be  made  of  it ;  believe  Ananias : 
This  case  of  conscience  he  is  studied  in. 

Tri.  I'll  make  a  question  of  it  to  the  brethren. 

Ana.  The   brethren  shall  approve  it   lawful, 
doubt  not. 
Where  shall  it  be  done  ?  [Knocking  without. 

Sub.  For  that  we'll  talk  anon. 
There's  some  to  speak  with  me.     Go  in,  I  pray 

you, 

And  view  the  parcels.     That's  the  inventory. 
I'll  come  to  you  straight.  \_Exeunt  Tri.  andANA.'] — 
Who  is  it .' — Face !  appear. 

Enter  Face,  in  his  unijorm. 

How  now !  good  prize  ? 

Face.  Good  p)ox !  yond'  costive  *  cheater 
Never  came  on. 

Suh.  How  then  ? 

Face.  I've  walked  the  round 
Till  now,  and  no  such  thing. 

Suh.  And  have  you  quit  him  ? 

Face.  Quit  him  !  an'  hell  would  quit  him  too, 
he  were  happy. 
'Slight !  would  you  have  me  stalk  like  a  mill-jade, 
All  day,  for  one  that  will  not  yield  us  gi'ains  ? 
I  know  him  of  old. 

Suh.  Oh,  but  to  have  gull'd  him, 
Had  been  a  mastery. 

Face.  Let  him  go,  black  boy ! 
And  turn  thee,  that  some  fresh  news  may  possess 

thee. 
A  noble  count,  a  don  of  Spain,  my  dear 
Delicious  compeer,  and  my  partj'-baw'd. 
Who  is  come  hither  private  for  his  conscience. 
And  brought  munition  with  him,  six  gi-eat  sIojdSj^ 
Bigger  than  three   Dutch   hoys,   beside  round 

trunks. 
Furnished  with  pistolets  and  pieces  of  eight. 
Will  straight  be  here,  my  rogue,  to  have  thy  bath, 
(That  is  the  colour),  and  to  make  his  battery 
Ui3on  our  Dol,  our  castle,  our  cinque-port. 
Our  Dover  pier,  our  what  thou  wilt.  Where  is  she? 
She  must  prepare  perfumes,  delicate  linen. 
The  bath  in  chief,  a  banquet,  and  her  wit. 
For  she  must  milk  his  epididimis. 
Where  is  the  doxy  ?  ^ 

Sub.  I'll  send  her  to  thee : 
And  but  despatch  my  brace  of  little  John  Ley  dens, 
And  come  again  myself. 

Face.  Are  they  within,  then? 

Suh.  Numbering-  the  sum. 

Face.  How  much  ? 

Sub.  A  hundred  marks,  boy.  [Exit. 

Face.  Why,  this  is  a  lucky  day.     Ten  pounds 
of  Mammon ! 
Three  of  my  clerk !  a  jDortague  of  my  grocer ! 
This  of  the  brethren!  beside  reversions. 
And  states  to  come  in  the  widow,  and  my  count ! 
My  share  to-day  will  not  be  bought  for  forty — 


Enter  Dol. 


Dol.  What? 


1  costive— dry,  reserved. 

2  six  great  slops,  <fec.— large  breeches  such  as  are  worn 
by  sailors.  Round  trunks  mean  the  trunk  hose,  which 
were  the  common  wear  of  tbat  and  the  preceding  age. 

— WHALLEY. 

3  doxy— cant  name  for  mistress. 


BEN  JONSON. 


i6i 


Face.  Pounds,   dainty  Dorotliy!    art  thou  so 
near  ? 

Dol.  Yes ;   say,  lord  general,   how  fares   our 
camp  ? 

Face.  As  with  the  few  that  had  entrench'd 
themselves 
Safe,  by  their  discipline,  against  a  world,  Dol, 
And  laugh'd  within  those  ti-enches,  and  grew  fat 
With  thinking  on  the  booties,  Dol,  brought  in 
Daily  by  their  small  parties.     This  dear  hour, 
A  doughty  don  is  taken  with  my  Dol ; 
And  thou  mayst  make  his  ransom  what  thou  wilt, 
My  Dousabel ;  i  he  shall  be  brought  here  fetter'd 
With  thy  fair  looks,  before  he  sees  thee ;   and 

thrown 
In  a  down-bed,  as  dark  as  any  dungeon ; 
Where  thou  shalt  keep  him  waking  with  thy  di'um ; 
Thy  drum,  my  Dol,  thy  drum  ;  till  he  be  tame 
As  the  poor  blackbirds  were  in  the  great  frost, 
Or  bees  are  with  a  bason  ;  and  so  hive  him 
In  the  swan-skin  coverlid,  and  cambric  sheets, 
Till  he  work  honey  and  wax,  my  little  God's  gift.^ 

Dol.  What  is  he,  general  ? 

Face.  An  adalantado, 
A  grandee,  gii'l.    Was  not  my  Dapper  here  yet  ? 

Dol.  No. 

Face.  Nor  my  Drugger  ? 

Dol.  Neither. 

Face.  A  pox  on  'era. 
They  are  so  long  a  furnishing !  such  stinkards 
Would  not  be  seen  upon  these  festival  days. — 

Re-enter  Subtle. 

How  now !  have  you  done .' 

Sub.  Done.     They  are  gone  :  the  sum 
Is  here  in  bank,  my  Face.     I  would  we  knew 
Another  chapman  now  would  buy  'em  outright. 

Face.  'Slid,  Nab  shall  do't  against  he  have  the 
To  furnish  household.  [widow. 

Sub.  Excellent,  well  thought  on : 
Pray  God  he  come ! 

Face.  I  pray  he  keep  away 
Till  our  new  business  be  o'erpast. 

Sub.  But,  Face, 
How  cam'st  thou  by  this  secret  don  ? 

Face.  A  spirit 
Brought  me  th'  intelligence  in  a  paper  here, 
As  I  was  conjuring  yonder  in  my  circle 
For  Surly ;  I  have  my  flies  ^  abroad.    Your  bath 
Is  famous.  Subtle,  by  my  means.     Sweet  Dol, 
You  must  go  tune  your  virginal,  no  losing 
O'  the  least  time:  and,  do  you  hear?  good  action. 
Firk,  like  a  flounder ;  kiss,  like  a  scallop,  close  ; 
And  tickle  him  with  thy  mother-tongue.  His  great 
Verdugoship  *  has  not  a  jot  of  language ; 
So  much  the  easier  to  be  cozen'd,,my  DoUy. 
He  will  come  hei-e  in  a  hired  coach,  obscure. 
And  our  own  coachman,  whom  I  have  sent  as  guide. 
No  creature  else.  [^Knocking  loithouf] — Who's  that  ? 

\_Exit  Dol. 

Sub.  It  is  not  he  ? 

Face.  Oh  no,  not  yet  this  hour. 


Re-enter  Dol, 


Suh.  Who  is't  ? 


1  My  Dousahel — i.e.  douce  ef  belle,  '  sweet  and  pretty.' 
A  name  common  in  our  old  pastoral  poets,  as  is  Bonni- 
bel  (bonne  et  belle,  '  good  and  pretty '),   which  occurs 

just  below. — GiFFORD. 

-  God's  gift  is  the  meaning  of  the  Gr.  Dorothea,  Dol's 
proper  name. 

^  flies — familiar  spirits. 

*  Verdugo  was  the  name  of  a  noble  Spanish  family, 
and  was  probably  the  name  of  some  individual  known 
to  the  ^vriters  of  Jonson's  time.  He  is  mentioned  by 
Fletcher. — Gifford.    • 


Dol.  Dapper, 
Your  clerk. 

Face.  God's  will  then,  queen  of  Fairy, 
On   with   your  tire  ;    lExit   Dol]   and,   doctor, 

with  your  robes. 
Let's  despatch  him,  for  God's  sake. 

Sub.  'Twill  be  long. 

Face.  I  warrant  you,  take  but  the  cues  I  givo 
yon, 
It  shall_  be  brief  enough.     [Goes  to  the  window.] 

'Slight,  here  are  more  ! 
Abel,  and,  I  think,  the  angry  boy,  the  heir, 
That  fain  would  quarrel — 

Sub.  And  the  widow  ? 

Face.  No, 
Not  that  I  see.    Away  !  [^Exit  Sub. 

Enter  Dapper. 

— Oh  sir,  you  are  welcome. 
The  doctor  is  within  a  moving  for  you ; 
I  have  had  the  most  ado  to  win  him  to  it ! — 
He  swears  you'll  be  the  darling  of  the  dice  : 
He  never  iieard  her  highness  dote  till  now. 
Your  aunt  has  given  you  the  most  gracious  words 
That  can  be  thought  on. 

Dap.  Shall  I  see  her  grace  ? 

Face.  See  her,  and  kiss  her  too. — 

Enter  Abel,  folloioed  by  Kastp.il. 

What,  honest  Nab ! 
Hast  brought  the  damask  7 

Drug.  No,  sir ;  here's  tobacco. 

Face.  'Tis  well  done.  Nab;  tliou'lt  bring  the 
damask  too  ? 

Drug.  Yes.      Here's  the  gentleman,   captain, 
Master  Kastril, 
I  have  brought  to  see  the  doctor. 

Face.  Where's  the  widow  .' 

Drug.  Sir,  as  he  likes,  his  sister,  he  says,  shall 
come. 

Face.  Oh,  is  it  so  ?  good  time.     Is  your  name 
Kastril,  sir.' 

Kas.  Ay,  and  the  best  of  the  Kastrils  -i.  I'd  be 
sorry  else, 
By  fifteen  hundred  a  year.    Where  is  the  doctor  ? 
My  mad  tobacco-boy,  here,  tolls  me  of  one 
That  can  do  things  :  has  he  any  skill  ? 

Face.  Wherein,  sir  ? 

Kas.  To  carry  a  business,  manage  a  quarrel 
fairly. 
Upon  fit  terms. 

Face.  It  seems,  sir,  you  are  but  young 
About  tlie  town,  that  can  make  that  a  question. 

Kas.  Sir,  not  so  young,  but  I  have  heard  some 
si^eech 
Of  the  angry  boys,'  and  seen  them  take  tobacco ; 
And  in  his  shop ;  and  I  can  take  it  too. 
And  I  would  fain  be  one  of  'em,  and  go  down 
And  practise  in  the  country. 

Face.  Sir,  for  the  duello. 
The  doctor,  I  assure  you,  shall  inform  you. 
To  the  least  shadow  of  a  hair ;  and  show  you 
An  instrument  he  has  of  his  own  making. 
Wherewith  no  sooner  shall  you  make  report 
Of  any  quarrel,  but  he  will  take  the  height  on'fc 
Most  instantly,  and  tell  in  what  degree 
Of  safety  it  lies  in,  or  mortality ; 
And  how  it  may  be  borne,  whether  in  a  right  line 
Or  a  half  circle ;  or  may  else  be  cast 
Into  an  angle  blunt,  if  not  acute : 
All  this  he  will  demonstrate.    And  then,  rules 
To  give  and  take  the  lie  by. 

Kas.  How !  to  take  it .' 


'  The  roarers  and  vapourers  of  the  time. — Whallet. 


1 62 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Face.  Yes,  in  oblique  he'll  show  you,  or  iu 
circle, 
But  never  in  diameter.*     The  whole  town 
Study  his  theorems,  and  dispute  them  tDrdinarily 
At  the  eating  academies. 

Kas.  But  does  he  teach 
Living  by  the  wits  too  ? 

Face.  Anything  whatever. 
You  cannot  think  that  subtlety,  but  he  reads  it. 
He  made  me  a  captain.     I  was  a  stark  pimp. 
Just  of  your  standing,  'fore  I  met  with  him  ; 
It  is  not  two   months   since.     I'll  tell  you  his 

method : 
First,  he  will  enter  you  at  some  ordinary. 

Kas.  No,  I'll  not  come  there ;  you  shall  pardon 
me. 

Face.  For  why,  sir? 

Kas.  There's  gan.mg  there,  and  tricks. 

Face.  Why,  would  you  be 
A  gallant,  and  not  game  ? 

Kas.  Ay,  'twill  spend  a  man. 

Face.  Spend  you !  it  will  repair  you  when  you 
are  spent. 
How  do  they  live  by  their  wits  there,  that  have 

vented 
Six  times  your  foi'tunes  ? 

Kas.  What !  three  thousand  a  year  ? 

Face.  Ay,  forty  thousand. 

Kas.  Are  there  such .' 

Face.  Ay,  sir, 
And  gallants  yet.     Here's  a  young  gentleman 
Is  born  to  nothmg, — \_Pomts  to  Dapper], — forty 

marks  a  year. 
Which  I  count  nothing ; — he  is  to  be  initiated. 
And  have  a  fly^  of  the  doctor.    He  will  win  you, 
By  unresistible  luck,  within  this  fortnight. 
Enough  to  buy  a  barony.     They  will  set  him 
Upmost,  at  the  groom  porters,  all  the  Christmas ; 
And  for  the  whole  year  through,  at  every  place 
Where  there  is  play,  present  him  with  the  chair. 
The  best  attendance,  the  best  drink ;  sometimes 
Two  glasses  of  Canary,  and  pay  nothing  ; 
The  purest  linen,  and  the  sharpest  knife. 
The  partridge  next  his  trencher;  and  somewhere 
The  daintj'  bed,  in  private,  with  the  dainty. 
You  shall  have  your  ordinaries  bid  for  him, 
As  play-houses  for  a  poet ;  and  the  master 
Pray  him  aloud  to  name  r/hat  dish  he  affects, 
Which  must  be  butter'd  shrimps  ;  and  those  that 

drink 
To  no  mouth  else,  wUl  drink  to  his,  as  being 
The  goodly  president  mouth  of  all  the  board. 

Kas.  Do  you  not  gull  one  ? 

Face.  'Ods  my  life  !  do  you  think  it  ? 
You  shall  have  a  cast  commander  (can  but  get 
In  credit  with  a  glover,  or  a  spurriei-,^ 
For  some  two  pair  of  either's  ware  aforehand). 
Will,  by  most  swift  posts,  dealing  [but]  with  him, 
Arrive  at  competent  means  to  keep  himself, 
His  punk  and  naked  boy,  in  excellent  fashion, 
And  be  admired  for't. 

Kas.  Will  the  doctor  teach  this  ? 

Face.  He  will  do  more,  sir :  when  your  land 
is  gone, 
As  men  of  spirit  hate  to  keep  earth  long. 
In  a  vacation,  when  small  money  is  stirring. 
And  ordinaries  suspended  till  the  term. 
He'll  show  a  perspective,  where  on  one  side 
You  shall  behold  the  faces  and  the  persons 
Of  all  sufficient  young  heirs  in  town. 
Whose  bonds  are  current  for  commodity;* 


'  in  diameter — i.e.  the  lie  direct;  the  others  are  the 
lie  circumstantial. 

^Av— familiar.  ^  spurrier — dealer  in  spurs. 

*  Wiose  bonds,  &c. — This  alludes  to  a  practice  offen 
mentioned  by  the  wits  of  Jonson's  time,  of  compelling 


On   th'  other  side,  the  merchants'  forms,  and 

others, 
That  without  help  of  any  second  broker. 
Who  would    expect  a  share,   will  trust  such 

parcels :' 
In  the  third  square,  the  very  street  and  sign 
Where  the  commodity  dwells,  and  does  but  wait 
To  be  deliver'd,  be  it  pepper,  soap. 
Hops,  or  tobacco,  oatmeal,  woad,  or  cheeses. 
All  which  you  may  so  handle,  to  enjoy 
To  your  own  use,  and  never  stand  obliged. 

Kas.  I'faith !  is  he  such  a  fellow  ? 

Face.  Why,  Nab  here  knows  him. 
And  then  for  making  matches  for  rich  widows, 
Yotmg  gentlewomen,  heirs,  the  fortunat'st  man  ! 
He's  sent  to,  far  and  near,  all  over  England, 
To  have  his  counsel,  and  to  know  their  fortunes. 

Kas.  God's  will,  my  suster  shall  see  him. 

Face.  I'll  tell  you,  sir. 
What  he  did  tell  me  of  Nab.    It's  a  strange 

thing : — 
By  the  way,  you  must  eat  no  cheese,  Nab,  it 

breeds  melancholy. 
And  that  same  melancholy  breeds  worms ;  but 

pass  it: — 
He  told  me,  honest  Nab  here  was  ne'er  at  tavern 
But  once  in's  life  ! 

Drug.  Truth,  and  no  more  I  was  not. 

Face.  And  then  he  was  so  sick — 

Drug.  Could  he  tell  you  that  too  ? 

Face.  How  should  I  know  it  ? 

Drug.  In  troth  we  had  been  a  shooting. 
And  had  a  piece  of  fat  ram-mutton  to  supper. 
That  lay  so  heavy  o'  my  stomach — 

Face.  And  he  has  no  head 
To  bear  any  wine ;  for  what  with  the  noise  of 

the  fiddlers. 
And  care  of  his  shop,  for  ho  dares  keep  no  ser- 
vants— 

Drug.  My  head  did  so  ache — 

Face.  As  he  was  fain  to  be  brought  home, 
The    doctor  told   me  ;    and   then  a  good  old 
woman — 

Drug.  Yes,  faith,  she  dwells  in  Seacoal-lane — 
did  cure  me. 
With  sodden  ale,  and  pellitory  of  the  wall ; 
Cost  me  but  twopence.     I  had  another  sickness 
Was  worse  than  that. 

Face.  Ay,  that  was  with  the  grief 
Thou  took'st  for  being  cess'd  at  eighteenpence 
For  the  water-work. 

Drug.  In  truth,  and  it  ■vjras  like 
T'  have  cost  me  almost  my  life. 

Face.  Thy  hair  went  off  ? 

Drug.  Yes,  sir ;  'twas  done  for  spite. 

Face.  Nay,  so  says  the  doctor. 

Kas.   Pray  thee,  tobacco-boy,   go  fetch    my 
suster ; 
I'll  see  this  leai-ned  boy  before  I  go. 
And  so  shall  she. 

Face.  Sir,  he  is  busy  now  ; 
But  if  you  have  a  sister  to  fetch  hither. 
Perhaps   your  own  pains    may  command   her 

sooner ; 
And  he  by  that  time  will  be  free. 

Kas.  I  go.  \_Exit. 

Face.  Drugger,    she's  thine  :    the  damask  ! — 
[_Exit  Abel] — Subtle  and  I 
Must  wi-estle  for  her — [Aside]. — Come  on.  Mas- 
ter Dapper, 
You  see  how  I  turn  clients  here  away. 


the  young  spendthrift  to  take  a  part  of  the  sum  which 
he  wanted  to  horrow  in  different  kinds  of  damaged 
goods,  at  a  stated  price,  of  which  he  made  what  he 

could. — GlFFOBD. 


BEN  yONSON. 


163 


To  give  your  cause  despatcli :  Lave  j'ou  perform'd 
The  ceremonies  were  enjoin'd  you  ? 

Dajj.  Yes,  of  the  vinegar, 
And  the  clean  shirt. 

Face.  'Tis  well ;  that  sliirt  may  do  you 
More  worship  than  you  think.    Your  aunt's  a-fire, 
But  that  she  will  not  show  it,  t'  have  a  sight  of 

you. 
Have  you  provided  for  her  grace's  servants  ? 

Dap.  Yes ;  here  are  six  score  Edward  shillings. 

Face.  Good ! 

Daj).  And  an  old  Harry's  sovereign. 

Face.  Very  good! 

Dap.  And  three  James  shillings,  and  an  Eliza- 
beth groat. 
Just  twenty  nobles. 

Face.  Oh  !  you  are  too  just. 
I  would  you  had  had  the  other  noble  in  Maries. 

Dap.  I  have  some  Philip  and  Maries. 

Face.  Ay,  those  same 
Are  best  of  all ;  where  are  they  ?     Hark  !    the 
doctor. 

Enter  Subtle,  disguised  Wee  a  priest  of  Fairy, 
with  a  stripe  of  cloth. 

Sub.  [In  a  feigned  voiced   Is  yet  her  grace  s 
cousin  come .' 

Face.  He  is  come. 

Sub.  And  is  he  fasting  ? 

Face.  Yes. 

Sub.  And  hath  cried  hum  ? 

Face.  Thrice,  you  must  answer. 

Dap.  Thrice. 

Sub.  And  as  oft  buz  ? 

Face.  If  you  have,  say. 

Dap.  I  have. 

Sub.  Then,  to  her  cuz, 
Hoping  that  he  hath  vinegar'd  his  senses. 
As  he  was  bid,  the  Faiiy  queen  dispenses, 
By  me,  this  robe,  the  petticoat  of  fortune ; 
Which  that  he   straight  put  on,  she  doth  im- 
portune. 
And  though  to  fortune  near  be  her  petticoat. 
Yet  nearer  is  her  smock,  the  queen  doth  note : 
And  therefore,  ev'n  of  that  a  piece  she  hath  sent. 
Which,  being  a  child,  to  wrap  him  in  was  rent ; 
And  prays  him  for  a  scarf  he  now  will  wear  it. 
With  as  much  love  as  then  her  grace  did  tear  it. 
About  his  eyes — [They  blind  him  with  the  rag\ — 

to  show  he  is  fortunate. 
And,  trusting  unto  her  to  make  his  state, 
He'll  throw  away  all  woi'ldly  pelf  about  him  ; 
Which  that  he  will  perform,  she  doth  not  doubt 
him. 

Face.  She  need  not  doubt  him,  sir.     Alas !  he 
has  nothing, 
But  what  he  will  part  withal  as  willingly, 
Upon  her  grace's  word. — Throw  away  your  purse. 
As  she  would  ask  it — handkerchiefs  and  all. 

\Ee  throws  away,  as  they  bid  him. 

She  cannot  bid  that  thing,  but  he'll  obey. — 
If  you  have  a  ring  about  you,  cast  it  off. 
Or  a  silver  seal  at  your  wrist ;  her  grace  will  send 
Her  fairies  here  to  search  you,  therefore  deal 
Directly  with  her  highness  :  if  they  find 
That  you  conceal  a  mite,  you  are  undone. 
Du]).  Truly,  there's  all. 
Face.  All  what .' 
'  Dap.  My  money ;  truly. 
Face.  Keep  nothing  that  is  transitory  about 
you. 
Bid  IDol  play  music — \_Aside  to  Subtle]. — Look, 
the  elves  are  come 

[DoLp^ays  on  the  cittern  ivithin. 

To  pinch  you,  if  you  tell  not  truth.    Advise  you. 

[They pinch  him. 


Dap.  Oh  !  I  have  a  paper  with  a  spur-ryal'  in't 
Face.  Ti,  ti.^ 
They  knew't,  they  say. 
Sub.  Ti,  ti,  ti,  ti.     He  has  more  yet. 
Face.  Ti,  ti-ti-ti.     In  the  other  pocket. 

[Aside  to  Sdb. 
Sub.  Titi,  titi,  titi,  titi,  titi. 
They  must  pinch  him,  or  he  will  never  confess, 
they  say.  [They  Jiinch  him  again. 

Dap.  Oh!  oh! 

Face.  Nay,  pray  you  hold ;  he  is  her  grace's 
nephew. 
Ti,  ti,  ti  f   What  care  you  ?  good  faith,  you  shall 

care. — 
Deal  plainly,  sir,  and  shame  the  fairies.     Show 
You  are  innocent. 
Dap.  By  this  good  light,  I  have  nothing. 
Sub.  Ti,  ti,  ti,  ti,  to,  ta.     He  does  equivocate, 
she  says : 
Ti,  ti  do  ti,  ti  ti  do,^  ti  da ;  and  swears  by  the  light 
when  he  is  blinded. 
Dap.  By  this  good  dark,  1  have  nothing  but  a 
half-crown 
Of  gold  about  my  wrist,  that  my  love  gave  me; 
And  a  leaden  heart  I  wore  since  she  forsook  me. 
Face.  I  thought  'twas  something.     And  woUld 
you  incur 
Your  aunt's  displeasure  for  these  trifles  ?     Come, 
I  had  rather  you  had  thrown  away  twenty  half- 
crowns.  [Takes  it  off. 
You  may  wear  your  leaden  heart  still. — 

Fnter  DoL,  hastily. 

How  now! 
Sub.  What  news,  DoL? 
Dot.  Yonder's  your  knight.  Sir  Mammon. 
Face.  'Ods  lid,  we  never  thought  of  him  till 

now !     Where  is  he  ? 
Dol.  Here,  hai-d  by  :  he  is  at  the  door. 
Sub.  And  you  are  not  ready,  now !     Dol,  get 
his  suit.  \_Exit  Dol. 

He  must  not  be  sent  back. 
Face.  Oh  by  no  means. 
What  shall  we  do  with  this  same  puffin  here, 
Now  he's  on  the  spit  ? 

Sicb.  Why,  lay  him  back  awhile, 
With  some  device. 

Re-enter  Dol,  with  Face's  clothes. 

— Ti,  ti,  ti,  ti,  ti,  ti,  Would  her  grace  speak  with 

me  ? 
I  come. — Help,  Dol !  [Knocking  without. 

Face.    [Speaks    through  the  key-hole.']    Who's 
there  ?     Sir  Ep)icm-e, 
My  master's  in  the  way.     Please  you  to  walk 
Three  or  four  turns,  but  till  his  back  be  turn'd, 
And  I  am  for  you. — Quickly,  Dol ! 

Sub.  Her  grace 
Commends  her  kindly  to  you,  Master  Dapper. 
Dap.  I  long  to  see  her  grace. 
Sub.  She  now  is  set 
At  dinner  in  her  bed,  and  she  has  sent  you 
From  her  o^vn  pirivate  trencher,  a  dead  mouse, 
And  a  piece  of  gingerbread,  to  be  merry  withal. 
And  stay  your  stomach,   lest  you  faint  with 

fasting. 
Yet  if  you  could  hold  out  till  she  saw  you,  she 

says, 
It  would  be  better  for  you. 

Face.  Sir,  he  shall 
Hold  out,   an  'twere  this  two  hours,  for   her 
highness ; 


1  a  spur-ryal  was  a  cold  coin,  and,  in  the  third  of 
James  i.,  it  passed  for  15s. — Whallet. 

2  Tliis  is  suDuused  to  iJe  the  fairies'  language. 


1 64 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


I  can  assure  you  that.    Wo  will  not  lose 
All  we  have  done. — 

Svb.  He  must  not  see,  nor  speak 
To  anybody,  till  then. 

Face.  For  that  we'll  put,  sir, 
A  stay  in's  mouth. 

Buh.  Of  what? 

Face.  Of  gingerbread. 
Make  you  it  fit.     He  that  hath  pleas'd  her  grace 
Thus  far,  shall  not  now  crinclei  for  a  little. — 
Gape,  sir,  and  let  him  fit  you. 

{They  thrust  a  gag  of  gingerbread  in  his  mouth. 

Sub.  Where  shall  we  now 
Bestow  him  ? 

Dol.  In  the  privy. 

Sub.  Come  along,  sir, 
I  now  must  show  you  Fortune's  privy  lodgings. 

Face.  Are  they  perfum'd,  and  his  bath  ready  7 

Sub.  All : 
Only  the  fumigation's  somewhat  strong. 

Face.    [Speaking    through    the    keij-hole.'\    Sir 
Epicure,  I  am  yours,  sir,  by  and  by. 

[^Exeunt  with  Dapper. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  Lovewit's  House. 
Enter  Face  and  Matmmon. 

Face.  Oh,  sir,  you  are  come  in  the  only  finest 
time. — 

3Iam.  Where's  master  ? 

Face.  Now  preparing  for  projection,  sir. 
Your  stuff  will  be  all  changed  shortly. 

Mam.  Into  gojd  ? 

Face.  To  gold  and  silver,  sir. 

Mam.  Silver  I  care  not  for. 

Face.  Yes.  sir,  a  little  to  give  beggars. 

Mam.  Where's  the  lady  ? 

Face.  At  hand  here.     I  have  told  her  such 
brave  things  of  you. 
Touching  your  bounty,  and  your  noble  spirit — 

Mam.  Hast  thou  ? 

Face.  As  she  is  almost  in  her  fit  to  see  you. 
But,  good  sir,  no  divinity  in  your  conference, 
For  fear  of  putting  her  in  rage — 

Mam.  I  warrant  thee. 

Face.  Six  men  [sir]  will  not  hold  her  down  : 
and  then, 
If  the  old  man  should  hear  or  see  you — 

Mam.  Fear  not. 

Face.  The  very  house,  sir,  would  run  mad. 
You  know  it. 
How  scrupulous  he  is,  and  violent, 
'Gainst  the  least  act  of  sin.     Phj'sic,  or  mathe- 
matics. 
Poetry,  state,  or  bawdry,  as  I  told  you. 
She  will  endure,  and  never  startle ;  but 
No  word  of  controversy. 

Main.  I  am  school'd,  good  Ulen. 

Face.  And  you  must  praise  her  house,  remem- 
ber that. 
And  her  nobility. 

Main.  Let  me  alone  : 
No  herald,  no,  nor  antiquary,  Lungg, 
Shall  do  it  better.     Go. 

Face.  Why,  this  is  yet 
A  kind  of  modern  happiness,  to  have 
Dol  Common  for  a  great  lady.       [jlside  and  exit. 

Mam.  Now,  Epicure, 
Heighten  thyself,  talk  to  her  all  in  gold ; 


1  crarff— literally,  to  creep  togetlier,  to  wrinkle;  here 
—to  shrink,  to  draw  back,  lose  heart. 


Eaiu  her  as  many  showers  as  Jove  did  drops 
Unto  his  Danae  ;  show  the  god  a  miser, 
Compared   with  Mammon.     What  !    the   stone 

will  do't. 
She  shall  feel  gold,  taste  gold,  hear  gold,  sleep 

gold ; 
Nay,  we  will  concumbere  gold :  I  will  be  puissant. 
And  mighty  in  my  talk  to  her. — 

Re-enter  Face  with  Doi.  richli/  dressed. 

-Here  she  comes. 

Face.  To  him,  Dol,  suckle  him.— This  is  the 
noble  knight, 
I  told  your  ladyship — 

Afam.  Madam,  with  your  pardon, 
I  kiss  your  vesture. 

Dol.  Sir,  I  were  uncivil 
If  I  would  suffer  that ;  my  lip  to  you,  sir. 

Mam.  1   hope   my  lord  your  brother  be   in 
health,  lady. 

Dol.   My   lord  my  brother  is,   though  I   no 
lady,  sir. 

Face.  Well  said,  my  Guinea  bird.  [^Aside. 

Mam.  Right  noble  madam — 

Face.  Oh,  we  shall  have  most  fierce  idolatry. 

[_Aside. 

Mam.  'Tis  your  prerogative. 

Dol.  Rather  your  courtesy. 

Mam.  Were  there  nought  else  to  enlarge  your 
virtues  to  me. 
These  answers  speak  your  breeding  and  your 
blood. 

Dol.  Blood  we  boast  none,  sir,  a  poor  baron's 
daughter. 

Mam.  Poor !  and  gat  you  ?  profane  not.    Had 
your  father 
Slept  all  the  happy  remnant  of  his  life 
After  that  act,  lien  but  there  still,  and  panted, 
He  had  done  enough  to  make  himself,  his  issue, 
And  his  posterity  noble. 

Dol.  Sir,  although 
We  may  be  said  to  want  the  gilt  and  trappings, 
The  dress  of  honour,  yet  we  strive  to  keep 
The  seeds  and  the  materials. 

Mam.  I  do  see 
The  old  ingredient,  virtue,  was  not  lost. 
Nor  the  drug  money  used  to  make  your  com- 
pound. 
There  is  a  strange  nobility  in  your  eye. 
This  lip,  that  chin !  methinks  you  do  resemble 
One  of  the  Austi-iac  princes.^ 

Face.  Very  like  ! 
Her  father  was  an  Irish  costermonger. 

\^Aside. 

Mam.  The  house  of  Valois  just  had  such  a 
nose. 
And  such  a  forehead  yet  the  Medici 
Of  Florence  boast. 

Dol.  Troth,  and  I  have  been  likeu'd 
To  all  these  princes. 

Face.  I'll  be  sworn,  I  heard  it. 

Mam.  I  know  not  how !  it  is  not  any  one. 
But  e'en  the  very  choice  of  all  their  features. 

Face.  I'll  in,  and  laugh.  [Aside  and  exit. 

Mam.  A  certain  touch,  or  air, 
That  sparkles  a  divinity,  beyond 
An  earthly  beauty ! 

Dol.  Oh,  you  play  the  courtier. 

Mam.  Good  lady,  give  me  leave— 

Dol.  In  faith,  I  may  not, 
To  mock  me,  sir. 

Mam.  To  burn  in  this  sweet  flame ; 
The  phcenix  never  knew  a  nobler  death. 


'  It  is  ohserved  that  all  the  houses  of  Austria  liave  a 
sweet  fulness  of  the  lower  lip.— Quoted  hy  Gifford. 


BEN  JONSON. 


i6s 


Dol.  Nay,   uow  you  court  the  courtier,  and 
destroy 
What  you  would  build:  this  art,  sir,   in  your 

words. 
Calls  your  whole  faith  in  question. 

Mam.  By  my  soul- 
Do?.  Nay,  oaths  are  made  of  the  same  air,  sir. 

Mavi.  Nature 
Never  bestow'd  upon  mortality 
A  more  unblamed,  a  more  harmonious  feature  ; 
She  play'd  the  step-dame  in  all  faces  else : 
Sweet  madam,  let  me  be  particular — ■ 

Dol.  Particular,  sir!  I  pray  you  know  yovir 
distance. 

Mam.  In  no  ill  sense,  sweet  lady;  but  to  ask 
How  your  fair  graces  pass  the  hours  ?     I  see 
You  are  lodg'd  here,  iu  the  house  of  a  rare  man, 
An  excellent  artist ;  but  what's  that  to  yoii  ? 

Dol.  Yes,  sir ;  I  study  here  the  mathematics. 
And  distillation.'- 

Mam.  Oh,  I  cry  your  pardon. 
He's  a  divine  iusti'uctor !  can  extract 
The  souls  of  all  things  by  his  art ;  call  all 
The  virtues,  and  the  miracles  of  the  sun, 
Into  a  temperate  furnace ;  teach  dull  nature 
"W  hat  her  own  forces  are.     A  man,  the  emperor 
Has  courted  above  Kelly ;  -  sent  his  medals 
And  chains,  to  invite  him. 

Dol.  Ay,  and  for  his  physic,  sir — 

Mam.  Above  the  art  of  ^sculapius, 
That  drew  the  envy  of  the  thunderer ! 
I  know  all  this,  and  more. 

Dol.  Troth,  I  am  taken,  sir, 
Whole   with    these    studies,    that    contemplate 
nature. 

Mam.  It  is  a  noble  humoiir ;  but  this  form 
Was  not  intended  to  so  dark  a  use. 
Had  you  been  crooked,   foul,    of   some   coarse 

mould, 
A  cloister  had  done  well ;  but  such  a  feature 
That  might  stand  up  the  glory  of  a  kingdom, 
To  live  recluse  !  is  a  mere  solecism, 
Though  in  a  nunnery.     It  miast  not  be. 
I  muse,  my  lord  your  brother  will  permit  it : 
You  should  spend  half  my  land  first,  were  I  he. 
Does  not  this  diamond  better  on  my  finger. 
Than  in  the  quarry? 

Dol.  Yes. 

Mam.  Why,  you  are  hke  it. 
You  were  created,  lady,  for  the  light. 
Here,  you  shall  wear  it ;  take  it,  the  first  pledge 
Of  what  I  speak,  to  bind  you  to  beheve  me. 

Dol.  In  chains  of  adamant? 

Mam.  Yes,  the  strongest  bands. 
And  take  a  secret  too — hei'e,  by  your  side. 
Doth    stand  this    hour,    the   happiest  man  in 
Europe. 

Dol.  You  are  contented,  su* ! 

Mam.  Nay,  in  true  being. 
The  envy  of  princes  and  the  fear  of  states. 

Dol.  Say  you  so,  Su-  Epicure  ? 

Mam.  Yes,  and  thou  shalt  prove  it. 
Daughter  of  honour.     I  have  cast  mine  eye 
Upon  thy  form,  and  I  will  i-ear  this  beauty 
Above  all  styles. 

Dol.  You  mean  no  treason,  su-  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  will  take  away  that  jealousy. 
I  am  the  lord  of  the  philosopher's  stone. 
And  thou  the  lady. 

Dol.  How  sir  !  have  you  that  ? 

Mam.  I  am  the  master  of  the  masteiy.  3 
This  day  the  good  old  wretch  here  o'  the  house 


'  i.e.  astrology  and  cheinistry. — Gifford. 
*  Edward  Kelly,  the  most  darins:;  and  unprincipled  of 
all  the  pretenders  to  alchemy. — Giffokd. 
'  maiiery—i.e.  the  magiiterium  or  philosopher's  stone. 


Has  made  it  for  us  ;  now  he's  at  projection. 
Think  therefore  thy  first  wish  now,  let  me  hear  it; 
And  it  shall  rain  into  thy  lap  no  shower, 
But  floods  of  gold,  whole  cataracts,  a  deluge, 
To  get  a  nation  on  thee. 

Dol.  You  are  pleased,  sir. 
To  work  on  the  ambition  of  our  sex. 

3Iam.  I  am  pleased  the  glory  of  her  sex  should 
know, 
This  nook,  here,  of  the  Friars '  is  no  climate 
For  her  to  live  obscurely  in,  to  learn 
Physic  and  surgery,  for  the  constable's  wife 
Of  some  odd  hundred  in  Essex  ;  but  come  forth, 
And  taste  the  air  of  palaces;  eat,  drink 
The  toils  of  empirics,  and  their  boasted  practice ; 
Tincture  of  pearl  and  coral,  gold  and  amber; 
Be  seen  at  feasts  and  triumphs ;  have  it  ask'd. 
What  miracle  she  is  ?  set  all  the  eyes 
Of  coui't  a-lire,  like  a  burning  glass, 
And  work  them  into  cinders,  when  the  jewels 
Of  twenty  states  adorn  thee,  and  the  light 
Strikes  out  the  stars !   that  when  thy  name  is 

mention'd, 
Queens  may  look  pale ;  and  we  but  showing  our 

love, 
Nero's  Popjpfea  may  be  lost  in  story ! 
Thus  will  we  have  it. 

Dol.  I  could  well  consent,  sir. 
But,  in  a  monarchy,  how  will  this  be  ? 
The  prince  will  soon  take  notice,  and  both  seize 
You  and  your  stone,  it  being  a  wealth  uniit 
For  any  jirivate  subject. 

Mam.  If  he  knew  it. 

Dol.  Yourself  do  boast  it,  sir. 

Mam.  To  thee,  my  life. 

Dol.  Oh,  but  beware,  sir!   you  may  come  to 
end 
The  remnant  of  your  days  in  a  loath'd  prison. 
By  speaking  of  it. 

Mam.  'Tis  no  idle  fear : 
We'll  therefore  go  withal,  my  girl,  and  live 
In  a  free  state,  where  we  will  eat  our  mullets. 
Soused  in  high-coimtry  wines,    sup  pheasants' 

eggs, 
And  have  our  cockles  boil'd  in  silver  shells ; 
Om-  shrimps  to  swim  again,  as  when  they  liv'd. 
In  a  rare  butter  made  of  dolphin's  milk. 
Whose   cream  does  look  like   opals;   and  with 

these 
Delicate  meats  set  ourselves  high  for  pleasure. 
And  take  us  down  again,  and  then  renew 
Our  youth  and  strength  with  drinking  the  elixir, 
And  so  enjoy  a  perpetuity 
Of  life  and  lust!      And  thou   shalt  have   thy 

wardi'obe 
Eicher  than  nature's,  still  to  change  thy  self, 
And  vary  oftener,  for  thy  pride,  than  she. 
Or  art,  her  wise  and  almost-equal  servant. 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  Sir,  you  are  too  loud.     1  hear  you  every 
word 
Into  the  laboratory.     Some  fitter  place; 
The  garden,  or  great  chamber  above.    How  like 
you  her  ? 
Mam.  Excellent !  Lungs.     There's  for  thee. 

[Gives  him  money. 
Face.  But,  do  you  hear  ? 
Good  sir,  beware,  no  mention  of  the  rabbins. 
Mam.  We  think  not  on  'em. 

[Exeunt  Mam.  and  Dol. 
Face.  Oh,  it  is  well,  sir.— Subtle  ! 

£■«  to- Subtle. 

Dost  thou  not  laugh  ? 

1  />-iar5— Blackfiiars. 


i66 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Sub.  Tes ;  are  they  gone  ? 

Face.  All's  clear. 

Sub.  The  widow  is  come. 

Face.  And  your  quarrelling  disciple  ? 

Sub.  Ay. 

Face.  I  must  to  my  captainship  again  then. 

Sub.  Stay,  bring  them  in  first. 

Face.  So  I  meant.     What  is  she? 
A  bonnibel  ? ' 

Sub.  I  know  not. 

Face.  We'll  draw  lots : 
Toii'll  stand  to  that  ? 

Sub.  What  else  ? 

i^ace.  Oh,  for  a  suit,^ 
To  fall  now  like  a  cui-tain,  flap ! 

Sub.  To  the  door,  man. 

Face.  You'll  have  the  first  kiss,  'cause  I  am  not 
ready.  [^Exit. 

Sub.  Yes,  and  perhaps  hit  you  through  both 
the  nostrils. 

Face,  [luithiit].  Who  would  you  speak  with  ? 

Kas.  [withiii].  Where's  the  captain  ? 

Face,  [ivithiri'].  Gone,  sir, 
About  some  business. 

Kas.  [wUkiif\.  Gone ! 

Face,  [ivithiii].  He'll  return  straight. 
But  master  doctor,  his  lieutenant,  is  here. 

Entei'  Kastril,  followed  by  Dame  Pli.V^'T. 
Sub.  Come  near,  my  worshipful  boy,  my  terrx 

That  is,  my  boy  of  land ;  make  thy  approaches : 
Welcome ;  I  know  thy  lusts,  and  thy  desires, 
And  I  will  serve  and  satisfy  them.     Begin, 
Charge  me  from  thence,  or  thence,  or  in  this  line ; 
Here  is  my  centre :  ground  thy  quarrel. 

Kas.  You  lie. 

Sub.  How,  child  of  wrath  and  anger!  the  loud 
lie? 
For  what^  my  sudden  boy  ? 

Kas.  Nay,  that  look  ye  to, 
I  am  aforehand. 

Sub.  Oh,  this  is  no  true  grammar, 
And  as  ill  logic !   You  must  render  caiiscs,  child. 
Your  first  and  second    intentions,   know   your 

canons 
And  your  divisions,  moods,  degrees,  and  differ- 
ences, 
Your  predicaments,  substance,  and  accident. 
Series,  extern  and  intern,  with  their  causes, 
Efiicient,  material,  foiiiial,  final, 
And  have  your  elements  perfect  ? 

Kas.  What  is  this ! 
The  angry  tongue  he  talks  in  ?  [Aside. 

Sub.  That  false  precept, 
Of  being  aforehand,  has  deceived  a  nun::ber, 
And  made  them  enter  quarrels,  oftentimes, 
Before  they  were  aware ;  and  afterward. 
Against  their  wills. 

Kas.  How  must  I  do  then,  sir  ? 

Sub.  I  cry  this  lady  mercy :  she  should  first 
Have  been  saluted.     [Kisses  hei-}. — I  do  caU  you 

lady. 
Because  you  are  to  be  one,  ere't  be  long, 
My  soft  and  buxom  widow. 

Kas.  Is  she,  i'faith .' 

Sub.  Yes,  or  my  art  is  an  egregious  liar. 

Kas.  How  know  you  ? 

Sub.  By  inspection  on  her  forehead. 
And  subtlety  of  her  lip,  which  must  be  tasted 
Often,  to  make  a  judgment.       [Kisses  her  again.'] 


1  6onm"6eZ— See  note  1,  p.  IGl,  col.  1. 

2  i.e.  liis  captain's  uniform,  for  which  he  is  compelled 
to  go  out. 

*  '  son  of  the  soil.' 


'Slight,  she  melts 
Like  a  myrobolane :' — here  is  yet  a  line, 
In  rivo  J'rontis,'^  tells  me  he  is  no  knight. 

Dame  P.  What  is  he  then,  sir  ? 

Sub.  Let  me  see  your  hand. 
Oh,  your  linea  fortimse^  makes  it  plain ; 
And  stella  here  i)i  monte  Venei'is.* 
But,  most  of  all,  junctura  annularis.^ 
He  is  a  soldier,  or  a  man  of  art,  lady, 
But  shall  have  some  great  honour  shortly. 

Dame  P.  Brother, 
He's  a  rare  man,  believe  me ! 

Re-enter  Face,  in  his  unifoitn. 

Kas.  Hold  your  peace  ! 
Here  comes  t'other  rare  man. — ^'Save  you,  captain. 
Face.    Good   Master    KastrU!      Is  this   your 

sister  ? 
Kas.  Ay,  sir. 
Please  you  to  kuss  her,  and  be  proud  to  know 
her. 
Face.  I  shall  be  proud  to  know  you.  lady. 

[Kisses  her. 
Dame  P.  Brother, 
He  calls  me  lady  too. 
Kas.  Ay,  peace  :  I  heard  it. 

[Talces  her  aside. 
Face.  The  count  is  come. 
Sub.  Where  is  he  ? 
Face.  At  the  door. 
Sub.  WTiy,  you  must  entertain  him. 
Face.  What  will  you  do 
With  these  the  while  ? 

Sub.  Why,  have  them  up,  and  show  them 
Some  fustian  book,  or  the  dark  glass. 

Face.  'Fore  God,! 
She  is  a  delicate  dab-chick !  I  must  have  her. 

[Exit. 

Sub.  Must  you!  ay,  if  your  fortune  will,  you 

must. — 

Come,  sir,  the  captain  will  come  to  us  presently : 

I'll  have  you  to  my  chamber  of  demonstrations. 

Where  I  will  show  you  both  the  grammar,  and 

logic. 
And  rhetoric  of  quarrelling ;  my  whole  method 
Drawn  out  in  tables  ;  and  my  instrument. 
That  hath  the  several  scales  upon't,  shall  make  you 
Able  to  quarrel  at  a  straws-breadth  by  moonlight. 
And,  lad}',  I'll  have  you  look  in  a  glass. 
Some  half  an  hour,  but  to  clear  your  eyesight, 
Against  you  see  your  fortune ;  which  is  greater, 
Than  I  may  judge  upon  the  sudden,  trust  me. 

[Exit,  followed  by  Kas.  and  Dame  P. 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  Whei-e  are  you,  doctor  ? 
Sub.  [unthiii].     I'll  come  to  you  presently. 
Face.  I  will  have  this  same  widow,  now  i  have 
seen  her. 
On  any  composition. 

Re-enter  Subtle. 

Sub.  What  do  you  say .' 

Face.  Have  you  disposed  of  them  ? 

Sub.  I  have  sent  them  up. 

Face.  Subtle,  in  troth,  I  needs  must  have  this 

widow. 
Sub.  Is  that  the  matter  ? 
Face.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 
Sub.  Goto. 


1  See  note  2,  p.  90,  col.  2. 
-  '  In  the  channel  other  forehead.' 
^  '  line  of  fortune.' 
■•  '  in  the  liill  of  Venus.' 

5  'junctiue  of  the  ring  or  circle.'     These  are  also 
astrological  terms. 


BEN  JONSON. 


167 


If  you  rebel  once,  Dol  shall  know  It  all : 
Therefore  be  qixiet,  and  obey  your  chance. 

Face.  Nay,  thou  art  so  violent  now.     Do  but 
conceive, 
Thou  art  old,  and  canst  not  serve — 

8uh.  Who  cannot  ?     I  ? 
'Slight,  I  will  serve  her  with  thee,  for  a — 

Face.  Nay, 
But  understand  :  I'll  give  you  composition. 

Suh.  I  will  ilot  treat  with  thee.    What !  sell  my 
fortune  ? 
'Trs  better  than  my  birthright.   Do  not  miu'mur  : 
"Win  her,  and  carry  her.     If  you  grumble,  Dol 
Knows  it  directly. 

Face.  Well,  sir,  I  am  silent. 
WiU  you  go  help  to  fetch  in  Don  in  state  ? 

\Exit. 

Sub.  I  follow  you,  sir  :   we  must  keep  Face  in 
Or  he  will  overlook  us  like  a  tyrant.  [awe. 

Re-enter  Face,  introducing  Suely  disguised  as  a 
Spaniard. 

Brain  of  a  tailor !  who  comes  here  7     Don  John ! 

Sur.  Senores,  heso las vianos  a vuestras  mercedts.^ 

Sub.  Would  you  had  stoop'd  a  little,  and  kist 

Face.  Peace,  Subtle.  [our  anos ! 

Sub.  Stab  me ;  I  shall  never  hold,  man. 
He  looks  in  that  deep  i-uff  like  a  head  in  a  platter 
Serv'd  in  by  a  short  cloke  upon  two  trestles. 

Face.  Or,  what  do  you  say  to  a  coUar  of  brawn, 
cut  down 
Beneath  the  souse,  and  wriggled  with  a  knife? 

Sub.  'Slud,  he  does  look  too  fat  to  be  a  Spaniard. 

Face.  Perhaps  some  Fleming  or  some  Hollander 
got  him 
In  D 'Alva's  time;  Count  Egmont's  bastard. 

Sub.  Don, 
Your  scurvy,  yellow,  Madrid  face  is  welcome. 

Sur,  Gratia."^ 

Sub.  He  speaks  out  of  a  fortification. 
Pray  God  he  have  no  squibs  in  those  deep  scts.s 

Sur.  For  dios,  senores,  mug  linda  casa  J  * 

Sub.  What  says  he  ? 

Face.  Praises  the  house,  I  think ; 
I  know  no  more  but's  action. 

Sub.  Yes,  the  casa, 
My  precious  Diego,  will  prove  fair  enough 
To  cozen  you  in.    Do  you  mark  ?  you  shall 
Be  cozen' d,  Diego. 

Face.  Cozen'd,  do  you  see, 
My  worthy  Donzel,  cozen'd. 

Sur.  Entiendo.^ 

Sub.  Do  you  intend  it?  so  do  we,  dear  Don. 
Have  you  brought  jDistolets,  or  portagues, 
My  solemn  Don  ? — Dost  thou  feel  any  ? 

Face.  \Feels  his  pockets'].     Full. 

Sub.  You  shall  be  emptied,  Don,  pumped  and 
Dry,  as  they  say.  [ckawn 

Face.  Milked,  in  troth,  sweet  Don. 

Sub.  See  all  the  monsters;  the  great  lion  of 
all,  Don. 

Sur.  Con  licencia,  se  puede  ver  a  esta  senora  f  s 

Sub.  What  talks  he  now  ? 

Face.  Of  the  sennora. 

Stib.  Oh,  Don, 
That  is  the  lioness,  which  you  shall  see 
Also,  my  Don. 

Face.  'Slid,  Subtle,  how  shall  we  do  ? 

Sub.  For  what? 

Face.  Why,  Dol's  employ'd,  you  know. 


1  '  Gentlemen,  I  kiss  your  honours'  hands.' 

*  'Thanks.' 

s  i.e  in  the  deep  plaits  of  his  raff. 

*  '  By  heaven,  gentlemen,  a  very  handsome  house ! ' 

*  '  I  understand.' 

*  '  With  pennission,  is  it  possible  to  see  this  lady  ? ' 


Sub.  That's  true. 
'Fore  heaven,  I  know  not :  he  must  stay,  that's  all. 

Face.  Stay !  that  he  must  not  by  no  means. 

Sub.  No!  why? 

Face.  Unless  you'll  mar  all.     'Slight,  he  will 
suspect  it  : 
And  then  he  will  not  pay,  not  half  so  well. 
This  is  a  travelled  punk-master,  and  does  know 
All  the  delaj's ;  a  notable  hot  rascal, 
And  looks  already  rampant. 

Sub.  'S  death,  and  Mammon 
Must  not  be  troubled. 

Face.  Mammon !  in  no  case. 

Sicb.  What  shall  we  do  then  ? 

Face.  Think :  j'ou  must  be  sudden. 

Sur.  Entiendo  que  la  senora  es  tan  hermosa,  que 
codicio  tan  verla,  coma  la  bien  aventuranza  de  mi 
vida.^ 

Face.  Ml  vida!    'Slid,  Subtle,  he  puts  mo  in 
mind  o'  the  widow. 
What  dost  thou  say  to  draw  her  to  it,  ha  ! 
And  teU  her  'tis  her  fortune  ?  all  our  venture 
Now  lies  upon't.    It  is  but  one  man  more, 
Which  of  us  chance  to  have  her:  and,  beside. 
There  is  no  maidenhead  to  be  fear'd  or  lost. 
What  dost  thou  think  on't.  Subtle  ? 

Sub.  Who,  I  ?  why— 

Fac.  The  credit  of  our  house  too  is  engaged. 

Sub.  You  made  me  an  offer  for  my  share  ere- 
while. 
What  wilt  thou  give  me,  i'f aith  ? 

Face.  Oh,  by  that  light 
I'll  not  buy  now.     You  know  your  doom  to  me. 
E'en  take  your  lot,  obey  your  chance,  sir ;  win 
And  wear  her  out  for  me.  [her, 

Sid).  'Slight,  I'll  not  work  her  then. 

Face.  It  is  the  common  cause ;  therefore  bethink 
Dol  else  must  know  it,  as  you  said.  [you. 

Sub.  I  care  not. 

Sw.  Senores,  proque  se  tarda  tanto?^ 

Sub.  Faith,  I  am  not  fit,  I  am  old. 

Face.  That's  now  no  reason,  sii'. 

Sur.  Puedo  ser  de  hazer  burla  de  mi  amor  f  3 

Face.  You  hear  the  Don  too  ?  by  this  air,  I  call, 
And  loose  the  hinges :  Dol ! 

Sub.  A  plague  of  hell — 

Face.  Wdl  you  then  do  ? 

Sub.  You  are  a  terrible  rogue  ! 
I'll  think  of  this  :  wdl  you,  sir,  call  the  widow  ? 

Face.  Yes,  and  I'll  take  her  too  with  all  her 
faults. 
Now  I  do  think  on't  better. 

Sub.  With  all  my  heart,  sir| 
Am  I  discharged  o'  the  lot  ? 

Face.  As  you  please. 

Sub.  Hands.  [They  tahe  handa. 

Face.  Eemember  now,  that  upon  any  change, 
You  never  claim  her. 

Sub.  Much  good  joy,  and  health  to  you,  sir. 
Marry  a  whore !  fate,  let  me  wed  a  witch  first. 

Sur.  For  estas  honradas  barbds  * — 

Sub.  He  swears  by  his  beard. 
Despatch,  and  call  the  brother  too.     [Exit  Pace. 

Sur.  Tenyo  duda,  senores,  que  no  me  hagan 
alguna  traycion.^ 

Sub.    How,   issue    on?    yes,    prsesto,    sennor. 
Please  you 
Enthratha  the  cliambrata,  worthy  Don : 


1  '  I  hear  the  lady  is  so  handsome,  that  I  am  an  jious 
to  see  her,  as  the  most  fortunate  circumstance  (Jf  my 

life.' — GlFFORD. 

2  '  Gentlemen,  why  do  you  delay  so'much?' 

3  '  Can  you  he  making  a  jest  of  my  love?  ' 
*  '  By  these  honourable  beards.'  (?) 

^  '  I  fear,  gentlemen,  that  you  are  about  to  play  me 
some  foul  trick.' 


1 68 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Where  if  you  please  the  fates,  in  your  hathada, 
You  shall  be  soaked,  and  stroked,  and  tubb'd,  and 

rubbVl, 
And  scrubb'd,  and  fubb'd,  dear  Don,  before  you 

go- 
You  shall,  in  faith,  my  scurvy  baboon  Don. 
Be  curried,  claw'd,  and  flaw'd,  and  taw'd,  indeed. 
I  will  the  heartlier  go  about  it  now, 
And  make  the  widow  a  punk  so  much  the  sooner, 
To  be  revenged  on  this  impetuous  Face : 
The  quickly  doing  of  it,  is  the  grace. 

[_Exeunt  Suii.  and  Sukly. 

ACT  IV.-SCENE  II. 

Another  room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Face,  Kastril,  and  Dame  Pliant. 

Face.  Come,  lady:   I  knew  the  doctor  would 
not  leave. 
Till  he  had  found  the  very  nick  of  her  fortune. 
Kas.  To   be  a  countess,  say  you,  a  Spanish 

countess,  sir  ? 
Dame  P.  Why,  is  that  better  than  an  English 

countess  ? 
Face.  Better !  'Slight,  make  you  that  a  question, 

lady? 
Kas.  Nay,  she  is  a  fool,  captain,  you  must  par- 
don her. 
Face.  Ask  fi-om  your  courtier,  to  your  inns-of- 
court-man. 
To  your  mere  milliner  ;  they  will  teU  you  all. 
Your  Spanish  jennet  is  the   best  horse ;    your 

Spanish 
Stoup  is  the  best  garb ;  *  your  Spanish  beard 
Is  the  best  cut;  your  Spanish  ruffs  are  the  best 
Wear ;  your  Spanish  pavin  '^  the  best  dance  ; 
Your  Spanish  titillation  in  a  glove 
The  best  perfume  ;  and  for  your  Spanish  pike, 
And  Spanish  blade,  let  your  poor  captain  speak — 
Here  comes  the  doctor. 

Enter  Subtle,  with  ajyajKr. 

Sub.  My  most  honoured  lady, 
For  so  I  am  now  to  stylo  you,  having  found 
By  this  my  scheme,  you  are  to  undergo 
An  honourable  fortune  very  shortly. 
What  will  you  say  now,  if  some — 

Face.  I  have  told  her  all,  sir  ; 
And  her  right  worshipful  brother  here,  that  she 

shall  be 
A  countess ;  do  not  delay  them,  sir ;  a  Spanish 
countess. 

Sub.  Still,  my  scarce-worshipful  captain,  you 
can  keep 
No  secret!  Well,  since  he  has  told  you,  madam, 
Do  you  forgive  him,  and  I  do. 

Kas.  She  shall  do  that,  sir; 
I'll  look  to't,  'tis  my  charge. 

Sub.  Well  then :  naught  rests 
But  that  she  fit  her  love  now  to  her  fortune. 

Dame  P.  Truly  I  shall  never  brook  a  Spaniard. 

Sub.  No! 

Dame  P.  Never  since   eighty-eight"   could   I 
abide  them, 


>  your  Spanish  stoup,  &c.  Gifford  can't  explain  this; 
it  may  mean  that  the  Spanish  stoop  or  bow  is  the  most 
elegant  fashion,  or  stoup  may  be  some  kind  of  dress. 
During  the  early  part  of  James's  reign  Spanish  influence 
was  paramount  at  court,  and  Spanish  fashions,  in  con- 
sequence, were  generally  adopted  there. 

spavin  was  a  grave  majestic  kind  of  dance,  perhaps 
from  Lat.  pavo,  a  peacock. 

^  eighty-eight— i.e.  1588,  the  year  of  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada. 


And  that  was  some  three  year  afore  I  was  born, 
in  truth. 

Sub.  Come,  you  must  love  him,  or  be  miserable; 
Choose  which  you  will. 

Face.  B3'  this  good  rush,  persuade  her. 
She  will  cry  strawberries  else  within  this  twelve- 
month. 

Sid).  Naj',  shads  and  mackerel,  which  is  worse. 

Face.  Indeed,  sir ! 

Kas.  'Ods  lid,  you  shall  love  him,  or  I'll  kick 
you. 

Dame  P.  Why, 
I'll  do  as  you  would  have  me,  brother. 

Kas.  Do, 
Or  bj'  this  hand  I'll  maul  you. 

Face.  Nay,  good  sir. 
Be  not  so  fierce. 

Sub.  No,  my  enraged  child ; 
She  will  be  ruled.     What,  when  she   comes  to 

taste 
The  pleasures  of  a  countess  !  to  be  courted — 

Face.  And  kiss'd,  and  ruffled  ! 

Sub.  Ay,  behind  the  hangings. 

Face.  And  then  come  forth  in  pomp  ! 

Sub.  And  know  her  state  ! 

Face  Of  keeping  all  the  idolaters  of  the  cham- 
ber 
Barer  to  her,  than  at  their  prayers ! 

Sid).  Is  serv'd 
Upon  the  knee ! 

Face.  And  has  her  pages,  ushers, 
Footmen,  and  coaches — 

Sub.  Her  six  mares — 

Face.  Naj',  eight! 

Sub.  To   hurry  her  through  London,  to   the 
Exchange, 
Bethlem,  the  Cliina-houses — 

Face.  Yes,  and  have 
The  citizens  gape  at  her,  and  praise  her  tires. 
And  my  lord's  goose-turd  bands,  that  ride  with 
hei-. 

Kas.  Most  brave !  By  this  hand,  you  are  not 
my  suster 
If  you  refuse. 

Dame  P.  I  will  not  refuse,  brother. 

Enter  Surly. 

Siir.  Que  es  esto,  senores,  que  no  venga  ?     Esta 
tardanza  me  mata  !  1 

Face.  It  is  the  count  come : 
The  doctor  knew  he  would  be  here,  by  his  art. 

Sid).  En  gallanta  madama.,  Don!  gallantissima  !^ 

Sur.  Par  todos  lus  dioses,  la  mas  acabada  hermo- 
sura,  que  he  visto  en  mi  vida  !^ 

Face.  Is't  not  a  gallant  language  that  they 
speak  .-* 

Kas.  An  admirable  language.  Is't  not  French  ? 

Face.  No,  Spanish,  sir. 

Kas.  It  goes  like  law-French, 
And  that,  they  say,  is  the  courtliest  language. 

Face.  List,  sir. 

Sur.  El  sol  ha  perdido  su  lumbre,  con  el  esplan- 
dor  que  trae  tsta  dama  !     Valgame  Dios  !  * 

Face.  He  admires  your  sister. 

Kas.  Must  not  she  make  curt'sy  ? 

Sub.  'Ods  will,  she  must  go  to  him,  man,  and 
kiss  him ! 
It  is  the  Spanish  fashion  for  the  women 
To  make  first  court. 


1  'Wliat  is  the  reason,  gentlemen,  you  do  not  come? 

This  dela\'  kills  me.' 
-'  'The  handsome  lady,  Don!  most  handsome.' 
3  '  By  all  the  gods,  the  most  perfect  beauty  I  ever  saw !' 
*  '  The  brightness  of  the  sun  is  dimmed  in  presence  of 

the  splendour  of  this  lady !    Good  God  I ' 


BEN  yONSON. 


i6g 


Face.  'Tis  true  he  tells  you,  sir: 
His  art  knows  all. 

Sw.  Porqueno  se  actide?^ 

Kas.  He  speaks  to  Ler,  I  think. 

Face.  That  he  does,  sir. 

iS'Ui:  For  el  amor  de  Dios,  que  es  esto  que  se 
tarda  f"- 

Kas.  Nay,  see  :  she  will  not  understand  him  ! 
Noddy.  [gull, 

Fa7)ie  P.  What  say  you,  brother .' 

Kas.  Ass,  my  suster. 
Go  kuss  him,  as  the  cunning  man  would  have 

you  ; 
I'll  thrust  a  pin  in  your  buttocks  else. 

Face.  Oh  no,  sir. 

/Sur.  Senora  mia,  mi  persona  esta  mvy  indtgna 
de  allegar  a  tanta  hermosiira.^ 

Face.  Does  he  not  use  her  bravely .' 

Kas.  Bravely,  i'faith! 

Face.  Nay,  he  will  use  her  better. 

Kas.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Sur.  Senora,  si  sera  serrida,  eniremonos.* 

[^Exit  with  Dame  Pliant. 

Kas.  Where  does  he  carry  her  ? 

Face.  Into  the  garden,  sir  ; 
Take  you  no  thought :  I  must  intei-pret  for  her. 

Sub.  GiveDol  the  word.''     \_Aside  to  F ack,  who 
goes  out.1 — Come,  my  fierce  child,  advance. 
We'll  to  our  quarrelling  lesson  again. 

Kas.  Agreed. 
I  love  a  Spanish  boy  with  all  my  heart. 

Sub.  Nay,  and  by  this  means^  sir,  you  shall  be 
brother 
To  a.  great  count. 

Kas.  Ay,  I  knew  that  at  first. 
This  match  will  advancethe  house  of  the  Kastrils. 

Sub.  'Pray  God  your  eister  prove  but  pliant ! 

Kas.  Why, 
Her  name  is  so  by  her  other  husband. 

Sub.  How ! 

Kas.  The  widow  Pliant.    Knew  you  not  that.' 

Sub.  No,  faith,  sir ; 
Yet,  by  erection  of  her  figure,  I  guessed  it. 
Come,  let's  go  practise. 

Kas.  Yes,  but  do  you  think,  doctor, 
I  e'er  shall  quarrel  well  ? 

Sub.  I  warrant  you.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 

Another  room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Dot,  in  her  Jit  of  raving,  followedby  Mammon. 

Dol.  For  after  Alexander's  death — 

Mam.  Good  lady — 

Dol.  That  Perdiccas  and  Antigonus  were  slain, 
The  tico  that  stood,  Seleuc\  and  Ptolomee — 

3Iam.  Madam. 

Dol.  Made  up  the  two  legs,  and  the  fourth  least. 
That  was  Gog-north,  and  Egypt-south :  which  after 
Was  called  Gog-iron-leg,  and  South-iron-leg — 

Mam.  Lady — 

Dol.  And  then  Gog-horned.  So  was  Egypt,  too: 
Then  Egypt-clay-leg,  and  Gog-clay-leg — 

Mam.  Sweet  madam. 

Dol.  And  last  Gog-dust,  and  Egypt-dust,  which 
full 
In  the  last  linh  of  the  fourth  chain.     And  these 
Be  stars  in  story,  which  none  see,  or  look  at — 


1  '  Why  do  you  not  run  to  me  ? ' 

2  '  By  the  love  of  God,  why  do  you  delay  ? ' 

3  '  My  lady,  my  person  is  quite  unworthy  to  approach 
such  beauty.' 

■•  '  Lady,  if  you  please,  let  us  go  within.' 
*  i.e.  to  begin  her  fit  of  raving. 


Mam.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Dol.  For,  as  he  says,  except 
IVe  call  the  rabbins,  and  the  heathen  GreeJcs-^ 

Mam.  Dear  lady. 

Dol.   To  come  from  Salem,  and  from  Athens, 
And  teach  the  people  of  Great  Britain — 

Enter  Face,  hastily,  in  his  servant's  dress. 

Face.  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  ■ 

Dol.  To  sjjeak  the  tongue  of  Eber  and  Javan — 

Mam.  Oh, 
She's  in  her  fit. 

Dol.   We  shall  know  nothing — 

Face.  Death,  sir, 
We  are  undone ! 

Dol.  Where  then  a  learned  linguist 
Shall  she  the  ancient  used  communion 
Ofvoioels  and  consonants — 

Face.  My  master  will  hear ! 

Dol.    A  wisdom,   which  Pythagoras  held  most 
high — 

Mam.  Sweet  honoui'able  lady ! 

Dol.  To  comprise 
All  sounds  of  voices,  infeio  marks  of  letters — 

Face.  Nay,  you  must  never  hope  to  lay  her  now. 
\Th<:y  all apeiil:  together. 

Dol.  And  so  we  may  arrive  by  Talmud  skill, 
And  profane  Greek,  to  raise  the  building  up 
Of  Helen's  house  against  the  Ismaelite, 
King  of  Thogarma,  and  his  habergions 
Brimstony,  blue,  and  fiery  ;  and  the  force 
Of  king  Abaddon,  and  the  beast  of  Ciitim: 
Which  rabbi  David  Kimchi,  Onkelos, 
And  Aben  Ezra  do  interpiret  Rome. 

Face.  How  did  you  put  her  into't  ? 

Mam.  Alas !  I  talk'd 
Of  a  fifth  monarchy  I  would  erect 
With  the  philosopher's  stone,  by  chance,  and  she 
Falls  on  the  other  four  straight. 

Face.  Out  of  Broughton  ! 
I  told  you  so.     'Slid,  stop  her  mouth. 

Mam.  Is't  best  ? 

Face.  She'll  never  leave  else.     If  the  old  man 
hear  her, 
We  are  but  faeces,  ashes. 

Sub.  [i-uithin.]  What's  to  do  there  ? 

Face.  Oh,  we  are  lost !     Now  she  hears  him, 
she  is  quiet. 

Enter  Subtle;  they  run  different  ways. 

Mam.  Where  shall  I  hide  me  ? 

Sub.  How !  what  sight  is  here  ? 
Close  deeds  of  darkness,  and  that  shun  the  light! 
Bring  him  again.    Who  is  he  ?     What,  my  son ! 
Oh,  I  have  lived  too  long. 

Mam.  Nay,  good,  dear  father, 
There  was  no  unchaste  purjjoso. 

Sub.  Not !  and  tlee  me. 
When  I  come  in  ? 

Mam.  That  was  my  error. 

Sub.  Error! 
Guilt,  guilt,  my  son :  give  it  the  right  name.     No 

marvel. 
If  I  found  check  in  our  great  work  within, 
When  such  affairs  as  these  were  managing ! 

Mam.  Why,  have  you  so  ? 

Sub.  It  has  stood  still  this  half  hour : 
And  all  the  rest  of  our  less  works  gone  back. 
Where  is  the  instrument  of  wickedness. 
My  lewd  false  drudge  .' 

Mam.  Nay,  good  sir,  blame  not  him ; 
Believe  me,  'twas  against  his  will  or  knowledge : 
1  saw  her  by  chance. 

Sub.  Will  you  commit  more  sin, 
To  excuse  a  varlet.' 

Mam.  By  my  hope,  'tis  true,  sir. 

Sub.  Nay,  then  I  wonder  less,  it'  you  for  whom 


17  o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


The  blessing  was  pvepaved,  wouldso  tempt  heaven, 
And  lose  your  fortunes. 

Mam.  Why,  sir? 

Sub.  This  •will  retard 
The  work,  a  month  at  least. 

Mam.  Why,  if  it  do, 
What  remedy  ?     But  think  it  not,  good  father : 
Our  purposes  were  honest 

Sul).  As  they  were. 
So  the  reward  will  prove. — 

\A  loud  explosion  within. 
How  now !  an  me ! 
God,  and  all  saints  be  good  to  us. — 

Re-enter  Face. 

What's  that  ? 
Face.  Oh  sir,  we  are  defeated !  all  the  works 
Are  flown  infumo^  every  glass  is  burst : 
rurnace,  and'  all  rent  down  !  as  if  a  bolt 
Of  thunder  had  been  driven  through  the  house. 
Eetorts,  receivers,  pelicans,  bolt-heads, 
All  struck  in  shivers ! 

[SxTBTue,  falls  dovm  as  in  a  swoon. 

Help,  good  sir  !  alas, 
Coldness   and   death   invades   him.      Nay,    Sir 

Mammon, 
Do  the  fair  offices  of  a  man  !  you  stand, 
As  you  were  readier  to  depart  than  he. 

[Knocking  within. 
Who's  there  ?  my  lord,  her  brother  is  come. 

Mam.  Ha,  Lungs ! 

Face.  His  coach  is  at  the  door.    Avoid  his  sight, 
For  he's  as  furious  as  his  sister's  mad. 

Mam.  Alas ! 

Face.  My  brain  is  quite  imdone  with  the  fume, 
sir, 
I  ne'er  must  hope  to  be  mine  own  man  again. 

Mam.  Is  all  lost,  Lungs  ?  will  nothing  be  pre- 
serv'd 
Of  aU  our  cost  ? 

Face.  Faith,  very  little,  sir ; 
A  peck  of  coals  or  so,  which  is  cold  comfort,  sir. 

Mam.  Oh,  my  voluptuous  mind  !     I  am  justly 
punish'd. 

Face.  And  so  am  I,  sir. 

Mam.  Cast  from  all  my  hopes — 

Face.  Nay,  certainties,  sir. 

Mam.  By  mine  own  base  affections. 

Sub.  [Seeming  to  come  to  himself.']  Oh,  the  curst 
fruits  of  vice  and  lust ! 

Mam.  Good  father. 
It  was  my  sin.    Forgive  it. 

Sub.  Hangs  my  roof 
Over  us  still,  and  will  not  fall,  0  jastics, 
Upon  us,  for  this  wicked  man ! 

Face.  Nay,  look,  sir. 
You  grieve  him  now  with  staying  in  his  sight : 
Good  sir-,  the  nobleman  will  come  too,  and  take 

yon, 
And  that  may  breed  a  tragedy. 

Mam.  ru  go. 

Face.  Ay,  and  repent  at  home,  sir.     It  may  be, 
For  some  good  penance  you  may  have  it  yet ; 
A  hundred  pound  to  the  box  at  Bethlem — 

Mam.  Yes. 

Face.  For  the  restoring  such  as — have  their 
wits. 

Mam.  I'll  do't. 

Face.  I'll  send  one  to  you  to  receive  it. 

Mam.  Do. 
Is  no  projection  left  ? 

Face.  All  flown,  or  stinks,  sir. 

Mam.  WiU  nought  be  sav'd  that's   good  for 
med'cine,  think'st  thou .' 

Face.  I  cannot  tell,  sir.    There  will  be,  perhaps, 
Something  about  the  scraping  of  the  shards, 


Will  cure  the  itch, — though  not  your  itch  of 
mind,  sir.  [Aside. 

It  shall  be  saved  for  you,  and  sent  home.  Good 
sir. 

This  way,  for  fear  the  lord  should  meet  you. 

[Exit  MA3IMON. 

Sub.  [Raising  his  headi]  Face ! 

Face.  Ay. 

Sub.  Is  he  gone  ? 

Face.  Yes,  and  as  heavily 
As  all  the  gold  he  hoped  for  were  in's  blood. 
Let  us  be  light  though. 

Sub.  [Leaping  «//).]  Ay,  as  balls,  and  bound 
And  hit  our  heads  against  the  roof  for  joy  : 
There's  so  much  of  our  care  now  cast  away. 

Face.  Now  to  our  Don. 

Sub.  Yes,  your  young  widow  by  this  time 
Is  made  a  countess.  Face ;  she  has  been  in  travail 
Of  a  young  heir  for  you. 

Face.  Good  sir. 

Sub.  Off  with  your  case. 
And  greet  her  kindly,  as  a  bridegroom  should, 
After  these  common  hazards. 

Face.  Very  well,  sir. 
Will  you  go  fetch  Don  Diego  off,  the  while  ? 

Sub.  And  fetch  him  over  too,  if  you'll  be  pleased, 
sir: 
Would  Dol  were  in  her  place,  to  pick  his  pockets 
now! 

Face.  Why,  you  can  do't  as  well,  if  you  would 
set  to't. 
I  pray  you  prove  your  virtue. 

Sub.  For  your  sake,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 

Another  Room  in  the  same. 

[  Enter  Surly  and  Dame  Pliant. 

Sw.  Lady,  you  see  into  what  hands  you  are 

fall'n ; 
'Mongst  what  a  nest  of  villains  !  and  how  near 
Your  honour  was  t'have  catcli'd  a  certain  clap. 
Through  your  credulity,  had  I  but  been 
So  punctually  forward,  as  place,  time 
And  other  circumstances  would  have  made  a  man; 
For  you're  a  handsome  woman  :  would  you  were 

wise  too ! 
I  am  a  gentleman  come  here  disguised, 
Only  to  find  the  knaveries  of  this  citadel ; 
And  where  I  might  have  wrong'd  your  honoiir, 

and  have  not, 
I  claim  some  interest  in  your  love.     You  are. 
They  say,  a  widow,  rich  ;  and  I'm  a  bachelor. 
Worth  nought :  your  fortunes  maj^make  me  a  man. 
As  mine  have  preserv'd  you  a  woman.     Think 

upon  it, 
And  whether  I  have  deserv'd  you  or  no. 
Dame  P.  I  will,  sir. 
Sur.  And  for  these  household  rogues,  let  me 

alone 
To  treat  with  them. 

Enter  Subtle. 

Sub.  How  doth  my  noble  Diego, 
And  my  dear  madam  countess  ?  hath  the  count 
Been  courteous,  lady  ?  liberal,  and  open  ? 
Donzel,  methinks  you  look  melancholic. 
After  your  coitum,  and  scurvy :  truly, 
I  do  not  like  the  dulness  of  your  eye ; 
It  hath  a  heavy  cast,  'tis  upseei  Dutch, 


1  upsee  Dutch  or  Freeze.  This  is  a  puzzling  phrase. 
Kares  says  it  is  a  cant  phrase  for  being  intoxicated, 
hbing,  in"  the  text,  equal  to  looks  like  intoxication.    It 


BEN  JONSON. 


171 


And  says  yoii  are  a  lumpish  whore-master. 
Be  lighter,  I  will  make  your  pockets  so.  _ 

\Attempts  to  plch  tlum. 

Sur.   [Throws  open  his  cloak.^   Will  you,  don 
ijawd  and  pick-purse  ?    [strikes  him  doivn.'] 
How  now !  reel  you  ? 
Stand  lip,  sir,  you  shall  find,  since  I  am  so  heavy, 
I'll  give  you  equal  weight. 

Sub.  Help  !  murder ! 

Sur.  No,  sir, 
There's  no  such  thing  intended  :  a  good  cart 
And  a  clean  whip  shall  ease  you  of  that  fear. 
I  am  the  Si^anish  don  that  should  be  cozeii'd, 
Bo  you  see,  cozen'd  !    Where's  your  Captain  Face  ? 
That  parcel  broker,  and  whole-bawd,  all  rascal ! 

Enter  Face,  in  his  uniform. 

Face.  How,  Surly! 

Sur.  Oh,  make  your  approach,  good  captain. 
I  have  found  from  whence  your  copper  rings  and 

spoons 
Come   now,    wherewith    you   cheat    abroad   in 

taverns. 
'Twas  here  you  learn'd  t'  anoint  your  boot  with 

brimstone, 
Then  rub  men's  gold  on't  for  a  kind  of  touch. 
And  say  'twas  naught,  when  you  had  changed 

the  colour, 
That  you  might  have't  for  nothing.     And  this 

doctor, 
Tour  sooty,  smoky-bearded  compeer,  he 
Will  close  you  so  much  gold,  in  a  bolt's-head, 
And,  on  a  turn,  convey  in  the  stead  another 
With  sublimed  mercury,  that  shall  biu-st  in  the 

heat. 
And  fly  out  all  infiimo  !    Then  weeps  Mammon ; 
Then  swoons  his  worship.    [Face  slips  out.\    Or, 

he  is  the  Faustus, 
That  casteth  figures  and  can  conjure,  cures 
Plagues,  piles,  and  pox,  by  the  ephemerides, 
And  holds  intelhgence  with  all  the  bawds 
And  midwives  of  three  shires :  while  you  send 

in — 
Captain — what !  is  he  gone? — damsels  with  child. 
Wives  that  are  barren,  or  the  waiting-maid 
With  the  green  sickness. 

[Seizes  Subtle  as  he  is  retiring. 
Nay,  sir,  you  must  tarry. 
Though  he  be  'scaped ;  and  answer  by  the  ears,  sii'. 

Re-enter  Face,  with  Kastril. 

Face.  Why,  now's  the  time,  if  ever  you  will 
quarrel 
Well,  as  they  say,  and  be  a  true-born  child : 
The  doctor  and  your  sister  both  are  abused. 

Kas.  Where  is  he .'  which  is  he  ?  he  is  a  slave, 
Whate'er  he  is,  and  the  son  of  a  whore. — Are  you 
The  man,  sir,  I  would  know  ? 

Sur.  I  should  be  loth,  sir. 
To  confess  so  much. 

Kas.  Then  you  lie  in  your  throat. 

Sur.  How ! 

Face.  [To  EliSTKiL.]  A  very  errant  rogue,  sir, 
Employ'd  here  by  another  conjurer 
That  does  not  love  the  doctor,  and  would  cross  him. 
If  he  knew  how. 

Sur.  Sir,  you  are  abused. 

Kas.  You  lie : 
And  'tis  no  matter. 

Face.  Well  said,  sir !     He  ia 
The  impudent'st  rascal — 


has  been  said  that  op-zee  in  Dutch  means  '  over  the  sea,' 
which  reminds  us  of  tlie  Eng.  'half  seas  over.'  But 
op-zyn-fries  means  '  in  tlio  Dutch  fasliion ;'  or,  a  la  mode 
de  Frise,  which  Nares  thinks  the  best  intei'pretation  of 
the  phrase. 


Sur.  Yoii  are  indeed.    Will  j'ou  hear  me,  sir  ? 

Face.  By  no  means  :  bid  hiui  be  gone. 

Kas.  Begone,  sir,  quickly. 

Sur.  This  's  strange ! — Lady,   do  you  inform 
youi-  brother. 

Face.  There  is  not  such  a  foist'  in  all  the  town, 
The  doctor  had  him  pirescntly;  and  finds  yet, 
The  Spanish  count  will  come  here. — Bear  np. 
Subtle.  [Aside. 

Sub.  Yes,  sir,  he  must  appear  within  this  houi". 

Face.  And  yet  this  rogue  would   come   in   a 
disguise. 
By  the  temptation  of  another  spirit, 
To  trouble  our  art,  though  he  could  not  hurt  it ! 

Kas.  Ay, 
I  know. — Away  [to  his  Sister],  you  talk  like  a 
foolish  mauther.' 

Sur.  Sir,  all  is  truth  she  says. 

Face.  Do  not  believe  him,  sir. 
He  is  the  lying'st  swabber !    Come  your  ways,  sir. 

Sur.  You  are  valiant  out  of  company  ! 

Kas.  Yes,  how  then,  sir  ? 

Enter  Dkugger,  with  apiece  of  damask. 

Face.  Nay,  here's  an  honest  fellow,  too,  that 
knows  him, 
And  all  his  tricks.    Make  good  what  I  say,  Abel ; 
This  cheater  would  have   cozen'd  thee   o'   the 
widow. —  [Aside  to  DRUG. 

He  owes  this  honest  Drugger  here,  seven  pound, 
He  has  had  on  him,  in  two-penny'orths  of  tobacco. 

Drug.  Yes,  sir. 
And  he  has  damn'd  himself  three  terms  to  pay  me. 

Face.  And  what  does  he  owe  for  lotium?^ 

Drug.  Thirty  shillings,  sir; 
And  for  six  syringes. 

Sur.  Hydra  of  villany  ! 

Face.  Nay,  sir,  you  must  quarrel  him  out  o' 
the  house. 

Kas.  I  will. — 
Sir,  if  you  get  not  out  o'  doors,  you  lie ; 
And  you  are  a  pimp. 

Sw.  Why,  this  is  madness,  sir. 
Not  valour  in  you ;  I  must  laugh  at  this. 

Kas.  It  is  my  humour :  you  are  a  pimp  and  a 
trig,* 
And  an  Amadis  de  Gaul,  or  a  Don  Quixote. 

Drug.  Or  a  knight  o' the  curious  coxcomb,  do 
you  see  ? 

Enter  Ananias. 

Ana.  Peace  to  the  household ! 

Kas.  I'll  keep  peace  for  no  man. 

Ana.  Casting  of  dollars  is  concluded  lawful. 

Kas.  Is  he  the  constable  ? 

Sub.  Peace,  Ananias. 

Face.  No,  sir. 

Kas.  Then  you  are  an  otter,  and  a  shad,  a  whit, 
A  very  tim. 

Sur.  You'll  hear  me,  sir  ? 

Kas.  I  will  not. 

Ana.  What  is  the  motive  ? 

Sub.  Zeal  in  the  youug  gentleman, 
Against  his  Spanish  slops. ^ 

Ana.  They  are  profane. 
Lewd,  superstitious,  and  idolatrous  breeches. 

Sur.  New  rascals! 


1  foist — cheating  rogue,  sharper. 

2  mauther,  said  to  be  from  Danish  moer,  means  here 
a  girl.  It  is  still  used  in  a  contemptuous  way  in  Norfolk 
and  Suffolk. 

3  lotium — lotion,  or  a  -wash.  Face  wants  to  insinuate 
that  Surly  is  a  diseased  profligate. 

*  trig  may  here  mean  coxcomb;  Scotch  t7'ig — neat, 
fine. 

*  slops — ^breeches. 


1/2 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Kas.  Will  you  begono,  sir  ? 

Ana.  Avoid,  Satlian  ! 
Tliou  <art  not  of  the  light.     That  niff  of  pride 
About  thy  neck  betrays  thee,  and  is  the  same 
With  that  which  the  unclean  birds,  in  seventy- 
seven,  ^ 
Were  seen  to  prank  it  with  on  divers  coasts : 
Thou  look'st  like  Antichrist,  iu  that  lewd  hat. 

Sui:  I  must  give  way. 

Kas.  Begone,  sir. 

Sur.  But  I'lltake 
A  course  with  you — 

Ana.  Depart,  proud  Spanish  fiend! 

Sur.  Captain  and  doctor. 

Ana.  Child  of  perdition  ! 

A"as.  Hence,  sir !—  [ExU^vruy. 

Did  I  not  quaiTel  bravely  .' 

Face.  Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

Kas.  Nay,  an  I  give  my  mind  to't,  I  shall  do't. 

Face.  Oh,  you  must  follow,  sir,  and  threaten 
him  tame : 
He'll  turn  again  else. 

Kas.  I'll  re-turn  him  then.  \_Exit. 

[Subtle  talces  Ananias  aside. 

Face.  Drugger,  this  rogue  prevented-  us  for 
thee : 
We  had  determin'd  that  thou  should'st- have  come 
In  a  Spanish  suit,  and  have  carried  her  so  ;  and 

he, 
A  brokerly  slave !  goes,  puts  it  on  himself. 
Hast  brought  the  damask  .'' 

Drug.  Yes,  sir. 

Face.  Thou  must  borrow 
A  Spanish  suit.     Hast  thou  no  credit  with  the 
players  ? 

Drug.  Yes,  sir ;  did  you  never  see  me  play  the 
Fool? 

Face'  I  know  not.  Nab: — Thou  shalt,  if  I  can 
help  it. —  ^  \^Aside. 

Hieronimo's  old  cloak,  ruff,  and  hat  will  serve  ; 
I'll  tell  thee  more  when  thou  bring'st  'em. 

l^Exit  Dkugger 

Ana.  Sir,  I  know 
The  Spaniard  hates  the  brethren,  and  hath  spies 
Upon  their  actions :  and  that  this  was  one 
I  make  no  scruple. — But  the  holy  synod 
Have  been  in  praj'er  and  meditation  for  it ; 
And  'tis  revealed  no  less  to  them  than  me. 
That  casting  of  money  is  most  lawful. 

S^ib.  True; 
But  here  I  cannot  do  it :  if  the  house 
Should  chance  to  be  suspected,  all  would  out, 
And  we  be  lock'd  up  in  the  Tower  for  ever. 
To  make  gold  there  for  the  state,  never  come  out ; 
And  then  are  you  defeated. 

Ana.  I  will  tell 
This  to  the  elders  and  the  weaker  brethren. 
That  the  whole  company  of  the  separation 
May  join  in  humble  prayer  again. 

Sub.  And  fasting. 

Ana.  Yea,  for  some  fitter  place.     The  peace  of 
mind 
Eest  with  these  walls  !  \_Exit. 

Sub.  Thanks,  courteous  Ananias.  , 

Face.  What  did  he  come  for  ?^ 

Sub.  About  casting  dollars. 


•  The  allusion  to  the  '  unclean  heasts  of  seventy-seven ' 
I  do  not  understand,  unless  It  refer  to  tlie  number  of 
Spanish  troops  whicli  poured  into  the  Netherlands  about 
that  time,  under  D'Alva. — Gifford. 

2  prevented — came  before,  forestalled. 

3  Thou  Shalt,  ctec. — if  I  can  forward  or  promote  it,  i.e. 
'playing  the  fool.'  Old  Hieronimo,  whose  stage  dress 
jioor  Abel  is  sent  to  borrow,  was  the  hero  of  the  Spanish 
Trac/edy,  so  often  burlesqued  by  our  poet  and  his  con- 
temporaries.—tGifeokd. 


Presently  out  of  hand.     And  so  I  told  him, 
A  Spanish  minister  came  here  to  spy 
Against  the  faithful — 

Face.  I  conceive.     Come,  Subtle, 
Thou  art  so  down  upon  the  least  disaster ! 
How  wouldst  thou  ha'  done,  if  I  had  not  help't 
thee  out  ? 
Sub.  I  thank  thee,  Face,  for  the   angry  boy, 

i'  faith. 
Face.  Who  would  have  look'd  it  should  have 
been  that  rascal 
Surly  ?   he  had  dyed  his  beard  and  all.     Well, 

sir, 
Here's  damask  come  to  make  you  a  suit. 
Sicb.  Where's  Drugger  ? 

Face.  He   is  gone   to   borrow  me  a  Spanish 
habit ; 
I'll  be  the  count,  now. 
Sub.  But  Where's  the  widow  ? 
Face.  Within,  with  my  lord's  sister  :   Madam 
Dol 
Is  entertaining  her. 

Sub.  By  your  favour,  Face, 
Now  she  is  honest,  I  will  stand  again. 
Face.  You  will  not  offer  it. 
Sub.  Why? 

Face.  Stand  to  your  word. 
Or — here  comes  Dol,  she  knows — 
Sub.  You  are  tyrannous  still. 

Enter  Dol,  hastily. 

Face.  Strict  for  my  right. — How  now,  Dol? 
Hast  [thou]  told  her 
The  Spanish  count  will  come  ? 

Dol.  Yes  ;  but  another  is  come, 
You  little  look'd  for ! 

Face.  Who  is  that  ? 

Dol.  Your  master ; 
The  master  of  the  house. 

Sub.  How,  Dol ! 

Face.  She  lies, 
This  is  some  trick.     Come,  leave  your  quiblins, 
Dorothy. 

Dol.  Look  out,  and  see. 

[Face  goes  to  the  window. 

Sub.  Art  thou  in  earnest  ? 

Dol.  'Slight, 
Forty  o'  the  neighbours  are  about  him,  talking. 

Face.  'Tis  he,  by  this  good  day. 

Dol.  'Twill  prove  ill  day 
For  some  on  us. 

Face.  We  are  undone,  and  taken. 

Dol.  Lost,  I'm  afraid. 

Sub.  You  said  he  would  not  come, 
While  there  died  one  a  week  within  the  liberties. 

Face.  No ;  'twas  within  the  walls. 

Sub.  Was't  so  !  cry  you  mercy. 
I  thought  the  liberties.     What  shall  we  do  now, 
Face? 

Face.  Be  silent :  not  a  word,  if  he  call  or  knock. 
I'll  into  mine  old  shape  again  and  meet  him. 
Of  Jeremy,  the  butler.     In  the  mean  time. 
Do  you  two  pack  up  all  the  goods  and  purchase,i 
That  we  can  carry  in  the  two  trunks.     I'll  keep 

him 
Off  for  to-day,  if  I  cannot  longer:  and  then 
At  night,  I'll  ship  you  both  away  to  Eatcliff, 
Where  we  will  meet  to-morrow,  and  there  we'll 

share. 
Let  Mammon's  brass  and  pewter  keep  the  cellar ; 
We'll  have  another  time  for  that.     But,  Dol, 
'Prythee  go  heat  a  little  water  quickly  ; 
Subtle  must  shave  me :  all  my  captain's  beard 


I  purc/iase— a  cant  term  for  goods  stolen  or  dishonestly 
come  by. — Gifford. 


BEN  JONSON. 


173 


Must  off,  to  make  me  appear  smooth  Jeremy. 
You'll  do  it  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  I'll  shave  you,  as  well  as  I  can. 

Face.  And  not  cut  my  throat,  but  trim  me  ? 

Sub,  You  shall  see,  sii-. 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

Before  Lovewit's  Boor. 
Enter  Lovewit,  xoith  several  of  the  Neighboiirs. 

Love.  Has  there  been  such  resort,  say  you  ? 

1  Nei.  Dailj^  sir. 

2  Nei.  And  nightly,  too. 

3  Nei.  Ay,  some  as  brave  as  lords. 

4  Nei.  Ladies  and  gentlewomen. 

5  Nei.  Citizens'  wives. 

1  Nei.  And  knights. 

6  Nei.  In  coaches. 

2  Nei.  Yes,  and  oyster-women. 

1  Nei.  Beside  other  gallants. 

3  Nei.  Sailors'  wives. 

4  Nei.  Tobacco  men. 

5  Nei.  Another  Pimlico ! 

Love.  What  should  my  knave  advanco. 
To  draw  this  company  ?  He  hung  out  no  banners 
Of  a  strange  calf  with  five  legs  to  be  seen, 
Or  a  huge  lobster  with  six  cla-ws  ? 

6  Nei.  No,  sii-. 

3  Nei.  We  had  gone  in  then,  sir. 
Love.  He  has  no  gift 

Of  teaching  in  the  nose  that  e'er  I  know  of. 
You  saw  no  bills  set  up  that  promised  cure 
Of  agues,  or  the  toothach  .' 

2  Nei.  No  such  thing,  sir. 

Love.  Nor  heard  a  ckum  struck  for  baboons  or 
puppets .' 

5  Nei.  Neither,  sir. 

Love.  What  device  should  he  bring  forth  now  ? 
I  love  a  teeming  wit  as  I  love  my  nourishment : 
'Pray  God  he  have  not  kept  such  open  house. 
That  he  hath  sold  my  hangings,  and  my  bedding  ! 
I  left  him  nothing  else.     If  he  have  eat  them, 
A  plague  o'  the  moth,  say  I !     Sure  he  has  got 
Some  bawdy  pictures  to  call  all  this  ging  ! ' 
The  friar  and  the  nun ;  or  the  new  motion 
Of  the  knight's   courser  covering  the  parson's 

mare ; 
The  boy  of  six  year  old  ■with  the  great  thing  : 
Or  't  may  be,  he  has  the  fleas  that  run  at  tilt 
Upon  a  table,  or  some  dog  to  dance. 
When  saw  you  him .' 

1  Nei.  Who,  sir,  Jeremy? 

2  Nei.  Jeremy  butler  ? 
We  saw  him  not  this  mouth. 

Love.  How ! 

4  Nei.  Not  these  five  weeks,  sir. 

6  Nei.  These  six  weeks  at  the  least. 
Love.  You  amaze  me,  neighbours ! 

5  Nei.  Sure,  if  your  worship  know  not  where 
he  is. 

He's  slipt  away. 

6  Nei.  Pray  God,  he  be  not  made  away. 
Love.  Ha  !  it's  no  time  to  question,  then. 

{Knocks  at  the  door. 
6  Nei.  About 
Some  three  weeks  since,  I  heard  a  doleful  ci'y. 
As  I  sat  i;p  a-mending  my  wife's  stockings. 
Love.    'Tis   strange    that    none  will  answer! 
Didst  thou  hear 
A  cry,  say'st  thou .' 


6  Nei.  Yes,  sir ;  like  unto  a  man 
That  had  been  strangled  an  hour,  and  could  not 
speak. 

2  Nei.  I  heard  it  too,  just  this  day  three  weeks, 
at  two  o'clock 

Next  morning. 

Love.  These  be  miracles,  or  you  make  them  so ! 
A  man  an  hour  strangled,  and  could  not  speak. 
And  both  you  heard  him  cry  ? 

3  Nei.  Yes,  downward,  sir. 

Love.  Thou  art  a  wise  fellow.     Give  me  thy 

hand,  I  pray  thee. 
What  trade  art  thou  on  ? 
3  Nei.  A  smith,  an't  please  your  worship. 
Love.  A  smith !  then  lend  me  thy  help  to  get 

this  door  open. 
3  Nei.  That  I  will  presently,  sir,  but  fetch  my 

tools—  [_Exit. 

1  Nei.    Sir,  best  to  knock  again,  afore   you 

break  it. 
Love.  {Knoclcs  again.']  I  will. 

Enter  Face  in  his  butler'^s  livery. 

Face.  What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

1,  2,  4  Nei.  Oh,  here's  Jeremy ! 

Face.  Good  sir,  come  from  the  door. 

Love.  Why  !  what's  the  matter  .' 

Face.  Yet  farther,  you  are  too  near  yet. 

Love.  In  the  name  of  wonder. 
What  means  the  fellow  ! 

Face.  The  house,  sir,  has  been  visited. 

Love.   What !    with  the  plague }    stand  thou 
then  farther. 

Face.  No,  sir, 
I  had  it  not. 

Love.  Who  had  it  then  ?    I  left 
None  else  but  thee  in  the  house. 

Face.  Yes,  sir,  my  fellow. 
The  cat  that  kept  the  buttery,  had  it  on  her 
A  week  before  I  spied  it ;  but  I  got  her 
Oonvey'd  away  in  the  night :  and  so  I  shut 
The  house  up  for  a  month — 

Love.  How .' 

Face.  Purposing  then,  sir, 
T'have  burnt  rose-vinegar,  ti'eacle,  and  tar, 
And  have  made  it  sweet,  that  you  should  ne'er 

have  known  it ; 
Because  I  knew  the  news  would  but  afHict  you, 
sir. 

Love.  Breathe  less,  and  farther  off !    Why,  this 
is  stranger : 
The  neighbours  tell  me  all  here  that  the  doors 
Have  still  been  open — 

Face.  How,  sir ! 

Love.  Gallants,  men  and  women, 
And  of  all  sorts,  tag-rag,  been  seen  to  flock  here 
In  threaves,!  these  ten  weeks,  as  to   a  second 

Hogsden, 
In  days  of  Pimlico  and  Eye-bright.^ 

Face.  Sir, 
Their  wisdoms  will  not  say  so. 

Love.  To-day  they  speak 
Of  coaches,  and  gallants  ;  one  in  a  French  hood 
Went  in,  they  tell  me ;  and  another  was  seen 
In  a  velvet  gown  at  the  wjndow :  divers  more 
pass  in  and  out. 

Face.  They  did  pass  through  the  doors  then, 


>  threaves — heaps,  bands.  Tlireave  properly  means  a 
number  of  sheaves,  varying  fiom  twelve  to  twenty-tour, 
set  up  together. 

-  Piiniico  was  a  jilace  near  Hogsden,  famous  for  cakes 
and  ale.  Pimlico  is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  a  person,  and 
may  have  been  the  master  of  a  house  once  famous  for 
ale  of  a  particular  desciiption,  and  so,  indeed,  may  Eye- 
briKht,  unless  the  term  be  applied  to  a  sort  of  liquor,  in 
which  the  plant  of  this  name  was  infused. 


174 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Or  walls,  I  assure  their  eye-sights,   and  their 

spectacles ; 
For  here,  su-,  are  the  keys,  and  here  have  been, 
In  this  my  pocket,  now  above  twenty  days : 
And  for  before,  I  kept  the  fort  alone  there. 
But  that  'tis  yet  not  deep  in  the  afternoon, 
I  should  believe  my  neighbours  had  seen  double 
Through  the  black  pot,  and  made  these  appari- 
tions ! 
For,  on  my  faith  to  your  worship,  for  these  three 

weeks 
And  upwards  the  door  has  not  been  open'd. 
Love.  Strange ! 

1  Ne'i.  Good  faith,  I  think  I  saw  a  coach. 

2  Nei.  And  I  too, 
I'd  have  been  sworn. 

Love.  Do  you  but  think  it  now? 
And  but  one  coach  ? 

4  Nei.  We  cannot  tell,  sir :  Jeremy 
Is  a  very  honest  fellow. 

Face.  Did  you  see  me  at  all  ? 

1  Nei.  No ;  that  we  are  sure  on. 

2  Nei.  I'll  be  sworn  o'  that. 

Love.  Fine  rogues  to   have  your  testimonies 
built  on ! 

Re-enter  Third  Neighbour,  with  his  Tools. 

3  Nei.  Is  Jeremy  come  ? 

1  Nei.  Oh  yes ;  you  may  leave  your  tools ; 
We  were  deceived,  he  says. 

2  Nei.  He  has  had  thekeys ; 

And  the  door  has  been  shut  these  three  weeks. 

3  Nei.  Like  enough. 

Love.  Peace,  and  get  hence   you  changelings. 

Enter  Surly  and  Mammon. 

Face.  Surly  come ! 
And  Mammon  made  acquainted !  they'll  tell  all. 
How  shall  I  beat  them  off .'  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Nothing's  more  wretched  than  a  guilty  conscience. 

[Aside. 

Sur.  No,  sir,  he  was  a  great  physician.     This, 
It  was  no  bawdy  house,  but  a  mere  chancel ! 
You  knew  the  lord  and  his  sister. 

Mam.  Nay,  good  Sui-ly — 

Sur.  The  happy  word.  Be  rich — 

Mam.  Play  not  the  tyrant. — 

Sur.  Should  be  to-day  jironounced  to  all  your 
friends. 
And  where  be  your  andirons  now?  and  your  brass 

pots, 
That  should  have  been  golden  flagons,  and  great 
wedges  ? 

Mam.  Let  me  but  breathe.    What!  they  have 
shut  their  doors, 
Methinks ! 

Sur.  Ay,  now  'tis  holiday  with  them. 

Mam.  Rogues,  [He  and  Surly  Icnock. 

Cozeners,  impostors,  bawds! 

Face.  What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Mam.  To  enter  if  we  can. 

Face.  Another  man's  house ! 
Here  is  the  owner,  sir :  turn  you  to  him, 
And  speak  your  business. 

Mam.  Are  you,  sir,  the  ow:ner? 

Love.  Yes,  sir. 

Mam.  And    are    those    knaves    within    your 
cheaters  ? 

Love.  What  knaves  ?  what  cheaters  ? 

Mam.  Subtle  and  his  Lungs. 

Face.  The  gentleman  is  distracted,  sir!      No 
lungs. 
Nor  lights  have  been  seen  here  these  three  weeks, 

sir, 
Within  these  doors,  upon  my  word. 

Sur.  Your  word. 
Groom  arrogant! 


Face.  Yes,  sir,  I  am  the  housekeeper. 
And  know  the  keys  have  not  been  out  of  my 
hands. 

Sur.  This  is  a  new  Face. 

Face.  You  do  mistake  the  house,  sir : 
What  sign  was't  at  7 

Sur.  You  rascal !  this  is  one 
Of  the  confederacy.     Come,  let's  get  oflScers, 
And  force  the  door. 

Love.  'Pray  you  stay,  gentlemen. 

Sur.  No,  sir,  we'll  come  with  warrant. 

Mam.  Aj,'  and  then 
We  shall  have  your  doors  open. 

[Exeunt  Mam.  and  Sur. 

Love.  What  means  this  ? 

Face.  I  cannot  tell,  sir. 

1  Nei.  These  are  two  of  the  gallants 
That  we  do  think  we  saw. 

Face.  Two  of  the  fools ! 
You  talk  as  idly  as  they.     Good  faith,  sir, 
I  think  the  moon  has  crazed  'em  all. — Oh  me, 

Enter  Kastril. 

The  angry  boy  come  too !  He'll  make  a  noise, 
And  ne'er  away  till  he  have  betray'd  us  all.  [Aside. 

Kas.  [JcnocJcing.]  What  rogues,  bawds,  slaves, 
you'll  open  the  door,  anon ! 
Punlv,  cockatrice,  my  suster !  By  this  light 
I'll  fetch  the  marshall  to  you.     You  are  a  whore 
To  keep  your  castle — 

Face.  Who  would  you  speak  with,  sir  ? 

Kas.  The  bawdy  doctor,^and  the  cozening  cap- 
tain, 
And  puss  my  suster. 

Love.  This  is  something,  sure. 

Face.  Upon  my  trust,  the  doors  were  never 
open,  sir. 

Kas.  I  have  heard  all  their  tricks  told  me  twice 

'     over. 
By  the  fat  knight  and  the  lean  gentleman.* 

Love.  Here  comes  another. 

Enter  Ananias  and  Tribulation, 

Face.  Ananias  too ! 
And  his  pastor ! 

Tri.  [heatinrj  at  the  door.']  The  doors  are  shut 
against  us. 

Ana.  Come  forth,  you  seed  of  sulphur,  sons  of 
fire! 
Your  stench  it  is  broke  forth ;  abominatioa 
Is  in  the  house. 

Kas.  Aj,  my  suster's  there. 

Ana.  The  place. 
It  is  become  a  cage  of  unclean  birds. 

Kas.  Yes,  I  will  fetch  the  scavenger,  and  the 
constable. 

Tri.  You  shall  do  well. 

Ana.  We'll  join  to  weed  them  out. 

Kas.  You  will  not  come  then,  punk  devise,*  my 
sister ! 

Ana.  Call  her  not  sister ;  she's  a  harlot,  verily. 

Kas.  I'll  raise  the  street. 

Love.  Good  gentleman,  a  word. 

Ana.  Satan  avoid,  and  hinder  not  our  zeal ! 

[Exeunt  Ana.,  Trie.,  and  Kas. 

Love.  The  world's  turn'd  Bethlem. 

Face.  These  are  all  broke  loose 
Out  of  St.  Katherine's,  where  they  use  to  keep 
The  better  sort  of  mad-folks. 

1  Nei.  All  these  persons 
We  saw  go  in  and  out  here. 

2  Nei.  Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

3  Nei.  These  were  the  parties. 


1  i.e.  by  Mammon  and  Surly. 

2  i.e.  thou  arrant  whore. — Giffokd. 


BEN  JONSON. 


175 


[_Aside. 


Face.  Peace,  you  drunkards !  Sir, 
I  ■wonder  at  it:  please  you  to  give  me  leave 
To  touch  the  door,  I'll  try  an  the  lock  be  chang'd. 

Love.  It  mazes  me! 

Face,  \_goes  to  the  door.']  Good  faith,  sir,  I  believe 
There's  no  such  thing:  'tis  aU  deceptio  visus.^ 
Would  I  could  get  him  away !  [Aside. 

Dap.  [ivithin.]  Master  captain !  master  doctor! 

Love.  Who's  that? 

Face.  Our  clerk  within,  that  I  forgot !  {^Aside. 
I  know  not,  sir. 

Dap.  [wlihiti.]  For  God's  sake,  when  will  her 
grace  be  at  leisure  ? 

Face.  Ha! 
Illusions,   some  spirit  o'  the  air! — His   gag  is 

melted, 
And  now  he  sets  out  the  throat. 

Dap.  [withiii.']  I  am  almost  stifled— 

Face.   vVould  you  wei-e  altogether! 

Love.  'Tis  in  the  house. 
Ha!  list. 

Face.  Believe  it,  sii",  in  the  air. 

Love.  Peace,  you.  i 

Dap.  [witliin.^  Mine  aunt's  grace  does  not  use 
me  well. 

Sub.  [within.']  Tou  fool, 
Peace,  you'll  mar  all. 

Face,  [sjjeaks  through  the  kei/-hole,  tchile  Love- 
AViT  advances  to  the  door  nnobsei-ved.]  Or 
you  will  else,  you  rogue. 

Love.  Oh!  is  it  so.'  then  you  converse  with 
spirits ! — 
Come,  sir.    No  more  of  your  tricks,  good  Jeremy, 
The  truth,  the  shortest  way. 

Face.  Dismiss  this  rabble,  sir.r— 
What  shall  I  do  ?  I  am  catch'd.  [Aside. 

Love.  Good  neighbours, 
I  thank  you    all.     You  may  depart.      [Exeu7it 

Neighbours.] — Come  sir, 
Tou  know  that  I  am  an  indulgent  master; 
And  therefore  conceal  nothing.      What's  your 

medicine, 
To  draw  so  many  several  sorts  of  wild-fowl  ? 

Face.  Sir,  you  were  wont  to  affect  mirth  and 
wit —    ' 
But  here's  no  place  to  talk  on't  in  the  street. 
Give  me  but  leave  to  make  the  best  of  my  fortune. 
And  only  pardon  me  the  abuse  of  your  house : 
It's  all  I  beg.     I'll  help  you  to  a  widow, 
In  recompence,  that  you  shall  give  me  thanks  for, 
Win  make  you  seven  years  younger,  and  a  rich 

one. 
'Tis  but  your  putting  on  a  Spanish  cloak : 
I  have  her  within.    You  need  not  fear  the  house ; 
It  was  not  visited. 

Love.  But  by  me,  who  came 
Sooner  than  you  expected. 

Face.  It  is  true,  sir, 
'Pray  you  forgive  me. 

Love.  Well :  lat's  see  your  widow.        [_Exeu7ii. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  11. 

A  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Subtle,  leading  in  Dapper,  with  Ms  eyes 
bound  as  before. 

Sub.  How !  have  you  eaten  your  gag  ? 

Dap.  Yes,  faith,  it  crumbled 
Away  in.  my  mouth. 

Sub.  You  have  spoil'd  all,  then. 

Dap.  No ! 
I  hope  my  aunt  of  Fairy  will  forgive  me. 


1  'An  ocular  deception.' 


Sub.  Your  aunt's  a  gracious  lady ;  but  in  troth 
You  were  to  blame. 

Dap.  The  fume  did  overcome  me. 
And  I  did  do't  to  stay  my  stomach.    'Pray  you 
So  satisfy  her  grace. 

Enter  Face,  in  his  uniform. 

Here  comes  the  captain. 
Face.  How  now !  is  his  mouth  down  ? 
Sub.  Ay,  he  has  spoken  ! 

Face.  A  pox,  I  heard  him,  and  you  too. — He's 
undone  then. — 
I  have  been  fain  to  say,  the  house  is  haunted 
With  sf)irits,  to  keep  cliui-1  back. 
Sub.  And  hast  thou  done  it  ? 
Face.  Sure,  for  this  night. 
Siih.  Why,  then  triumph  and  sing 
Of  Face  so  famous,  the  precious  king 
Of  present  wits. 

Face.  Did  you  not  hear  the  coil 
About  the  door  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  and  I  dwindled  with  it. 
Face.  Show  him  his  aunt,  and  let  him  be  de- 
spatch'd : 
I'll  send  her  to  you.  [Exit  Face. 

Sid).  Well,  sir,  your  aunt  her  grace 
Will  give  you  audience  presently,  on  my  suit, 
And  the  captain's  word  that  you  did  not  eat  your 

gag 
In  any  contempt  of  her  highness. 

[Unbinds  his  eyes. 
Dap.  Not  I,  in  troth,  sir. 

Enter  Dol,  like  the  Queen  of  Fairy. 
Sub.  Here  she  is  come.     Down  o'  your  knees 
and  wriggle : 
She  has  a  stately  presence.    [Dapper  kneels,  and 

shuffles  towards  her.]  Good !     Yet  nearer, 
And  bid,  God  save  you .' 
,    Dap).  Madam ! 

Sub.  And  your  aunt. 

Dap.  And  my  most  gracious  aunt,  God  save 

your  grace. 
Dol.  Nephew,  we  thought  to  have  been  angry 
with  you ; 
But  that  sweet  face  of  yours  hath  turn'd  the  tide. 
And  made  it  flow  with  joy,  that  ebb'd  of  love. 
Arise,  and  touch  our  velvet  gown. 

Sub.  The  skirts. 
And  kiss  'em.     So  ! 

Dol.  Let  me  now  stroke  that  head. 
Much,   nephew,  shalt  thou  win,  much  shalt  thou 

spend. 
Much  shalt  thou  give  away,  much  shalt  thou  lend. 
Sub.  Ay,  much  !    indeed. — [Aside.] — Why  do 

you  not  thank  her  grace  ? 
Dap.  I  cannot  speak  for  joy. 
Sub.  See  the  kind  wretch ! 
Your  grace's  kinsman  right. 

Dol.  Give  me  the  bird. 
Here  is  your  fly  ^  in  a  purse,  about  your  neck, 

cousin ; 
Wear  it,  and  feed  it  about  this  day  sev'n-night, 
On  your  right  wrist — 

Sub.  Open  a  vein  with  a  pin. 
And  let  it  suck  but  once  a  week;  till  then, 
You  must  not  look  on't. 

Dol.  No:  and,  kinsman. 
Bear  yourself  worthy  of  the  blood  you  come  on. 
Sub.  Her  grace  would  have  you  eat  no  more 
Woolsack  pies. 
Nor  Dagger  2  frumety. 

^fly — familiar  spirit. 

2  The  Woolsack  and  the  Dagger  were  ordinaries  of 
low  repute,  and  our  old  poets  have  frequent  allusions 
to  the  coarseness  of  their  entertainments. — GirroBD, 
Frumety  ox  frumenty  was  wheat  boiled  in  milk. 


176 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Dol.  Nor  break  his  fast 
In  Heaven  and  Hell. 

8uh.  She's  with  you  everywhere ! 
Nor  play  with  costermongers,  at  mum-chance, 

tray-trip ;  1 
God  make  you  rich  (when  as  your  aunt  has  done 

it); 
But  keep 

The  gallant'st  company,  and  the  best  games — 
Dap.  Yes,  sir. 
8uh.  Gleek  and  primero :  and  what  you  get,  be 

true  to  us. 
Da-p.  By  this  hand,  I  will. 
,  Svh.  You  may  bring's  a  thousand  pound 
Before  to-morrow  night,  if  but  three  thousand 
Be  stirring,  an  you  will. 
Dap.  I  swear  I  will  then. 
Sub.  Your  fly  will  learn  you  all  games. 
Face.  \within.'\  Have  you  done  there  .' 
Sub.  Your  grace  will  command  him  no  more 

duties  "i 
Dol.  No; 
But  come,  and  see  me  often.     I  may  chance 
To  leave  him  three  or  four  hundred  chests  of 

treasure, 
And  some  twelve  thousand  acres  of  fairy  land, 
If  he  game  well  and  comely  with  good  gamesters. 
Sub.  There's  a  kind  aunt !  kiss  her  departing 
part. — 
But  you  must  sell  your  forty  mark  a  year,  now. 
Dap.  Ay,  sir,  I  mean. 
Sub.  Or,  give  't  away ;  pox  on't ! 
Dap.  I'll  give  't  mine  aunt :  I'll  go  and  fetch 
the  writings.  [Exit. 

Sub.  'Tis  well — away  ! 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  AVhere's  Subtle  ? 
Sub.  Hei'e  :  what  news  ? 

Face.  Drugger  is  at  the  door ;  go  take  his  suit, 
And  bid  him  fetch  a  parson  presently ; 
Say,   he  shall  marry  the  widow.     Thou   shalt 

spend  ' 

A  hundred  pound  by  the  service ! 

\_Exit  Subtle. 
Now,  Queen  Dol, 
Have  you  pack'd  up  all  ? 
Dol.  Yes. 

Face.  And  how  do  like 
The  lady  Pliant.' 
Dol.  A  good  dull  innocent. 

Re-enter  Subtle. 

S%ih.  Here's  your  Hieronimo's  cloak  and  hat. 

Face.  Give  me  them. 

Sub.  And  the  ruff,  too  ? 

Face.  Yes ;  I'll  come  to  you  presently.     \Exit. 

Sub.  Now  he  is  gone  about  his  project,  Dol, 
I  told  you  of,  for  the  widow. 

Dol.  'Tis  direct 
Against  our  articles. 

Sub.  Well,  we  will  fit  him,  wench. 
Hast  thou    gull'd    her    of    her    jewels    or    her 
bracelets  ? 

Dol.  No ;  but  I  will  do't. 

Sub.  Soon  at  night,  my  Dolly, 
When  we  are  shipp'd,  and  all  our  goods  aboard. 
Eastward  for  Katcliff ;  we  will  turn  our  course 
To  Brainford,  westward,  if  thou  say'st  the  word. 
And  take  our  leaves  of  this  o'er-weening  rascal, 
This  peremptory  Face. 

Dol.  Content,  I'm  weary  of  him. 

Sub.  Thou'st  cause,  when  the  slave  will  run  a 
wiving,  Dol, 

1  These  were  both  games  at  dice ;  silence  is  said  to 
have  been  enforced  in  the  former. 


Against  the  instrument  that  was  drawn  between 
us. 
Dol.  I'll  pluck  his  bird  as  bare  as  I  can. 
Sub.  Yes,  tell  her. 
She  must  by  any  means  address  some  present 
To  the  cunning  man;   make  him  amends  for 

wronging 
His  art  with  her  suspicion  :  send  a  ring 
Or  chain  of  pearl ;  she  will  be  tortured  else 
Extremely  in  her  sleep,  say,  and  have  strange 

things 
Come  tocher.     Wilt  thou  ? 
Dol.  Yes. 

Sub.  My  fine  flitter-mouse,i 
My  bird   o'  the  night!    we'll   tickle   it  at   the 

Pigeons,'-' 
When  we  have  all,  and  may  unlock  the  trunks, 
And  say,  this  's  mine,  and  thine  ;  and  thine,  and 
mine.  [They  kiss. 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  What  now !  a-billing  ? 

Sub.  Yes,  a  little  exalted 
In  the  good  passage  of  our  stock  affairs. 

Face.  Drugger  has  brought  his  parson;   take 
him  in,  Subtle, 
And  send  Nab  back  again  to  wash  his  face. 

Sub.  I  will :  and  shave  himself.  [Exit. 

Face.  If  you  can  get  him. 

Dol.  You  are  hot  upon  it.  Face,  whate'er  it  is ! 

Face.  A  trick  that  Dol  shall  s]3end  ten  pound 
a  month  by. 

Re-enter  Subtle. 

Is  he  gone  ? 

Sub.  The  chaplain  waits  you  in  the  hall,  sir. 

Face.  I'll  go  bestow  him.  t  [Exit. 

Dol.  He'll  now  marry  her,  instantly. 

Sub.  He  cannot  yet,  he   is  not  ready.     Dear 
Dol, 
Cozen  her  of  all  thou  canst.     To  deceive  him 
Is  no  deceit,  but  justice,  that  would  break 
Such  an  inextricable  tie  as  oui's  was. 

Dol.  Let  me  alone  to  fit  him. 

Re-enter  Face. 

Face.  Come,  my  venturers, 
You  have  pack'd  up  all  ?  where  be  the  trunks  ? 
bring  forth. 
Sub.  Here. 

Face.  Let  us  see  them.    Where's  the  money  ? 
Sub.  Here, 
In  this. 

Face.  Mammon's  ten  pound;  eight  score  before ; 
The    brethren's    money,   this.      Drugger's    and 

Dapper's. 
What  paper's  that  ? 

Dol.  The  jewel  of  the  waiting-maid's, 
That  stole  it  from  her  lady,  to  know  certain — 
Face.  If  she  should  have  precedence  of  her 

mistress  ? 
Dol.  Yes. 

Face.  What  box  is  that  ? 
Sub.  The  fish-wives'  rings,  I  think, 
And  the  ale-wives'  single  money.^    Is't  not,  Dol .' 
Dol.  Yes;    and   the  whistle  that  the   sailor's 
wife 
Brought  you  to  know  an  her  husband  were  with 
Ward.* 


1  flUter-mouse  or  flicker-mouse — i.e.  fluttering  mouse, 
i.e.  hat. 

-  The  Three  Pigeons  at  Brentford,  tire  place  of  ren- 
dezvous. 

3  sin(jle-money—%ma\\  money,  perhaps,  that  required 
no  change. — Gifford. 

*  Ward  was  a  famous  pirate. 


BEN  JONSON. 


177 


Face.  ^-Ve'll  wet  it  to-morrow ;  and  our  sili/er- 
beakers 
And  tavern  cups.    Where  be  the  French  petti- 
coats, 
And  girdles  and  hangers  ? 

Suh.  Here,  in  the  trunk, 
And  the  bolts  1  of  lawn. 

Face.  Is  Drug'ger's  damask  there, 
And  the  tobacco .' 

Suh.  Yes. 

Face.  Give  me  the  keys. 

Dol.  Why  you  the  keys  ? 

Suh.  No  matter,  Dol ;  because 
We  shall  not  open  them  before  he  comes. 

Face.  'Tis  true,  you  shall  not  open  them,  in- 
deed ; 
Nor  have  them  forth,  do  you  see  ?  not  forth,  Dol. 

Dol.  No! 

Face.  No,  my  smock  rampant.     The  right  is, 
my  master 
Knows  all,  has  pardon'd  me,  and  he  will  keep 

them  ; 
Doctor,  'tis  true — you  look — for  all  your  figures : 
I  sent  for  him  indeed.    Wherefore,  good  partners. 
Both  he  and  she  be  satisfied ;  for  here 
Determines  ^  the  indenture  tripartite 
'Twixt  Subtle,  Dol,  and  Face.     All  I  can  do 
Is  to  help  j-ou  over  the  wall,  o'  the  back  side. 
Or  lend  you  a  sheet  to  save  your  velvet  gown, 

Dol. 
Here  will  be  officers  presently,  bethink  you 
Of  some  course  suddenly  to  'scape  the  dock; ^ 
For  thither  you  will  come  else.  \Loud  knocking.'] 
Hark  you,  thunder ! 

Suh.  You  are  a  precious  fiend! 

Offi.  [iolthout.~\  Open  the  door. 

Face.  Dol,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  i'  faith ;  but 
hear'st  thou  .^ 
It  shall  go  hard,  but  I  will  place  thee  somewhere : 
Thou  shalt  have  my  letter  to  Mistress  Amo — 

Dol.  Hang  you ! 

Face.  Or  Madam  Csesarean.* 

Dol.  Pox  upon  you,  rogue. 
Would  I  had  but  time  to  beat  thee ! 

Face.  Subtle, 
Let's  know  where  you  set  up  next ;  I  will  send 

you 
A  customer  now  and  then  for  old  acquaintance: 
What  new  course  have  you  ? 

Suh.  Eogue,  I'll  hang  myself ; 
That  I  may  walk  a  greater  devil  than  thou, 
And  haimt  thee  in  the  flock-bed  and  the  buttery. 

[JExeunt. 

ACT.  v.— SCENE  III. 
An  outer  room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Lovewit  in  the  Spanish  di'ess,  iclth  the 
Parson. 

[Loud  knocking  at  the  door."] 

Love.  What  do  you  mean,  my  masters  ? 

Mam.  [ivithotit.']   Open  your  door, 
Cheaters,  bawds,  conjurers. 

Offi.  \jcithout.']  Or  we  will  break  it  open. 

Love.  What  warrant  have  you  ? 

Offi.    [without.']   Warrant    enough,   sir,    doubt 
not. 
If  you'll  not  open  it. 

Love.  Is  there  an  officer  there  ? 


1  A  bolt  was  a  narrow  piece  of  anything. 
^  Determines — ends. 

2  dock — some  apartment  in  Newgate  or  Bridewell. — 

WlIAI.LET. 

*  The  names  of  two  bawds  in  our  poet's  time. 


Offi.  [u'ithotit.]  Yes,  two  or  three  for  failing.' 
Love.  Have  but  patience, 
And  I  will  open  it  straight. 

Enter  Face  as  butler. 

Face.  Sir,  have  you  done  ? 
Is  it  a  marriage  ?  perfect .' 

Love.  Yes,  my  brain. 

Face.  Off  with  your  ruff  and  cloak  then ;  be 
yourself,  sii'. 

Sur.  [without.]  Down  with  the  door. 

Kas.  [without.]  'Slight,  ding- it  open. 

Love,  [opening  the  door.]  Hold, 
Hold,  gentlemen;  what  means  this  violence? 

Ma  JIM  ON,  Surly,  Kastril,  Ananias,  Tribu- 
lation, and  Officers,  rush  in. 

Mam.  Where  is  this  collier? 

Sur.  And  my  Captain  Face  ? 

Mam.  These  daj'  owls. 

Sur.  That  are  birding  in  men's  purses. 

3fam.  Madam  suppository. 

Kas.  Doxy,  my  suster. 

Ana.  Locusts 
Of  the  foul  pit. 

Tri.  Profane  as  Bel  and  the  dragon. 

Ana.  Worse  than  the  grasshoppers,  or  the  lice 
of  Egypt. 

Love.  Good  gentlemen,    hear  me.      Are  you 
officers. 
And  cannot  stay  this  violence  ? 

1  Offi.  Keep  the  peace. 

Love.  Gentlemen,  what  is  the  matter?  whom 

do  you  seek  ? 
Mam.  The  chemical  cozener. 
Sur.  And  the  captain  pander. 
A'fl.s.  The  nun  my  suster. 
Mam.  Madam  Piabbi. 
Ana.  Scorpions, 
And  caterjDillars. 
Love.  Fewer  at  once,  I  pray  you. 

2  Offi.  One  after  another,  geutlemen,  I  charge 

you. 
By  virtue  of  my  staff. 

Ana.  They  are  the  vessels 
Of  pride,  lust,  and  the  cart. 

Love.  Good  zeal,  lie  still 
A  little  while. 

Tri.  Peace,  deacon  Ananias. 

Love.  The  house  is  mine  here,  and  the  doors 
are  open  ; 
If  there  be  any  such  persons  as  you  seek  for. 
Use  your  authority,  search  on  o'  God's  name. 
I  am  but  newly  come  to  town,  and  finding 
This  tumult  'bout  my  door,  to  tell  you  true. 
It  somewhat  mazed  me ;  till  my  man  here,  fearing 
My  more  displeasure,  told  me  he  had  done 
Somewhat  an  insolent  part,  let  out  my  house 
(Belike,  presuming  on  my  known  aversion 
From  any  air  o'  the  town  while  there  was  sick- 
ness). 
To  a  doctor  and  a  captain ;  who,  what  they  are 
Or  where  they  be,  he  knows  not. 

3Iam.  Are  they  gone  ? 

Love.  You  may  go  in  and  search,  sir.     [Mam- 
mon, Ana.,  a)id  Trie,  go  in.]     Here  I  find 
The  empty  walls  worse  than  I  left  them,  smoak'd. 
A  few  crack'd  pots,  and  glasses,  and  a  furnace  : 
The  ceiling  fill'd  with  poesies^  of  the  candle, 
And  madam  with  a  dildo  writ  o'  the  walls : 
Only  one  gentlewoman,  I  met  here. 
That  is  within,  that  said  she  was  a  widow — 

^  for  failing — for  fear  of  failin,^. 
2  ding — knock  or  break;  still  used  in  Scotland. 
^poesies  or  posies  of  the  candle  —  probably  fanciful 
figures  made  with  the  smoke  from  a  candle. 


M 


178 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Kas.  Ay,  that's  my  suster ;  I'll  go  thump  her. 
Where  is  she  ?  [Goes  in. 

Love.   And  should  have  married  a   Spanish 
count ;  but  he, 
When  he  came  to't,  neglected  her  so  grossly. 
That  I,  a  widower,  am  gone  through  with  her. 

Sur.  How !  have  I  lost  her  then  ? 

Love.  Were  you  the  don,  sir  ? 
Good  faith,  now,  she  does  blame  you  extremely, 

and  says 
Tou  swore,  and  told  her  you  had  taken  the  pains 
To  dye  your  beard,  and  umbre  o'er  your  face, 
Borrowed  a  suit,  and  ruff,  all  for  her  love  ; 
And  then  did  nothing.     What  an  oversight, 
And  want  of  putting  forward,  sir,  was  this ! 
Well  fare  an  old  harquebuziei',  yet. 
Could  prime  his  powder,  and  give  fire,  and  hit, 
All  in  a  twinkling  ! 

Re-enter  Majdios. 

Mam.  The  whole  nest  are  fled ! 
Love.  What  sort  of  birds  were  they  ? 
Mam.  A  kind  of  choughs. 
Or  thievish  daws,  sir,  that  have  pick'd  my  purse 
Of  eight  score  and  ten  pounds  within  these  five 

weeks, 
Beside  my  first  materials ;  and  my  goods. 
That  lie  in  the  cellar,  which  I  am  glad  they 

have  left, 
I  may  have  home  yet. 
Love.  Think  you  so,  sir  ? 
Mam.  Ay. 

Love.  By  order  of  law,  sir,  but  not  otherwise. 
Mam.  Not  mine  own  stuff ! 
Love.  Sir,  1  can  take  no  knowledge 
That  they  are  yours,  but  by  public  means. 
If  you  can  bring  certificate  that  you  were  gull'd 

of  them. 
Or  any  formal  writ  out  of  a  court. 
That  you  did  cozen  yourself,  I  will  not  hold 
them. 
Mam.  I'll  rather  lose  them. 
Love.  That  you  shall  not,  sir. 
By  me,  in  troth :  upon  these  terms,  they  are  yours, 
What !   should  they  have  been,  sir,  tum'd  into 
gold,  all  ? 
Mam.  No, 
I  cannot  tell — It  may  be  they  should — ^What  then  ? 
Love.  What  a  great  loss  in  hope   have  you 

sustain'd  I 
Mam.  Not  I,  the  commonwealth  has. 
Face.  Ay,  he  would  have  built 
The  city  new ;  and  made  a  ditch  about  it 
Of  silver,    should  have  run  with  cream  from 

Hogsden ; 

That,  every  Sunday,  in  Moorfields,  the  younkers. 

And  tits  and  tom-boys  should  have  fed  on,  gratis. 

Mam.  I  will  go  mount  a  turnip  cart,  and  preach 

The  end  of  the  world,  within,  these  two  months. 

—Surly, 
What !  in  a  dream  ? 

Sur.  Must  I  needs  cheat  myself 
With  that  same  foolish  vice  of  honesty ! 
Come,  let  us  go  and  hearken  out  the  rogues : 
That  Face  I'll  mark  for  mine,  if  e'er  I  meet  him. 
Face.  If  I  can  hear  of  him,  sir,  I'll  bring  you 
word, 
Unto   your  lodging;    for,   in   troth,   they  were 

strangers 
To  me,  I  thought  them  honest  as  myself,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Maji.  and  SuR. 

Re-enter  Ajjanias  and  Tribulation. 

Trl.  'Tis  well,  the  saints  shall  not  lose  all  yet. 
Go, 
And  get  some  carts — 
Love.  For  what,  my  zealous  friends  ? 


Ana.  To  bear  away  the  portion  of  the  righteous 
Out  of  this  den  of  thieves. 

Love.  What  is  that  portion  ? 

Ana.  The  goods  sometimes  the  orphan's,  that 
the  brethren 
Bought  with  their  silver  pence. 

Love.  What,  those  in  the  cellar. 
The  knight  Sir  Mammon  claims  ? 

Ana.  I  do  defy 
The  wicked  Mammon,  so  do  all  the  brethren. 
T  hou  profane  man !  I  ask  thee  with  what  conscience 
Thou  canst  advance  that  idol  against  us, 
That  have  the  seal  ?  were  not  the  shillings  num- 

ber'd, 
That  made  the  pounds ;  were  not  the  pounds  told 

out, 
Upon  the  second  day  of  the  fourth  week. 
In  the  eighth  month,  upon  the  table  dormant, 
The  year  of  the  last  patience  of  the  saints. 
Six  hundred  and  ten  .' 

Love.  Mine  earnest  vehement  botcher. 
And  deacon  also,  I  cannot  dispute  with  you: 
Bat  if  you  get  you  not  away  the  sooner, 
I  shall  confute  you  with  a  cudgel. 

Ana.  Sir! 

Tri.  Be  patient,  Ananias. 

Ana.  I  am  strong. 
And  will  stand  up,  well  girt,  against  an  host 
That  threaten  Gad  in  exile. 

Love.  I  shall  send  you 
To  Amsterdam,  to  your  cellar. 

Ana.  I  will  pray  there. 
Against  thy  house  :  may  dogs  defile  thy  walls. 
And  wasps  and  hornets  breed  beneath  thy  roof. 
This  seat  of  falsehood,  and  this  cave  of  cozenage  ! 
\_Exeunt  Ana.  and  TkIb. 

Enter  Druggek. 

Love.  Another  too  ? 
Drug.  Not  I,  sir,  I  am  no  brother. 
Love    [beats  him.']  Away,  you  Harry  Nicholas!' 
do  you  talk  ?  [Exit  Drug. 

Face.  No,  this  was  Abel  Drugger.    Good  sir,  go, 
[7b  the  Parson. 
And  satisfy  him ;  tell  him  all  is  done  : 
He  stayed  too  long  a  washing  of  his  face. 
The  doctor,  he  shall  hear  of  him  at  Westchester ; 
And  of  the  captain,  tell  him,  at  Yarmouth,  or 
Some  good  port  town  else,  lying  for  a  wind. 

[Exit  Parson. 
If  you  can  get  off  the  angry  child,  now,  sir — 

Enter  Kastril,  dragging  in  his  sister. 

Kas.  Come  on,  you  ewe,  you  have  match'd  most 
sweetly,  have  you  not  ? 
Did  not  I  say,  I  would  never  have  you  tupp'd 
But  by  a  dubb'd  boy,  to  make  you  a  lady-tom  ? 
'Slight,  you  ai-e  a  mammet!-    Oh,  I  could  touse 

you  now. 
Death,  mun'  you  marry,  with  a  pox  I 

Love.  You  lie,  boy  ; 
As  sound  as  you ;  and  I'm  aforehand  with  you. 
Kas.  Anon ! 

Love.  Come,  will  you  quan-el.'     I  will  feize^ 
you,  sirrah ; 
Why  do  you  not  buckle  to  your  tools? 

Kas.  Od's  light. 
This  is  a  fine  old  boy  as  e'er  I  saw ! 
Love.  AVhat,  do  you  change  'your  copy  now  ? 
proceed. 
Here  stands  my  dove :  stoop*  at  her,  if  you  dare. 

1  Harry  yichokis,  a  native  of  Lej-den,  commonly  sup- 
posed to  be  tlie  founder  of  tliat  tui'bulent  and  mischievous 
sect  called  tlie  Family  of  Love. — Gifford. 

2  ma7nmet — a  puppet,  or  owl ;  dim.  of  mam. 

3  /ei>e— drive,  or  beat ;  spelt  also  pheeze. 
*  stoop — fall,  or  pounce. 


BEN  JONS  ON. 


1 79 


Kas.  'Sliglit,  Imustlove  him  !  I  cannot  choose, 
i'  ftaith, 
An  I  should  be  hang'd  for't !    Suster,  I  protest, 
I  honour  thee  for  this  match. 
Lov3.  Oh,  do  you  so,  sir  ? 
Kas.  Yes,  an  thou  canst  take  tobacco  and  drink, 
old  boy, 
ril  give  her  five  hundred  pound  more  to  her 

marriage. 
Than  her  own  state. 
Love.  Fill  a  pipe  full,  Jeremy. 
Face.  Yes  ;  but  go  in  and  take  it,  sir. 
Love.  We  will — 
I  will  be  ruled  by  thee  in  anything,  Jeremy. 
,  Kas.  'Slight,  thou  art  not  hide-bound,'  thou  art 

a  jovy-  boy! 
Come,  let  us  in,  I  pray  thee,  and  take  our  whiffs. 
Love.  Whiff  in  with  your  sister,  brother  boy. 
[Exewit  Kas.  a7id  Dame  P.]  That  master 
That  had  received  such  happiness  by  a  servant. 
In  such  a  widow,  and  with  so  much  wealth, 
Were  very  ungrateful,  if  he  would  not  be 
A  little  indulgent  to  that  servant" .  ^7it, 


1  hide-bound — niggardly. 


2  ./'ii'— jovial. 


And  help  his  fortune,  though  with  some  small 

strain 
Of  his  own  candour.i     [^advancing. 1 — Therefore, 

gentlemen, 
And  kind  spectators,  if  I  have  outstript 
An  old  inan^s  gravity,  or  strict  canon,  think 
What  a  young  wife  and  a  good  brain  may  do  ; 
Stretch  age's  truth  sometimes,  and  crack  it  too. 
Speak  for  thyself,  knave. 

Face.  So  1' will,  sir.  [advancing  to  the  front  of 

stage.] — Gentlemen, 
My  part  a  little  fell  in  this  last  scene, 
Yet  'tivas  decorum.'^    And  though  I  am  clean 
Got  off  from  Subtle,  Surly,  Mammon,  Dol, 
Hot  Ananias,  Dapper,  Drugger,  all 
With  ivhom  I  traded :  yet  I  put  myself 
On  you,  that  are  my  country :  and  this  pelf. 
Which  I  have  got,  if  you  do  quit  me,  rests 
To  feast  you  often,  and  invite  new  guests. 

[Exeunt. 


1  candour — honour,  fair  reputation. 

2  Yet  'twas  decorum,  i.e.  I  have  not  acted,  however, 
against  the  decorum  the  suitableness  of  the  character. 
— Upton. 


OR,  THE  SILENT  WOMAN. 


EPICCENE . 

A   COMEDY. 
ACTED  m  THE  YEAE  1609  BY  THE  CHILDREN  OF  HER  MAJESTY'S  REVELS. 

THE    ATTTHOK  B.    J. 

London.     1616, 


TO   THE  TRULY  NOBLE   BY  ALL   TITLES, 

SIR    FRANCIS    STUART. 


Sir, — My  hope  is  not  so  nourished  by  example, 
as  it  will  conclude,  this  dumb  piece  should  please 
you,  because  it  hath  pleased  others  before ;  but 
by  trust,  that  when  you  have  read  it,  you  will 
find  it  worthy  to  have  displeased  none.  This 
makes  that  I  now  number  you,  not  only  in  the 
names  of  favour,  but  the  names  of  justice  to 
what  I  write ;  and  do  presently  call  you  to  the 
exercise  of  that  noblest,  and  manliest  virtue ;  as 
coveting  rather  to  be  freed  in  my  fame,  by  the 
authority  of  a  judge,  than  the  credit  of  an  under- 
taker.2    Eead,  therefore,   I  pray  you,   and  cen- 


sure. There  is  not  a  line,  or  syllable  in  it, 
changed  from  the  simplicity  of  the  first  copy. 
And  when  you  shall  consider,  through  the  cer- 
tain hatred  of  some,  how  much  a  man's  inno- 
cency  may  be  endangered  by  an  uncertain 
accusation;  you  will,  I  doubt  not,  so  begia  to 
hate  the  iniquity  of  such  natures,  as  I  shall  love 
the  contumely  done  me,  whose  end  was  so 
honourable  as  to  be  wiped  off  by  your  sentence. 

Your  unprofitable,  but  true  Lover, 

Ben.  Jonson. 


graraatis  ^x:rsflnK. 


Morose,  a  Gentleman  that  loves  no  noise. 

Sir  Dauphine  Eugenie,  a  Knight,  his  Nephew. 

Ned  Glerimont,  a  Gentleman,  his  Friend. 

Truewit,  another  Friend. 

Sir  John  Daw,  a  Knight. 

Sir  Amorous  La-Foole,  a  Knight  also. 

Thomas  Otter,  a  Land  and  Sea  Capitain. 

CUTBEAED,  a  Barber. 

Mute,  one  of  Morose's  Servants. 

Parson. 

Page  to  Glerimont. 


Epiccene,  supposed  the  Silent  Woman. 
Lady  Haughty,  "> 

Lady  Gentaure,  >•  Ladies  Collegiateg. 

Mistress  Dol.  Mavis,) 
Mistress  Ottep.,  the  CaptainSs  Wife^ 
Mistress  Trusty,  Lady  Haughty's  >  Pretenders, 
Woman,  ) 

Pages,  Servants,  etc. 


Scene — London. 

1  A  learned  gentleman,  one  of  Raleigh's  club  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern. 

2  An  undertaker,  considered  a  very  offensive  character,  vt^as  the  name  given  to  certain  persons  who  undertook, 
through  their  iniiuence  in  the  House  of  Commons,  in  the  Parliament  of  1614,  to  carry  things  agreealily  to  hia 
Majesty's  wishes. — Whailet. 


I  So 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


PROLOaUE. 


Truth  says,  of  old  the  art  of  making  plays 
Was  to  content  the  people  ;  and  their  praise 
Was  to  the  poet  money,  wine,  and  bays. 

But  in  this  age,  a  sect  of  -writers  are, 
That  only  for  particular  likings  care, 
And  will  taste  nothing  that  is  popular. 

With  such  we  mingle  neither  brains  nor  breasts; 
Our  wishes,  like  to  those  make  public  feasts, 
Are  not  to  please  the  cook's  taste  but  the  guests. 

Yet,  if  those  cunning  palates  hither  come. 
They  shall  find  guests  entreaty,  and  good  room ; 
And  though  all  relish  not,  sure  there  will  be  some. 

That,  when  they  leave  their  seats,  shall  make 

them  say, 
Who  wrote  that  piece,  could  so  have  wrote  a  play, 
But  that  he  knew  this  was  the  better  way. 

For,  to  present  all  custard,  or  all  tart. 

And  have  no  other  meats  to  bear  a  part, 

Or  to  want  bread,  and  salt,  were  but  coarse  art. 


The  poet  prays  you  then,  with  better  thought 
To  sit ;  and,  when  his  cates  are  all  in  brought, 
Though  there  be  none  far-fet,i  there  will  dear- 
bought, 

Bo  fit  for  ladies :  some  for  lords,  knights,  'squires ; 
Some  for  your  waiting  wench,  and  city  wires  ;- 
Some  for  your  men,  and  daughters  of  White- 
friars. 

Nor  is  it  only  while  you  keep  your  seat 
Here,  that  his  feast  will  last ;  but  you  shall  eat 
A  week  at  ord'naries,  on  his  broken  meat ; 
If  his  muse  be  true, 
Who  commends  her  to  you. 


'  far-fet — far-fetched. 

"  city  wires. — This  term,  which  seems  to  designate  the 
matrons  of  tlie  city  in  opposition  to  the  '  Whitefriars 
nation,'  is  new  to  me.  In  the  stiff  and  formal  dresses 
of  those  days,  wire  Indeed  was  much  used ;  but  I  know 
not  that  it  was  peculiar  to  the  city  dames.  Perhaps  I 
have  missed  the  sense.  Whitefriars  was  at  this  time  a 
privileged  spot,  the  resort  of  fraudulent  debtors,  gam- 
blers, prostitutes,  and  other  outcasts  of  society.— Gif- 

FOKD. 


ANOTHER. 


The  ends  of  all,  who  for  the  scene  do  write, 
Are,  or  should  be,  to  profit  and  delight. 
And  still  't  hath  been  the  praise  of  all  best  times, 
So  persons  were  not  touch'd,  to  tax  the  crimes. 
Then,  in  this  play,  which  we  present  to-night. 
And  make  the  object  of  your  ear  and  sight, 
On  foi'feit  of  yourselves,  think  nothing  true : 
Lest  so  you  make  the  maker  to  judge  you. 


For  he  knows,  poet  never  credit  gain'd 

By  writing  truths,  but  things,  like  truths,  well 

feign'd. 
If  anj'  yet  will,  with  particular  sleight 
Of  application,  wrest  what  he  doth  write ; 
And  that  he  meant,  or  him,  or  her,  will  say : 
They  make  a  libel,  Avhich  he  made  a  play. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

A  Boom  in  Olerimont's  House. 

Enter  Clekimoxt,  mahing  himself  ready,  followed 
by  his  Page. 

Cler.  Have  you  got  the  song  yet  perfect,  I  gave 
you,  boy? 

Pciffe.  Yes,  sir. 

Cler.  Let  me  hear  it. 

Faffe.  You  shall,  sir ;  but  i'faith  let  nobody  else. 

Ckr.  Why,  I  pray  ? 

Page.  It  will  get  you  the  dangerous  name  of  a 
poet  in  town,  sir ;  besides  me  a  perfect  deal  of 
ill-will  at  the  mansion  yovt  wot  of,  whose  lady  is 
the  argument  of  it ;  where  now  I  am  the  wel- 
comest  thing  under  a  man  that  comes  there. 

Cler.  1  think ;  and  above  a  man  too,  if  the  truth 
were  rack'd  out  of  you. 

Page.  No,  faith,  I'll  confess  before,  sir.  The 
gentlewomen  play  with  me,  and  throw  me  on  the 
bed,  and  carry  me  in  to  my  lady  :  and  she  kisses 
me  with  her  oil'd  face,  and  puts  a  peruke  on  my 
head ;  and  asks  me  an  I  will  wear  her  gown  .-* 
and  I  say,  no :  and  then  she  hits  me  a  blow  o' 
the  ear,  and  calls  me  Innocent! '  and  lets  me  go. 

Cler.  No  marvel  if  the  door  be  kept  shut  against 

*  Innocent — fool,  or  simpleton. 


your  master,  when  the  entrance  is  so  easy  to  you 
—Well,  sir,  you  shall  go  there  no  more,  lest  I  be 
fain  to  seek  your  voice  in  my  lady's  rushes,'  a 
fortnight  hence.     Sing,  sir.  [Page  sings. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest— 

Enter  Truewit. 

True.  Why,  here's  the  man  that  can  melt  away 
his  time  and  never  feels  it !  What  between  his 
mistress  abroad  and  his  ingle-  at  home,  high  fare, 
soft  lodging,  fine  clothes,  and  his  fiddle,  he  thinks 
the  hours  have  no  wings,  or  the  day  no  post-horse. 
WeU,  Sir  Gallant,  were  you  struck  with  the  plague 
this  minute,  or  coudemn'd  to  any  capital  punish- 
ment to-morrow,  you  would  begin  then  to  think, 
and  value  every  article  of  your  time,  esteem  it  at 
the  true  rate,  and  give  all  for  it. 

Cler.  Why,  what  shoitld  a  man  do  ? 

True.  Whj%  nothing  ;  or  that  which,  when  'tis 
done,  is  as  idlo.     Hearken  after  the  next  horse- 


'  rushes  were  then  used  as  carpets  are  at  the  present 
day. 

■''  ingle  originally  meant  a  male  favourite  of  the  most 
detestable  kind.  Nares  thinks  this  the  meaning  in  the 
text.  Afterwards  it  meant  an  intimate  friend  ;  and 
Gifford  thinks  this  the  meaning  here,  connecting  it 
with  Scotch  ingle,  the  fire,  or  tire-place. 


BEN  yONSON. 


i8r 


race,  or  liimting-match,  lay  wagers,  praise  Puppy, 
or  Peppercorn,  Whitefoot,  Frankliu  ;'  swear  upon 
Whitemane's  party  ;  speak  aloud,  that  my  lords 
may  hear  you ;  visit  my  ladies  at  night,  and  be 
able  to  give  them  the  character  of  every  bowler 
or  better  on  the  green.  These  be  the  things 
wherein  your  fashionable  men  exercise  them- 
selves, and  I  for  company. 

Cler.  Nay,  if  I  have  thy  authority,  I'll  not  leave 
yet.  Come,  the  other  ai-e  considerations,  when 
we  come  to  have  grey  heads  and  weak  hams, 
moist  eyes  and  shrunk  members.  We'll  think  on 
'em  then ;  then  we'll  pray  and  fast. 

True.  Ay,  and  destine  only  that  time  of  age  to 
goodness,  which  our  want  of  ability  will  not  let 
us  employ  in  evil ! 

Cler.  Why,  then  'tis  time  enough. 

True.  Yes ;  as  if  a  man  should  sleep  all  the 
term,  and  think  to  effect  his  business  the  last  day. 
Oh  Clerimont,  this  time,  because  it  is  an  incor- 
poreal thing,  and  not  subject  to  sense,  we  mock 
ourselves  the  fineliest  out  of  it,  with  vanity  and 
misery  indeed!  not  seeking  an  end  of  wretched- 
ness, but  only  changing  the  matter  still. 

Cler.  Nay,  thou'lt  not  leave  now — 

True.  See  but  our  common  disease !  With  what 
justice  can  we  complain  that  great  men  will  not 
look  upon  us,  nor  be  at  leisure  to  give  our  affairs 
such  despatch  as  we  expect,  when  we  will  never 
do  it  to  ourselves?  nor  hear,  nor  regard  our- 
selves ? 

Cler.  Foh!  thou  hast  read  Plutarch's  morals, 
now,  or  some  such  tedious  fellow ;  and  it  shows 
so  vilely  with  thee  !  Tore  God,  'twill  spoil  thy  wit 
utterly.  Talk  to  me  of  pins,  and  feathers,  and 
ladies,  and  rushes,  and  such  things ;  and  leave 
this  Stoicity  alone,  till  thou  mak'st  sermons. 

True.  Well,  sir,  if  it  will  not  take,  I  have 
learn'd  to  lose  as  little  of  my  kindness  as  I  can ; 
I'll  do  good  to  no  man  against  his  will,  certainly. 
When  were  you  at  the  college  ? 

Cler.  What  college  ? 

True.  As  if  you  knew  not ! 

Cler.  No,  faith,  I  came  but  from  court  yester- 
day. 

True.  Why,  is  it  not  arrived  there  yet,  the 
news  ?  A  new  foundation,  sir,  here  in  the  town, 
of  ladies,  that  call  themselves  the  collegiates,  an 
order  between  courtiers  and  country  madams, 
that  live  from  their  husbands ;  and  give  enter- 
tainment to  all  the  wits  and  braveries  of  the  time, 
as  they  call  them :  cry  down,  or  up,  what  they 
like  or  dislike  in  a  brain  or  a  fashion,  with  most 
masculine,  or  rather  hermaphroditical  authority; 
and  every  day  gain  to  their  college  some  new 
probationer. 

Cler.  Who  is  the  president  ? 

True.  The  grave  and  youthful  matron,  the 
Lady  Haughty. 

cler.  A  pox  of  her  autuninal  face,  her  pieced 
beauty !  there's  no  man  can  be  admitted  till  she 
be  ready,  now-a-days,  till  she  has  painted,  and 
perfumed,  and  wash'd,  and  sconr'd,  but  the  boy 
here  ;  and  him  she  wipes  her  oil'd  lips  upon,  like 
a  sponge.  I  have  made  a  song  (I  pray  thee  hear 
it)  on  the  subject.  [Page  slwjs. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  lie  drest, 
As  you  were  going  to  a  feast; 
Still  to  t'e  powder'd,  still  peifiim'd: 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace; 


*  Names  of  horses  of  the  time. 


Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  takoth  me, 
'   Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

True.  And  I  am  clearly  on  the  other  side  :  I 
love  a  good  dressing  bofore  any  beauty  o'  the 
world.  Oh,  a  woman  is  then  like  a  delicate  gar- 
den ;  nor  is  there  one  kind  of  it ;  she  may  vary 
every  hour;  take  often  counsel  of  her  glass,  and 
choose  the  best.  If  she  have  good  eai's,  show 
them;  good  hair,  lay  it  out ;  good  legs,  wear  short 
clothes  ;  a  good  hand,  discover  it  often  :  practise 
any  art  to  mend  breath,  cleanse  teeth,  repair  eye- 
brows ;  paint,  and  profess  it. 

Cler.  How !  publiclj'  ? 

True.  The  doing  of  it,  not  the  manner:  that 
must  be  private.  Many  things  that  seem  foul 
in  the  doing,  do  please  done.  A  lady  should, 
indeed,  study  her  face,  when  we  think  she  sleeps  ; 
nor,  when  the  doors  are  shut,  should  men  be 
inquiring ;  all  is  sacred  within,  then.  Is  it  for 
us  to  see  their  perukes  put  on,  their  false  teeth, 
their  complexion,  their  eye-brows,  their  nails  ? 
You  see  gilders  will  not  work,  but  inclosed. 
They  must  not  discover  how  little  serves,  with 
the  help  of  art,  to  adorn  a  gi-eat  deal.  How  long 
did  the  canvas  hang  afore  Aldgate  ?  '  Were  the 
people  suffered  to  see  the  city's  Love  and  Charity, 
while  they  were  rude  stone,  before  they  were 
painted  and  burnish'd  ?  No ;  no  more  should 
servants  approach  their  mistresses,  but  when  they 
are  complete  and  finish'd. 

Cler.  Well  said,  my  Tniewit. 

True.  And  a  wise  lady  will  keep  a  guard 
alwaj'S  upon  the  place,  that  she  may  do  things 
securely.  I  once  followed  a  rude  fellow  into  a 
chamber,  where  the  poor  madam,  for  haste,  and 
troubled,  snatch'd  at  her  peruke  to  cover  her 
baldness  ;  and  put  it  on  the  wrong  way. 

Cler.  Oh,  prodigy ! 

True.  And  the  unconscionable  knave  held  her 
in  compliment  an  hour  with  that  reverst  face, 
when  I  still  look'd  when  she  should  talk  from  the 
t'other  side. 

Cler.  Why,  thou  shouldst  have  relieved  her. 

True.  No,  faith,  I  let  her  alone,  as  we'll  let  this 
argument,  if  you  please,  and  pass  to  another. 
When  saw  you  Dauphine  Eugenie? 

Cler.  Not  these  three  days.  Shall  we  go  to 
him  this  morning  ?  He  is  very  melancholy,  I 
hear. 

True.  Sick  of  the  uncle,  is  he  ?  I  met  that 
stiff  piece  of  formality,  his  uncle,  j^esterday,  with 
a  huge  turban  of  night-caps  on  his  head  buckled 
over  his  ears. 

Cler.  Oh,  that's  his  custom  when  he  walks 
abroad.     He  can  endure  no  noise,  man. 

True.  So  I  have  heard.  But  is  the  disease  so 
ridiculous  in  him  as  it  is  made  ?  They  say  he 
has  been  upon  divers  treaties  with  the  fish-wivee 
and  orange-women ;  and  articles  propounded  be- 
tween them  :  marry,  the  chimney-sweepers  wiU 
not  be  drawn  in. 

Cler.  No,  nor  the  broom-men :  they  stand  out 
stiffly.  He  cannot  endure  a  costard-monger,  he 
swoons  if  he  hear  one. 

True.  Methiuks  a  smith  should  be  ominous. 

Cler.  Or  any  hammerman.  A  braisier  is  not 
suffer'd  to  dwell  in  the  parish,  nor  an  armourer. 
He  would  have  hang'd  a  pewterer's  prentice  once 
upon  a  Shrove-Tuesday's  riot,  for  being  of  that 
trade,  when  the  rest  were  quit. 


1  Aldgate,  as  Stow  informs  us,  '  began  to  be  taken 
down  in  160G,  and  famously  finished  in  1609;  so  that 
the  canvas  hunrj  before  it  about  two  years.'  Love  and 
Charity  were  figures  that  graced  each  side  of  Aldgate. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


True.  A  trumpet  should  fright  him  terribly,  or 
the  hautboys. 

CUr.  Out  of  his  senses.  The  waits  of  the  city 
have  a  pension  of  him  not  to  come  near  that 
ward.  This  youth  practised  on  him  one  night 
like  the  bellman ;  and  never  left  till  he  had 
brought  him  down  to  the  door  with  a  long 
sword;  and  there  left  him  flourishing  with  the 
ail-. 

Page.  Why,  sir,  he  hath  chosen  a  street  to  lie 
in  so  narrow  at  both  ends,  that  it  will  receive  no 
coaches,  nor  carts,  nor  any  of  these  common 
noises:  and  therefore  we  that  love  him,  devise 
to  bring  him  in  such  as  we  may,  now  and  then, 
for  his  exercise,  to  breathe  him.  He  would  grow 
resty  else  in  his  ease:  his  vhtue  would  rust 
without  action.  I  entreated  a  bearward,^  one 
day,  to  come  down  with  the  dogs  of  some  four 
parishes  that  way,  and  I  thank  him  he  did  ;  and 
cried  his  games  under  Master  Morose's  window  : 
till  he  was  sent  crying  away,  with  his  head  made 
a  most  bleeding  spectacle  to  the  multitude.  And, 
another  time,  a  fencer  marching  to  his  prize,  had 
his  drum  most  tragically  run  through,  for  taking 
that  street  in  his  way  at  my  request. 

True.  A  good  wag!  How  does  he  for  the 
beUs? 

Cler.  Oh,  in  the  queen's  time,  he  was  wont  to 
go  out  of  the  town  every  Saturday  at  ten  o'clock, 
or  on  holy  day  eves.  But  now,  by  reason  of  the 
sickness,  the  perpetuity  of  ringing  has  made  him 
devise  a  room,  with  double  walls  and  treble  ceil- 
ings ;  the  windows  close  shut  and  caulk'd :  and 
there  he  lives  by  candle-light.  He  turn'd  away 
a  man,  last  week,  for  having  a  pair  of  new  shoes 
that  creak'd.  And  this  fellow  waits  on  him  now 
in  tennis-court  socks,  or  slippers  soled  with  wool : 
and  thej^  talk  each  to  other  in  a  trunk.2  See,  who 
comes  here ! 

Enter  Sir  Dauphine  Eugejtie. 

Daup.  How  now  !  What  ail  you,  sirs  ?  Dumb  ? 

True.  Struck  into  stone,  almost,  I  am  here, 
■with  tales  o'  thine  uncle.  There  was  never  such 
a  prodigy  heard  of. 

Daup.  I  would  you  would  once  lose  this  sub- 
ject, my  masters,  for  my  sake.  They  are  such 
as  you  are,  that  have  brought  me  into  that  pre- 
dicament I  am  with  him. 

True.  How  is  that  ? 

Daup.  Marry,  that  he  will  disinherit  me ;  no 
more.  He  thinks,  I  and  my  company  are  authors 
of  all  the  ridiculous  Acts  and  Monuments  are 
told  of  him. 

True.  'Slid,  I  would  be  the  author  of  more  to 
vex  him ;  that  purpose  deserves  it :  it  gives  thee 
law  of  plaguing  him.  I'll  tell  thee  what  I  would 
do.  I  would  make  a  false  almanack,  get  it 
printed  ;  and  then  have  him  drawn  out  on  a 
coronation  day  to  the  Tower-wharf,  and  kill 
him  vfiih.  the  noise  of  the  ordnance.  Disinherit 
thee !  he  cannot,  man.  Art  not  thou  next  of 
blood,  and  his  sister's  son  ? 

Daup.  Ay,  but  he  will  thrust  me  out  of  it,  he 
vows,  and  maiTy. 

True.  How!  that's  a  more  portent.  Can  he 
endure  no  noise,  and  will  venture  oh  a  wife  ? 

Cler.  Yes :  why,  thou  art  a  stranger,  it  seems, 
to  his  best  trick  yet.  He  has  employed  a  fellow 
this  half  year  all  over  England  to  hearken  him 
out  a  dumb  woman ;  be  she  of  any  form,  or  any 
quality,  so  she  be  able  to  bear  children :  her 
silence  is  dowry  enough,  he  says. 


1  hearward—fiiQ  ward  or  keeper  of  a  tear  for  bear- 
taiting. 

2  trunk — tube. 


True.  But  I  trust  to  God  he  has  found  none. 

Cler.  No ;  but  he  has  heard  of  onfo  that's 
lodged  in  the  next  street  to  him,  who  is  exceed- 
ingly soft-spoken;  thrifty  of  her  speech;  that 
spends  but  six  words  a  day.  And  her  he's 
about  now,  and  shall  have  her. 

True.  Is't  possible !  Who  is  his  agent  in  the 
business? 

Cier.  Marry,  a  barber,  one  Cutbeard ;  an  honest 
fellow,  one  that  tells  Dauphine  all  here. 

Time.  Why,  you  oppress  me  with  wonder:  a 
woman,  and  a  barber,  and  love  no  noise ! 

Cler.  Yes,  faith.  The  fellow  trims  him  silently, 
and  has  not  the  knack'  with  his  sheers  or  his 
fingers  :  and  that  continence  in  a  barber  ho 
thinks  so  eminent  a  virtue,  as  it  has  made  him 
chief  of  his  counsel. 

True.  Is  the  barber  to  be  seen,  or  the  wench  ? 

Cler.  Yes,  that  they  are. 

True.  I  prithee,  Dauphine,  let's  go  thither. 

Daup.  I  have  some  business  now  :  I  cannot,  1' 
faith. 

True.  You  shall  have  no  business  shall  make 
you  neglect  this,  sir.  We'll  make  her  talk,  be- 
lieve it ;  or,  if  she  will  not,  we  can  give  out  at 
least  so  much  as  shall  interrupt  the  treaty ;  we 
will  break  it.  Thou  art  bound  in  conscience, 
when  he  suspects  thee  without  cause,  to  torment 
him. 

Daup.  Not  I,  by  any  means.  I'll  give  no 
suffrage  to't.  He  shall  never  have  that  plea 
against  me,  that  I  opposed  the  least  phant'sy  of 
his.  Let  it  lie  upon  my  stars  to  be  guilty ;  I'll 
be  innocent. 

True.  Yes,  and  be  poor,  and  beg;  do,  inno- 
cent :  when  some  groom  of  his  has  got  him  an 
heir,  or  this  barber,  if  he  himself  cannot.  Inno- 
cent ! — I  prithee,  Ned,  where  lies  she  ?  Let  him 
be  innocent  still. 

Cler.  Why,  right  over  against  the  barber's; 
in  the  house  where  Sir  John  Daw  lies. 

True.  You  do  not  mean  to  confound  me  ! 

Cler.  Why? 

True.  Does  he  that  would  marry  her  know  so 
much  ? 

Cler.  I  cannot  tell. 

True.  'Twere  enough  of  imputation  to  her 
with  him. 

Cler.  Why? 

Trv/i.  The  only  talking  sir  in  the  town  ! 
Jack  Daw !  And  he  teach  her  not  to  speak ! 
— God  be  wi'  you.     I  have  some  business  too. 

Cler.  Will  you  not  go  thither,  then  ? 

True.  Not  with  the  danger  to  meet  Daw,  for 
mine  ears. 

Cler.  Why,  I  thought  you  two  had  been  upon 
vei'y  good  terms. 

True.  Yes,  of  keeping  distance. 

Cler.  They  say,  he  is  a  very  good  scholar. 

True.  Ay,  and  he  says  it  first.  A  pox  on  him, 
a  fellow  that  pretends  only  to  learning,  buys 
titles,  and  nothing  else  of  books  in  him ! 

Cler.  The  world  reports  him  to  be  very 
learned. 

True.  I  am  sorry  the  world  should  so  conspire 
to  belie  him. 

Cler.  Good  faith,  I  have  heard  very  good 
things  come  from  him. 

True.  You  may;  there's  none  so  desperately 
ignorant  to  den}'  that:  would  they  were  his 
own  !     God  be  wi'  you,  gentlemen. 

[Exit  hastily. 

Cler.  This  is  very  abrupt ! 

Daup.  Come,  you  are  a  strange  open  man,  to 
tell  eveiything  thus. 

'  Icnack — tlic  knocking  or  snapping  made  in  clipping. 


BEN  yONSON. 


183 


Cler.  Why,  believe  it,  Dauphiae,  Truewit's  a 
very  honest  fellow. 

Daup.  I  think  no  other :  but  this  frank  nature 
of  his  is  not  for  secrets. 

Cler.  Nay,  then,  you  are  mistaken,  Dauphine : 
I  know  where  he  has  been  well  trusted,  and  dis- 
charged the  trust  very  truh',  and  heartily. 

Daup.  I  contend  not,  Ned;  but  with  the 
fewer  a  business  is  carried,  it  is  ever  the  safer. 
Now  we  are  alone,  if  you'll  go  thither,  I  am  for 
you. 

Cler.  When  were  you  there  ? 

Daup.  Last  night:  and  such  a  Decameron 
of  sport  fallen  out !  Boccace  never  thought 
of  the  like.  Daw  does  nothing  but  court  her ; 
and  the  wrong  waj'.  He  would  lie  with  her, 
and  praises  her  modesty  ;  desires  that  she  would 
talk  and  be  free,  and  commends  her  silence  in 
verses ;  which  he  reads,  and  swears  are  the 
best  that  ever  man  made.  Then  rails  at  his 
fortunes,  stamps,  and  mutines,i  why  he  is  not 
made  a  counsellor,  and  call'd  to  affairs  of  state. 

Cler  I  prithee  let's  go.  I  would  fain  partake 
this. — Some  water,  boy.  [Exit  Page. 

Daup.  We  are  invited  to  dinner  together,  he 
and  I,  by  one  that  came  thither  to  him,  Sir  La- 
Foole. 

Cler.  Oh,  that's  a  precious  mannikin ! 

Daup.  Do  you  know  him  ? 

Cler.  Ay,  and  he  will  know  you  too,  if  e'er  he 
saw  you  but  once,  though  you  should  meet  him 
at  church  in  the  midst  of  prayers.  He  is  one  of 
the  braveries,^  though  he  be  none  of  the  wits. 
He  will  salute  a  judge  upon  the  bench,  and  a 
bishop  in  the  pulpit,  a  lawyer  when  he  is  plead- 
ing at  the  bar,  and  a  lady  when  she  is  dancing 
in  a  masque,  and  put  her  out.  He  does  give 
plays,  and  suppers,  and  invites  his  guests  to 
them,  aloud,  out  of  his  window,  as  they  ride  by 
in  coaches.  He  has  a  lodging  in  the  Strand  for 
the  purpose :  or  to  watch  when  ladies  are  gone 
to  the  China-houses,  or  the  Exchange,  that  he 
may  meet  them  by  chance,  and  give  them 
jDresents,  some  two  or  three  hundred  pounds 
worth  of  toys,  to  be  laugh'd  at.  He  is  never 
without  a  spare  banquet,  or  sweetmeats  in  his 
chamber,  for  their  women  to  alight  at,  and  come 
up  to  for  a  bait. 

Daup.  Excellent !  he  was  a  fine  youth  last 
night ;  but  now  he  is  much  finer !  What  is  his 
Christian  name  ?     I  have  forgot. 

Re-enter  Page. 

Cler.  Sir  Amorous  La-Foole. 

Page.  The  gentleman  is  here  below  that  owns 
that  name. 

Cler.  'Heart,  he's  come  to  invite  me  to  dinner, 
I  hold  my  life ! 

Daup.  Like  enough:  prithee,  let's  have  him 
up. 

Cler.  Boy,  marshal  him. 

Page.  With  a  truncheon,  sir  ? 

Cler.  Away,  I  beseech  you.  [Exit  Page.] — 
I'll  make  him  tell  us  his  pedigree  now  ;  and 
what  meat  he  has  to  dinner ;  and  who  are  his 
guests;  and  the  whole  com-se  of  his  fortunes; 
with  a  breath. 

Enter  Sir  Amorous  La-Foole. 

La-F.  'Save,  dear  Sir  Dauphine !  honoured 
Master  Clerimont ! 


1  mutines — mutinies. 

2  The  braveries  were  tlie  beaus  of  the  age;  men  dis- 
tinguished by  the  splendour  and  fashion  of  their  ap- 
parel ;  hrave  and  braw  are  still  applied 'in  the  same  way 
in  Scotland. 


Cler.  Sir  Amorous !  you  have  very  much 
honested  ^  my  lodging  with  your  presence. 

La-F.  Good  faith,  it  is  a  fine  lodging :  almost 
as  delicate  a  lodging  as  mine. 
Cler.  Not  so,  sir. 

La-F.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  it  were  in  the  Strand, 
I  assure  you.  I  am  come,  Master  Clerimont,  to 
entreat  you  to  wait  upon  two  or  three  ladies  to 
dinner  to-day. 

Cler.  How,  sir!  wait  upon  them?  Did  you 
ever  see  me  carry  dishes  ? 

La-F.  No,  sir,  dispense  with  ^  me ;  I  meant,  to 
bear  them  company. 

Cler.  Oh,  that  I  will,  sir:  the  doubtfulness 
of  your  phrase,  believe  it,  sir,  would  breed 
you  a  quarrel  once  an  hour,  with  the  terrible 
boys,3  if  you  should  but  keep  them  fellowship 
a  day. 

La-F.  It  should  be  extremely  against  my  will, 
sir,  if  I  contested  with  any  man. 

Cler.  I  believe  it,  sir.  Where  hold  you  your 
feast  ? 

La-F.  At  Tom  Otter's,  sir. 
Daup.  Tom  Otter !  what's  he  ? 
Iai-F.  Captain    Otter,   sir;    he  is  a  kind  of 
gamester,  but  he  has  had  command  both  by  sea 
and  by  land. 

Daup.  Oh,  then  he  is  animal  amphibium  f 
La-F.  Ay,  sir :  his  wife  was  the  rich  china- 
woman,* tliat  the  courtiers  visited  so  often  ;  that 
gave  the  rare  entertainment.     She  commands  all 
at  home. 

Cler.  Then  slie  is  Captain  Otter. 
La-F.  You  say  very  well,  sir ;  she  is  my  kins- 
woman, a  La-Foole  by  the  mother-side,  and  will 
invite  any  great  ladies  for  my  sake. 
Daup.  Not  of  the  La-Fooles  of  Essex  ? 
La-F.  No,  sir,  the  La-Fooles  of  London. 
Cler.  Now,  he's  in.  [Aside. 

La-F.  They  all  come  out  of  our  house,  the  La- 
Fooles  of  the  north,  the  La-Fooles  of  the  west, 
the  La-Fooles  of  the  east  and  south — we  are  as 
ancient  a  family  as  any  is  in  Europe — but  I  my- 
self am  descended  lineally  of  the  French  La- 
Fooles — and,  we  do  bear  for  oiu"  coat  yellow,*  or 
or,  checker'd  azure,  and  gules,  and  some  three  or 
four  colours  more,  which  is  a  very  noted  coat, 
and  has,  sometimes,  been  solemnly  worn  by 
divers  nobility  of  our  house ;  but  let  that  go, 
antiquity  is  not  respected  now. — I  had  a  brace 
of  fat  does  sent  me,  gentlemen,  and  half-a-dozen 
of  pheasants,  a  dozen  or  two  of  godwits,  and 
some  other  fowl,  which  I  would  have  eaten, 
while  they  are  good,  and  in  good  company : — 
there  will  be  a  great  lady  or  two:  my  Lady 
Haughty,  my  Lady  Centaure,  Mistress  Dol  Mavis 
— and  they  come  o'  purpose  to  see  the  sUent 
gentlewoman.  Mistress  Epicoene,  that  honest  Sir 
John  Daw  has  promised  to  bring  thither — and 
then.  Mistress  Trusty,  mj'  lady's  woman,  will  be 
there  too,  and  this  honourable  knight.  Sir  Dau- 


1  honested — honoured. 

2  dispense  with — excuse. 

3  The  terrible  boys  were  the  same  as  the  angry  J>oy$ 
mentioned  in  The  Alchemist,  and  were  also  called  roar- 
ing boys,  1-oysters,  &c.  They  were  for  a  long  time  the 
teiTor  of  peaceful  citizens,  and  caused  the  streets  to 
swarm  '  with  bloody  quarrels,  private  duels,'  &c. 

*  In  Jonson's  time,  the  trade  with  the  East  had  not 
long  been  opened ;  and  the  china  and  lacquered  wares 
from  China  and  Japan  were  objects  of  curiosity  to  both 
sexes.  Advantage  was  taken  of  this  to  convert  the 
places  of  exhibition  (almost  always  private  houses)  into 
a  kind  of  bagnios,  of  which  the  owners  were  the  most 
convenient  of  procuresses. — Gifpoed. 

5  This  is  a  humorous  allusion  to  the  parti-coloured 
dress  of  the  domestic  fool  of  our  ancestors. — Giffoed. 


1 84 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


phine,  with  yourself,  Master  Clerimont — and 
-we'll  be  very  merry,  and  have  fiddlers,  and  dance. 
— I  have  been  a  mad  wag  in  my  time,  and  have 
spent  some  crowns  since  I  was  a  page  in  court, 
to  my  Lord  Lofty,  and  after,  my  lady's  gentle- 
man-usher, who  got  me  knighted  in  Ireland, 
since  it  pleased  my  elder  brother  to  die — I  had 
as  fair  a  gold  jerkin  on  that  day,  as  any  worn 
in  the  island  voyage,  i  or  at  Cadiz,  none  dis- 
praised; and  I  came  over  in  it  hither,  show'd 
myself  to  my  friends  in  court,  and  after  went 
down  to  my  tenants  in  the  country,  and  sur- 
veyed my  lands,  let  new  leases,  took  their  money, 
spent  it  in  the  eye  o'  the  land  here,  upon  ladies : 
— and  now  I  can  take  up  at  my  pleasure. 

Baup.  Can  you  take  up  ladies,  sir  ? 

Cler.  Oh,  let  him  breathe,  he  has  not  recovei-'d. 

Daup.  AVould  I  were  your  half  in  that  com- 
modity ! 

La-F.  No,  sir,  excuse  me  :  I  meant  money, 
which  can  take  up  anything.  I  have  another 
guest  or  two  to  invite,  and  say  as  much  to, 
gentlemen.  I'll  take  my  leave  abruptly,  in  hope 
you  will  not  fail — Your  servant. 

[Exit. 

Baup.  We  will  not  fail  you,  sir  precious  La- 
Foole ;  but  she  shall,  that  your  ladies  come  to 
see,  if  I  have  credit  afore  Sir  Daw. 

Cler.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  wind-sucker  ^ 
as  this  ? 

Baup.  Or  such  a  rook  as  the  other,  that  will 
betray  his  mistress  to  be  seen !  Come,  'tis  time 
we  prevented  it. 

Cler.  Go.  lExeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  ill  Moeose's  House. 

Enter  Morose,  with  a  tube  in  his  hand,  followed 
by  Mute. 

Mor.  Cannot  I,  yet,  find  out  a  more  compen- 
dious method,  than  by  this  trunk,  to  save  my 
servants  the  labour  of  speech,  and  mine  ears  the 
discords  of  sounds  ?  Let  me  see :  all  discourses 
but  my  own  afflict  me  ;  they  seem  harsh,  imper- 
tinent, and  ii'ksome.  Is  it  not  possible,  that 
thou  shouldst  answer  me  bj'  signs,  and  I  appre- 
hend thee,  fellow  ?  Speak  not,  though  I  ques- 
tion you.  You  have  taken  the  ring  off  from  the 
street  door,  as  I  bade  you  ?  answer  me  not  by 
speech,  but  by  silence ;  unless  it  be  otherwise 
[Mute  malces  a  leg.'^^ — Very  good.  And  you 
have  fastened  on  a  thick  quilt,  or  flock-bed,  on 
the  outside  of  the  door;  that  if  they  knock  with 
their  daggers,  or  with  brick-bats,  they  can  make 
no  noise  ? — But  with  your  leg,  your  answer, 
unless  it  be  otherwise  \jnakes  a  leff-1 — Very  good. 
This  is  not  only  fit  modesty  in  a  servant,  but 
good  state  and  discretion  in  a  master.  And  you 
have  been  with  Cutbeard  the  barbei",  to  have 
him  come  to  me?  \jnakes  a  leg.'] — Good.  And, 
he  will  come  presently  ?  Answer  me  not  but 
with  your  leg,  unless  it  be  otherwise :  if  it  be 


J  This  island  voyage  was  undertaken  loSo,  Sir  Francis 
Drake  being  admiral,  witli  a  fleet  of  120  sail.  They  went 
to  Hispaniola  and  made  themselves  masters  of  the  town 
of  St.  Domingo.  The  other  adventure  occurred  in  1596, 
when  Kssex  and  Raleigh  burnt  the  Indian  fleet  at  Cadiz. 
— Upton. 

2  wind-sucker— thB  kestrel,  a  kind  of  kite,  that  sup- 
ports itself  for  a  considerable  time  in  the  air  with  little 
or  no  motion,  its  beak  being  turned  towards  the  wind, 
which  it  seems  to  suck. 

3  makes  a  leg—hoyis,  putting  the  leg  out. 


otherwise,  shake  your  head,  or  shrug,  \jnahes  a 
leg.] — So  !  Your  Italian  and  Spaniard  are  wise 
in  these:  and  it  is  a  frugal  and  comely  gravity. 
How  long  will  it  be  ere  Cutbeard  come  ?  Stay ; 
if  an  hour,  hold  up  your  whole  hand  ;  if  half  an 
hour,  two  fingers  ;  if  a  quarter,  one  ;  [liolds  up  a 
finger  hent.] — Good:  half  a  quarter.?  'tis  well. 
And  have  you  given  him  a  key,  to  come  in  with- 
out knocking.'  [iiuikes  a  leg.] — Good.  And,  is 
the  lock  oil'd,  and  the  hinges,  to-day  ?  \_makes  a 
leg.] — Good.  And  the  quilting  of  the  stairs  no 
where  worn  out  and  bare  ?  [jnakes  a  leg.] — Very 
good.  I  see,  by  much  doctrine,  and  impulsion, 
it  may  be  effected ;  stand  by.  The  Turk,  in  this 
divine  discipline,  is  admirable,  exceeding  all  the 
potentates  of  the  earth  ;  still  waited  on  by  mutes  ; 
and  all  his  commands  so  executed ;  yea,  even  in 
the  war,  as  I  have  heard,  and  in  his  marches, 
most  of  his  charges  and  directions  given  by 
signs,  and  with  silence :  an  exquisite  art !  and  I 
am  heartily  ashamed,  and  angry  oftentimes,  that 
the  princes  of  Christendom  should  suffer  a  bar- 
bai'ian  to  ti'anscend  them  in  so  high  a  point  of 
felicity.  I  will  practise  it  hereafter.  [A  horn 
xvinded  within.] — How  now  ?  oh  !  oh !  what 
villain,  what  prodigy  of  mankind  is  that  ?  Look. 
[Exit  Mute.] — [Horn  again.]  Oh !  cut  his 
throat,  cut  his  throat!  what  murderer,  hell- 
hound, devil  can  this  be  ? 

He-enter  Mute. 

Mute.  It  is  a  post  from  the  court — 

Mor.  Out,  rogue ! '  and  must  thou  blow  thy 
horn  too  ? 

Mute.  Alas,  it  is  a  post  from  the  court,  sir, 
that  says,  he  must  speak  with  you,  pain  of 
death — 

Mor.  Pain  of  thy  life,  be  silent ! 

Enter  Truewit  loith  a  post-horn,  and  a  halter  in 
his  hand. 

True.  By  your  leave,  sir, — I  am  a  stranger 
here, — is  your  name  Master  Morose  ?  is  your 
name  Master  Morose  ?  Fishes !  Pythagoreans 
all!  This  is  strange.  What  say  you,  sir?  no- 
thing !  Has  Harpocrates  •  been  here  with  his 
club,  among  you  ?  Well,  sir,  I  will  believe  you 
to  be  the  man  at  this  time  :  I  will  venture  upon 
you,  sir.  Your  friends  at  court  commend  them 
to  you,  sir — 

Mor.  0  men !  0  manners  !  was  there  ever  such 
an  impudence  ? 

True.  And  are  extremely  solicitous  for  you, 
sir. 

Mor.  Whose  knave  are  you  ? 

True.  Mine  own  knave,  and  your  compeer, 
sir. 

Mor.  Fetch  me  my  sword — 

Trite.  You  shall  taste  the  one  half  of  my  dag- 
ger, if  you  do,  groom ;  and  you  the  other,  if  j'ou 
stir,  sir.  Be  patient,  I  charge  you,  in  the  king's 
name,  and  hear  me  without  insurrection.  Tbey 
say,  you  are  to  marry ;  to  marry !  do  you  mark, 
sir? 

Mor.  How  then,  rude  companion ! 

True  Marry,  your  friends  do  wonder,  sir,  th© 
Thames  being  so  near,  wherein  you  may  drown 
so  handsomely;  or  London  Bridge,  at  a  low  fall, 
with  a  fine  leap  to  hurry  you  down  the  stream ; 
or  such  a  delicate  steeple  in  the  town,  as  Bow, 
to  vault  from ;  or  a  braver  height,  as  Paul's : 
or,  if  you  affected  to  do  it  nearer  home,  and  a 


1  Harpocrates  was  the  god  of  silence.  The  disciples 
of  Pythagoras  had  to  undergo  a  long  probationary 
silence. 


BEN  JONSON. 


18S 


sliortei"  way,  an  excellent  garret-window  into 
the  street;  or,  a  beam  in  tlie  said  garret,  with 
this  halter  [shozos  him  the  halter^  which  they 
have  sent,  and  desire,  that  you  would  sooner 
commit  your  grave  head  to  this  knot,  than  to  the 
wedlock  noose ;  or,  take  a  little  sublimate,  and 
go  out  of  the  world  like  a  rat ;  or  a  fly,  as  one 
said,  with  a  straw  in  your  arse :  any  way,  rather 
tlfan  follow  this  goblin  Matrimony.  Alas!  sir, 
do  you  ever  think  to  find  a  chaste  wife  in  these 
times?  now?  when  thei-e  are  so  many  masques, 
plays,  Puritan  preachings,  mad  folks,  and  other 
strange  sights  to  be  seen  daily,  private  and 
public  ?  If  you  had  lived  in  King  Etheldred's 
time,  sir,  or  Edward  the  Confessor,  you  might, 
perhaps,  have  found  one  in  some  cold  country 
hamlet :  then,  a  dull  frosty  wench  would  have 
been  contented  with  one  man ;  now,  they  will  as 
soon  be  pleased  with  one  leg,  or  one  eye.  I'll 
tell  you,  sir,  the  monstrous  liazai'ds  you  shall 
run  with  a  wife. 

Moi:  Good  sir,  have  I  ever  cozen'd  any 
friends  of  yours  of  their  land?  bought  their 
possessions  ?  taken  forfeit  of  their  mortgage  ? 
begg'd  a  reversion  from  them?  bastarded  their 
issue  ?  What  have  I  done,  that  may  deserve 
this  ? 

Ti-ue.  Nothing,  sir,  that  I  know,  but  your  itch 
of  marriage. 

Mor.  Why,  if  I  had  made  an  assassinate '  upon 
your  father,  vitiated  your  mother,  ravished  your 
sisters — 

True.  I  Avould  kill  you,  sir,  I  would  kill  you, 
if  you  had. 

Mor.  Why,  you  do  moi'e  in  this,  sir :  it  were 
a  vengeance  centuple,  for  all  facinorous-  acts 
that  could  be  named,  to  do  that  you  do. 

Tnie.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  but  a  messenger :  I  but 
tell  you,  what  you  must  hear.  It  seems  your 
friends  are  careful  after  your  soul's  health,  sir, 
and  would  have  you  know  the  danger  (but  you 
may  do  your  pleasure  for  all  them,  I  persuade  not, 
sir).  If,  after  you  are  married,  your  wife  do  run 
away  with  a  vaulter,  or  the  Frenchman  that  walks 
upon  ropes,  or  him  that  dances  the  jig,  or  a  fencer 
for  his  skill  at  his  weapon ;  why,  it  is  not  their 
fault,  they  have  discharged  their  consciences, 
when  you  know  what  may  happen.  Naj',  suffer 
valiantly,  sir,  for  I  must  tell  you  all  the  perils  that 
you  are  obnoxious  to.  If  she  be  fair,  young,  and 
vegetous,^  no  sweetmeats  ever  drew  more  flies; 
all  the  yellow  doublets  and  great  roses  in  the  town 
will  be  there.  If  foul  and  crooked,  she'll  be  with 
them,  and  buy  those  doublets  and  roses,  sir.  If 
rich,  and  that  you  marry  her  dowry,  not  her,  she'll 
reign  in  your  house  as  imperious  as  a  widow.  If 
noble,  all  her  kindred  will  be  your  tyrants.  If 
fruitful,  as  proud  as  May,  and  humorous  ■*  as  April ; 
she  must  have  her  doctors,  her  midwives,  her 
nurses,  her  longings  every  hour  ;  though  it  be  for 
the  dearest  morsel  of  man.  If  learned,  there  was 
never  such  a  parrot ;  all  your  patrimony  will  be 
too  little  for  the  guests  that  must  be  invited  to 
hear  her  speak  Latin  and  Greek ;  and  you  must  lie 
with  her  in  those  languages  too,  if  you  will  please 
her.  If  pi-ecise,*  you  must  feast  all  the  silenced 
brethren  once  in  three  days ;  salute  the  sisters ; 
entertain  the  whole  family,  or  wood  of  them  ; 
and  hear  long-winded  exercises,  singings    and 


*  assassinaie — assassination. 

-  facinorous — atrociously  wicked ;  Lat. 
^  vegetous — vigorous,  lusty. 

*  humorous— lull  of  humour,  capricious,  cliangcable. 

^  precise— i.e.  a  precisian,  a  Puritan.  The  silenced 
Ireihren  rrlay  be  the  nonconfonnist  clergy,  silenced  in 
the  year  1604. 


catechisings,  which  you  are  not  given  to,  and  yet 
must  give  for,  to  please  the  zealous  matron  your 
wife,  who  for  the  holy  cause  will  cozen  you  over 
and  above.  You  begin  to  sweat,  sir  !  but  this  is 
not  half,  i'faith :  you  may  do  your  pleasure,  not- 
withstanding, as  I  said  before:  I  come  not  to 
persuade  you.  [Mute  is  stealing  moay.'] — Upoa 
my  faith,  master  serving-man,  if  you  do  stir,  I 
will  beat  you. 

Mor.  Oh,  what  is  my  sin !  what  is  my  sin  ! 

True.  Then,  if  you  love  your  wife,  or  rather 
dote  on  her,  sir,  oh,  how  she'll  torture  you,  ami 
take  pleasure  in  your  torments!  You  shall  lie 
with  her  but  when  she  lists  :  she  will  not  hurt  her 
beauty,  her  complexion;  or  it  must  be  for  that 
jewel,  or  that  pearl,  when  she  does :  every  half 
hour's  pleasure  must  be  bought  anew,  and  with 
the  same  pain  and  charge  you  woo'd  her  at  first. 
Then  you  must  keep  what  servants  she  please, 
what  company  she  will ;  that  friend  must  not  visit 
you  without  her  licence,  and  him  she  loves  most 
she  will  seem  to  hate  eagerliest,  to  decline  your 
jealousy ;  or,  feign  to  be  jealous  of  you  first,  and 
for  that  cause  go  live  with  her  she-f i-iend,  or  cousin 
at  the  college,  that  can  instruct  her  in  all  the  mys- 
teries of  writing  letters,  corrupting  servants,  tam- 
ing spies ;  where  she  must  have  that  rich  gown 
for  such  a  great  day,  a  new  one  for  the  next,  a 
richer  for  the  third;  be  seirved  in  silver;  have 
the  chamber  fill'd  with  a  succession  of  grooms, 
footmen,  ushers,  and  other  messengers ;  besides 
embroiderers,  jewellers,  tire-women,  sempsters, 
feathermen,  perfumers ;  whilst  she  feels  not  how 
the  land  drops  away,  nor  the  acres  melt,  nor  fore- 
sees the  change,  when  the  mercer  has  your  woods 
for  her  velvets ;  never  weighs  what  her  prido 
costs,  sir,  so  she  may  kiss  a  page,  or  a  smooth 
chin,  that  has  the  despair  of  a  beard :  be  a  states- 
woman,  know  all  the  news,  what  was  done  at 
Salisbury,'  what  at  the  Bath,  what  at  court,  what 
in  progress ;  or  so  she  may  censure  poets,  and. 
authors,  and  styles,  and  compare  them — Danie 
with  Spenser,  Jonson  with  the  t'other  youth,^ 
and  so  forth  :  or  be  thought  cunning  in  contro- 
versies, or  the  very  knots  of  divinity ;  and  have 
often  in  her  mouth  the  state  of  the  question ;  and 
then  skip  to  the  mathematics,  and  demonstra- 
tion :  and  answer  in  religion  to  one,  in  state  to 
another,  in  bawdry  to  a  third. 

Mor.  Oh,  oh! 

True.  All  this  is  very  true,  sir.  And  then 
her  going  in  disguise  to  that  conjurer,  and  this 
cunning  woman,  where  the  first  question  is, 
How  soon  you  shall  die  ?  next.  If  her  present 
servant  love  her?  next.  If  she  shall  have  a  new 
servant  ?  and  how  many  ?  Which  of  her  family 
would  make  the  best  bawd,  male  or  female  ? 
What  precedence  she  shall  have  by  her  next 
match  ?  and  sets  down  the  answers,  and  believes 
them  above  the  Scriptures.  Nay,  perhaps  she'll 
study  the  art. 

Mor.  Gentle  sir,  have  you  done  ?  have  you  had 
your  pleasure  of  me  ?    I'll  think  of  these  things. 

Ti~ue.  Yes,  sir :  and  then  comes  reeking  home 
of  vapour  and  sweat,  with  going  a-foot,  and  lies 
in  a  month  of  a  new  face,  all  oil  and  birdlime ; 
and  rises  in  asses'  milk,  and  is  cleansed  with  a 
new  fucus.  God  be  wi'  you,  sir.  One  thing 
more,  which  I  had  almost  forgot  This  too, 
with  whom  you  are  to  marry,  may  have  made 
a  conveyance  of  her  virginity  aforehaml,  as  your 


'  Salishury — i.e.  at  the  races  there; — in  progress,  i.e. 
when  the  king  went  to  Scotland,  or  rather  when  ha 
visited  the  nobility  at  their  country  residences. 

2  the  t'other  youth,  Upton  thinks,  is  Decker,  but  Gifford 
disagrees  with  him. 


i86 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


■wise  widows  do  of  tlieir  states,  before  they  marry, 
in  trust  to  some  friend,  sir :  who  can  tell  ?  Or  if 
she  have  not  done  it  yet,  she  may  do,  upon  the 
wedding-day,  or  the  night  before,  and  antedate 
you,  cuckold.  The  like  has  been  heard  of  in 
nature.  'Tis  no  devised,  impossible  thing,  sir. 
God  be  wi'  you.  I'll  be  bold  to  leave  this  rope 
with  you,  sir,  for  a  remembrance. — Fai-ewell, 
Mute !  {Exit. 

Mor.  Come,  have  me  to  my  chamber ;  but  first 
shut  the  door.  [TRUEWiT?t'ZMf?s  the  horn  without.] 
Oh,  shut  the  door,  shut  the  door!  is  he  come  again? 

Enter  Cutbeard. 

Cut.  'Tis  I,  sir,  your  barber. 

Mor.  Oh,  Cutbeard,  Cutbeard,  Cutbeard!  here 
has  been  a  cut-throat  with  me :  help  me  in  to 
my  bed,  and  give  me  physic  with  thy  counsel. 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  II— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  ill  Sir  John  Daw's  Eouse. 

Enter  Daw,  Clerimont,  Dauphine,  and 
Epiccene. 

Daio.  Nay,  an  she  will,  let  her  refuse  at  her 
own  charges  ;  'tis  nothing  to  me,  gentlemen:  but 
she  will  not  be  invited  to  the  like  feasts  or  guests 
every  day. 

Cler.  Oh,  by  no  tneans,  she  may  not  refuse — 
to  stay  at  home,  if  you  love  your  reputation. 
'Slight,  you  are  invited  thither  o'  purpose  to  be 
seen,  and  laughed  at  by  the  lady  of  the  college, 
and  her  shadows.  This  trumpeter  hath  pro- 
claim'd  you.  {Aside  to  Epi. 

Dcmp.  You  shall  not  go  ;  let  him  be  laugh'd  at 
in  your  stead,  for  not  bringing  you:  and  put  him 
to  his  exteniporal  faculty  of  fooling  and  talking 
loud,  to  satisfy  the  company.  {Aside  to  Epi. 

Cler.  He  will  suspect  us;  talk  aloi^d. — 'Pray, 
Mistress  Epiccene,  let's  see  your  verses ;  we  have 
Sir  John  Daw's  leave ;  do  not  conceal  your  ser- 
vant's merit,  and  your  own  glories. 

Epi.  They'll  prove  my  servant's  glories,  if  you 
have  his  leave  so  soon. 

Davp.  His  vain-glories,  lady ! 

Daio.  Show  them,  show  them,  mistress  ;  I  dare 
own  them. 

Ejri.  Judge  you,  what  glories. 

JJaw.  Nay,  I'll  read  them  myself  too :  an  author 
must  recite  his  own  works.  It  is  a  madrigal  of 
Modesty. 

Modest  and  fair.,  for  fair  and  good  are  near 

Neighbours.,  howe'er. — 

Da-up.  Very  good. 

Cler.  Ay,  is't  not  ? 

Daw.  No  nolle  virtue  ever  was  alone, 
But  two  in  om, 

Daup.  Excellent ! 

Cler.  That  again,  I  pray,  Sir  John. 

Daup.  It  has  something  in't  like  rare  wit  and 
sense. 

Cler.  Peace. 

Daio.  No  nohle  virtue  ever  was  alone, 
But  two  in  one. 

Then  when  I  praise  sioeet  modesty,  I  praise 
Bright  beauty^ s  rays : 

And  having  praised  both  beauty  and  modesty, 
1  have  praised  thee. 

Daup.  Admirable ! 

Cler.  How  it  chimes,  and  cries  tink  in  the 
close,  divinely ! 

Daup.  Ay,  'tis  Seneca. 

Cler.  No,  I  think  'tis  Plutarch. 


Daw.  The  dor  *  on  Plutarch  and  Seneca !  I 
hate  it :  they  are  mine  own  imaginations,  by 
that  light.  I  wonder  those  fellows  have  such 
credit  with  gentlemen. 

Cler.  'J'hey  are  very  grave  authors. 

Daw.  Grave  asses!  mere  essayists:  a  few  loose 
sentences,  and  that's  all.  A  man  would  talk  so, 
his  whole  age.  I  do  utter  as  good  things  every 
hom-,  if  they  were  collected  and  observed,  as 
either  of  them. 

Daup.  Indeed,  Sir  John ! 

Cler.  He  must  needs ;  living  among  the  wits 
and  braveries  too. 

Daup.  Aj',  and  being  j)resident  of  them,  as  he  is. 

Daw.  There's  Aristotle,  a  mere  commonplace 
fellow;  Plato,  a  discourser;  Thucydides  and  Livy, 
tedious  and  dry  ;  Tacitus,  an  entire  knot :  some- 
times worth  the  untying,  very  seldom. 

Cler.  What  do  you  think  of  the  poets.  Sir  John  ? 

Daw.  Not  worthy  to  be  named  for  authors. 
Homer,  an  old  tedious,  prolix  ass,  talks  of 
curriers  and  chines  of  beef ;  Virgil,  of  dunging 
of  land,  and  bees  ;  Horace,  of  I  know  not  what. 

Cler.  I  think  so. 

Daw.  And  so,  Pindarus,  Lycophron,  Anacreon, 
Catullus,  Seneca  the  tragedian,  Lucan,  Proper- 
tius,  Tibullus,  Martial,  Juvenal,  Ausonius,  Sta- 
tius,  Politian,  Valerius  Flaccus,  and  the  rest — 

Cler.  What  a  sackful  of  their  names  he  has  got! 

Daup.  And  how  he  pours  them  out !  Politian 
with  Valerius  Flaccus ! 

Cler.  Was  not  the  character  right  of  him  ? 

Daup.  As  could  be  made,  i'  faith. 

Daiu.  And  Persius,  a  crabbed  coxcomb,  not  to 
be  endured. 

Daup.  Why,  whom  do  you  account  for  authors, 
Sir  John  Daw  ? 

Daw.  Syntagma  2  juris  civilis ;  Corpus  juris 
civilis ;  Corpus  juris  canonici ;  the  king  of 
Spain's  Bible — 

Daup.  Is  the  king  of  Spain's  Bible  an  author  ? 

Cler.  Yes,  and  Syntagma. 

Daup.  What  was  that  Syntagma,  sir  ? 

Daw.  A  civil  lawyer,  a  Spaniard. 

Daup.  Sure,  Corpus  was  a  Dutchman. 

Cler.  Ay,  both  the  Corpuses,  I  knew  'em:  they 
were  very  corpulent  authors. 

Daw.  And  then  there's  Vatablus,  Pomponatius, 
Symancha:  the  other  are  not  to  be  received  within 
the  thought  of  a  scholar. 

Daup.  'Fore  God,  you  have  a  simple  learned 
servant,  lady, — in  titles.  {Aside. 

Cler.  I  wonder  that  he  is  not  called  to  the 
helm,  and  made  a  counsellor. 

Daup.  He  is  one  extraordinary. 

Cler.  Nay,  but  in  ordinary :  to  say  truth,  the 
state  wants  such. 

Daup.  Why,  that  will  follow. 

Cler.  I  muse  a  mistress  can  be  so  silent  to  the 
dotes  3  of  such  a  servant. 

Daiv.  -"Tis  her  virtue,  sir.  I  have  written  some- 
what of  her  silence  too. 

Daup.  In  verse.  Sir  John  ? 

Cler.  What  else? 

Daup.  Why,  how  can  you  justify  your  own 
being  of  a  poet,  that  so  slight  all  the  old  poets  ? 

Daw.  Why,  every  man  that  writes  in  verse  is 
not  a  i^oet ;  you  have  of  the  wits  that  write 
verses,  and  yet  are  no  poets :  they  are  poets  that 
live  by  it,  the  poor  fellows.that  live  by  it. 


1  dor— a,  drone  or  beetle;  to  give  the  dor,  a  cant  phrasa 
for  to  make  a  fool  of  a  person,  or  outwit  him.  Dor  is 
used  in  the  text  as  a  mock  imprecation. 

-  Syntagma,  Ac— '  book  of  civil  law ;  body  of  civil 
law ;  body  of  canon  law.' 

3  doles — gifts,  endowments. 


BEN  JONSON. 


1S7 


Dmcp.  Why,  would  not  you  live  by  your  verses, 
Sir  John  ? 

Cler.  No,  'twere  pity  he  should.  A  knight  live 
by  his  verses!  He  did  not  make  them  to  that  end, 
I  hope. 

Banp.  And  yet  the  noble  Sydney  lives  by  his, 
and  the  noble  family  not  ashamed. 

CUr.  Ay,  he  professed  himself ;  but  Sir  John 
Daw  has  more  caution:  lie'll  not  hinder  his  owu 
rising  in  the  state  so  much.  Do  you  think  he 
will?  Your  verses,  good  Sir  John,  and  no 
poems. 
Daw.  Silence  in  woman  is  lilce  speech  in  man ; 

DenyH  who  can. 
Daup.  Not  I,  believe  it :  your  reason,  sir. 
Daio.  Nor  isH  a  tale 

That  female  vice  should  be  a  virtue  male, 
Or  masculine  vice  a  female  virtue  he : 
You  shall  it  see 
Proved  with  increase ; 
I  Jcnow  to  speah  and  she  to  hold  her  peace. 
Do  you  conceive  me,  gentlemen  ? 

Laitp.  No,  faith ;  how  mean  you  with  increase. 
Sir  John  ? 

Daw.  Why,  with  increase  is,  when  I  coiirt  her 
for  the  common  cause  of  mankind,  and  she  says 
nothing,  but  consent  ire  videtur ; '  and  in  time  is 
gravida. 

Daup.  Then  this  is  a  ballad  of  procreation  ? 
Cler.  A  madrigal  of  procreation ;  you  mistake. 
Epi.  'Pray  give  me  my  verses  again,  servant. 
Daw.  If  you'll  ask  them  aloiul,  you  shall. 

\_Walks  aside  with  the  papers. 

Enter  Truewit  with  his  horn. 

Cler.  See,  here's  Truewit  again! — Where  hast 
thou  been,  in  the  name  of  madness,  thus  accoutred 
with  thy  horn .' 

True.  Where  the  sound  of  it  might  have  pierced 
your  senses  with  gladness,  had  you  been  in  ear- 
reach  of  it.  Dauphine,  fall  down  and  worship  me; 
I  have  forbid  the  bans,  lad;  I  have  been  with  thy 
virtuous  uncle,  and  have  broke  the  match. 

Daup.  You  have  not,  I  hope. 

True.  Yes,  faith ;  an  thou  shouldst  hope  other- 
wise, I  should  repent  me.  This  horn  got  me  en- 
trance ;  kiss  it.  I  had  no  other  way  to  get  in,  but 
by  feigning  to  be  a  post;  but  when  I  got  in  once, 
I  proved  none,  but  rather  the  contrary,  tui-n'd  him 
into  a  post,  or  a  stone,  or  what  is  stiffer,  with 
thundering  into  him  the  incommodities  of  a  wife, 
and  the  miseries  of  marriage.  If  ever  Gorgon 
were  seen  in  the  shape  of  a  woman,  he  hath  seen 
her  in  my  description  :  I  have  put  him  off  o'  that 
scent  for  ever. — Why  do  you  not  applaud  and 
adore  me,  sirs  ?  why  stand  you  mute .''  are  you 
stupid  ?     You  are  not  worthy  of  the  benefit. 

Daup.  Did  not  I  tell  you  ?     Mischief  ! — 

Cler.  I  would  you  had  placed  this  benefit  some- 
where else. 

True.  Why  so  ? 

Cler.  'Slight,  you  have  done  the  most  incon- 
siderate, rash,  weak  thing,  that  ever  man  did  to 
Ms  friend. 

Daup.  Friend !  if  the  most  malicious  enemy  I 
have,  had  studied  to  inflict  an  injury  upon  me, 
it  could  not  be  a  greater. 

True.  Wherein,  for  God's  sake .'  Gentlemen, 
come  to  yourselves  again. 

Daup.  But  I  presaged  thiis  much  afore  to  you. 

Cler.  Would  my  lips  had  been  solder'd  when  I 
spake  on't !  'Slight,  what  moved  you  to  be  thus 
impertinent  ? 

True.  My  masters,  do  not  put  on  tbis  strange 


1  '  seems  to  consent.' 


face  to  pay  my  courtesy ;  off  with  this  vizor. 
Have  good  turns  done  you,  and  thank  'em  this 
way ! 

Daup.  'Pore  heaven,  you  have  undone  me. 
That  which  I  have  plotted  for,  and  been  matur- 
ing now  these  four  months,  you  have  blasted  in 
a  minute.  Now  I  am  lost,  I  may  speak.  This 
gentlewoman  was  lodged  here  by  me  o'  purpose, 
and,  to  be  put  upon  my  uncle,  hath  protest  this 
obstinate  silence  for  my  sake ;  being  my  entii'e 
friend,  and  one  that  for  the  requital  of  such  a 
fortune  as  to  marry  him,  would  have  made  me 
very  ample  conditions ;  where  now,  all  my  hopes 
are  utterly  miscarried  by  this  uuhicky  accident. 

Cler.  Thus  'tis  when  a  man  will  be  iguorantly 
officious,  do  services,  and  not  know  his  why.  I 
wonder  what  coin-teous  itch  possest  j-ou.  You 
never  did  absurder  part  in  your  life,  nor  a  greater 
trespass  to  friendship  or  humanity. 

Daup.  Faith,  you  may  forgive  it  best;  'twas 
your  cause  principal!}'. 

Cler.  I  know  it ;  wuuld  it  had  not. 

Enter  Cutbeard. 

Daup.  How  now,  Cutbeard  !  what  news  ? 

Cut.  The  best,  the  happiest  that  ever  was,  sir. 
There  has  been  a  mad  gentleman  with  your  uncle 
this  morning,  [seeing  Truewit.] — I  think  this  be 
the  gentleman — that  has  almost  talk'd  him  out  of 
his  wits,  with  threatening  him  from  marriage — 

Daup.  On,  I  prithee. 

Cut.  And  your  uncle,  sir,  he  thinks  'twas  done 
by  your  procurement ;  therefore  he  will  see  the 
party  you  wot  of  presently ;  and  if  ho  like  her, 
he  says,  and  that  she  be  so  inclining  to  dumb  as 
I  have  told  him,  he  swears  he  will  many  her  to- 
day, instantly,  and  not  defer  it  a  minute  longer. 

Daup.  Excellent !  beyond  our  expectation  ! 

True.  Beyond  our  expectation  !  By  this  Hght, 
I  knew  it  would  be  thus. 

Daup.  Nay,  sweet  Truewit,  forgive  me. 

True.  No,  I  was  ignorantly  officious,  imperti- 
nent; this  was  the  absurd,  weaJc  part. 

Cler.  Wilt  thou  ascribe  that  to  merit  now,  was 
mere  fortune ! 

True.  Fortune  !  mere  providence.  Fortune 
had  not  a  finger  in't.  I  saw  it  must  necessarily 
in  nature  fall  out  so  :  my  genius  is  never  false  to 
me  in  these  things.  Show  me  how  it  could  be 
otlierwise. 

Daup.  Nay,  gentlemen,  contend  not ;  'tis  well 
now. 

True.  Alas,  I  let  him  go  on  with  inconsiderate, 
and  rash,  and  what  he  pleased. 

Cler.  Away,  thou  strange  justifier  of  thyself,  to 
be  wiser  than  thou  wert,  by  the  event ! 

True.  Event!  by  this  light,  thou  shalt  never 
persuade  me,  but  I  foresaw  it  as  well  as  the  stars 
themselves. 

Daup.  Nay,  gentlemen,  'tis  well  now.  Do  you 
two  entertain  Sir  John  Daw  with  discourse,  while 
I  send  her  away  with  instructions. 

True.  I'll  be  acquainted  with  her  first,  by  your 
favour. 

Cler.  Master  Tniewit,  lady,  a  friend  of  ours. 

True.  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  known  you  sooner, 

lady,  to  celebrate  this  rare  virtue  of  your  silence. 

^Exeunt  Daup.,  Epi.,  and  Cutbeard. 

Clei:  Faith,  an  you  had  come  sooner,  you 
should  have  seen  and  heard  her  well  celebrated 
in  Sir  John  Daw's  madrigals. 

True,  [admnces  to  Daw.]  Jack  Daw,  God  save 
you !    When  saw  you  La-Foole  ? 

Daw.  Not  since  last  night.  Master  Truewit. 

True.  That's  a  miracle!  I  thought  you  two 
had  been  inseparable. 

Daw.  He's  gone  to  invite  his  guests. 


i88 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


True.  'Odso!  'tis  true  !  What  a  false  memory 
have  I  towards  that  man !  I  am  one  :  I  met  him 
even  now,  upon  that  he  calls  his  delicate,  tine 
black  horse,  rid  into  foam,  with  posting  from 
place  to  place,  and  person  to  person,  to  give  them 
the  cue — 

CUr.  Lest  they  should  forget  ? 

True.  Yes.  There  was  never  poor  captain  took 
more  pains  at  a  muster  to  show  men,  than  he,  at 
this  meal,  to  show  friends. 

Daw.  It  is  his  quarter-feast,  sir  ? 

CUr.  What !  do  you  say  so.  Sir  John  ? 

True.  Nay,  Jack  Daw  will  not  be  out,  at  the 
best  friends  he  has,  to  the  talent  of  his  wit. 
Where's  his  mistress,  to  hear  and  applaud  him  1 
Is  she  gone  ? 

T)aw.  Is  Mistress  Epiccene  gone  ? 

Cler.  Gone  afore,  with  Sir  Dauphine,  I  war- 
rant, to  the  place. 

True.  Gone  afore  !  that  were  a  manifest  injury, 
a  disgrace  and  a  half,  to  refuse  him  at  such  a 
festival-time  as  this,  being  a  bravery,  and  a  wit 
too! 

Cler.  Tut,  he'll  swallow  it  like  cream.  He's 
better  read  in  Jure  civili,  than  to  esteem  any- 
thing a  disgrace  is  offer'd  him  from  a  mistress. 

Daw.  Nay,  let  her  e'en  go  ;  she  shall  sit  alone, 
and  be  dumb  in  her  chamber  a  week  together, 
for  John  Daw,  I  warrant  her.  Does  she  refuse 
me? 

Cler.  No,  sir,  do  not  take  it  so  to  heart;  she 
does  not  refuse  you,  but  a  little  neglects  you. 
Good  faith,  Truewit,  you  wei-e  to  blame,  to  put 
it  into  his  head,  that  she  does  refuse  him. 

True.  Sir,  she  does  refuse  him  palpably,  how- 
ever you  mince  it.  An  I  were  as  he,  1  would 
swear  to  speak  ne'er  a  word  to  her  to-day  for't. 

Daw.  By  this  light,  no  more  I  will  not. 

True.  Nor  to  anybody  else,  sir. 

Daw.  Nay,  I  will  not  say  so,  gentlemen. 

Cler.  It  had  been  an  excellent,  happy  condition 
for  the  company,  if  you  could  have  drawn  him  to 
it.  {Aside. 

Daw.  I'll  be  very  melancholy,  i'faitli. 

Cler.  As  a  dog,  if  I  were  as  you.  Sir  John. 

True.  Or  a  snail,  or  a  hog-louse.  I  woiild  roll 
myself  up  for  this  day ;  in  troth,  they  should  not 
unwind  me. 

Daw.  By  this  pick-tooth,  so  I  will. 

Cler.  'Tis  well  done.  He  begins  already  to  be 
angry  with  his  teeth. 

Daw.  Will  you  go,  gentlemen  ? 

Cler.  Nay,  you  must  walk  alone,  if  you  be  right 
melancholy.  Sir  John. 

True.  Yes,  sir,  we'll  dog  you,  we'll  follow  you 
afar  off.  \_Exit  Daw. 

Cler.  Was  there  ever  such  a  two  yards  of 
knighthood  measured  out  by  time,  to  be  sold  to 
laughter  ? 

True.  A  mere  talking  mole,  hang  him  !  no 
mushroom  was  ever  so  fresh.  A  fellow  so  utterly 
nothing,  as  he  knows  not  what  he  would  be. 

Cler.  Let's  follow  him  :  but  first  let's  go  to 
Daiiphine,  he's  hovering  about  the  house  to  hear 
what  news. 

True.  Content.  \^Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IIL 
A  Room  in  Morose's  House. 

Enter  Morose  and  Mute,  folloioed  by  Cutbeard 
with  Epiccene. 
Mar.  Welcome,  Cutbeard !  draw  near  with  your 
fair  charge  :  and  in  her  ear  softly  entreat  her  to 
unmask.  [Err.  takes  off  her  mask.l— So  !  Is  the 
doer  shut?  {Mute  makes  a  leg.^ — Enough.    Now, 


Cutbeard,  with  the  same  discipline  I  use  to  my 
family,  I  will  question  you.  As  I  conceive,  Cut- 
beard, this  gentlewoman  is  she  you  have  provided, 
and  brought,  in  hope  she  will  fit  me  in  the  place 
and  person  of  a  wife  ?  Answer  me  not  but  with 
your  leg,  unless  it  be  otherwise.  [Cut.  makes  a 
leff.'] — Very  well  done,  Cutbeard.  I  conceive 
besides,  Cutbeard,  j-ou  have  been  pre-acquainted 
with  her  birth,  education,  and  qualities,  or  else 
you  would  not  prefer  her  to  my  acceptance,  in  the 
weighty  consequence  of  marriage,  [niakes  a  leg.'] 
— This  I  conceive,  Cutbeard.  Answer  me  not 
but  with  your  leg,  unless  it  be  otherwise,  [botos 
affain.'] — Very  well  done,  Cutbeard.  Give  aside 
now  a  little,  and  leave  me  to  examine  her  condi- 
tion, and  aptitude*to  my  affection,  [goes  about 
her  and  vieivs  her.'] — She  is  exceeding  fair,  and  of 
a  special  good  favour ;  a  sweet  composition  or 
harmony  of  limbs ;  her  temper  of  beauty  has  the 
true  height  of  ray  blood.  The  knave  hath  ex- 
ceedingly well  fitted  me  -vvithout :  I  will  noW  try 
her  within. — Come  near,  fair  gentlewoman ;  let 
not  my  behaviour  seem  rude,  though  unto  you, 
being  rare,  it  may  haply  appear  strange.  [Epi. 
curtsies.] — Nay,  lady,  you  may  speak,  though 
Cutbeard  and  my  man  might  not;  for  of  all 
sounds,  only  the  sweet  voice  of  a  fair  lady  has 
the  just  length  of  mine  ears.  I  beseech  you,  say, 
lady ;  out  of  the  first  fire  of  meeting  eyes,  they 
say,  love  is  stricken  :  do  you  feel  any  such  motion 
suddenly  shot  into  you,  from  any  part  you  see  in 
me?  Ha,  lady?  [Epi.  curtsies.] — Alas,  lady, 
these  answers  by  silent  curtsies  from  you  are  too 
courtless  and  simple.  I  have  ever  had  my  breed- 
ing in  court ;  and  she  that  shall  be  my  wife, 
must  be  accomplished  with  courtly  and  audacious' 
ornaments.     Can  you  speak,  lady  ? 

Epi.  [softly.]  Judge  you,  forsooth. 

3Ior.  What  say  you,  lady?  Speak  out,  I  bo- 
seech  you. 

Epi.  Judge  you,  forsooth. 

Mar.  On  my  judgment,  a  divine  softness!  But 
can  you  naturally,  lady,  as  I  enjoin  these  by 
doctrine  and  industry,  refer  yourself  to  the  search 
of  my  judgment,  and,  not  taking  pleasure  in  your 
tongue,  which  is  a  woman's  chiefest  pleasure, 
think  it  plausible  to  answer  me  by  silent  ges- 
tures, so  long  as  my  speeches  jump  2  right  with 
what  you  conceive  ?  [Epi.  curtsies.] — Excellent ! 
divine !  if  it  were  possible  she  could  hold  out 
thus ! — Peace,  Cutbeard,  thou  art  made  for  ever, 
as  thou  hast  made  me,  if  this  felicity  have  last- 
ing: but  I  will  try  her  further. — Dear  lady,  I  am 
courtly,  I  tell  you,  and  I  must  have  mine  ears 
banquetted  with  pleasant  and  witty  conferences, 
pretty  girds,^  scoffs,  and  dalliance  in  her  that  I 
mean  to  choose  for  my  bed-j^here.*  The  ladies  in 
court  think  it  a  most  desperate  impair  to  their 
quickness  of  wit,  and  good  carriage,  if  they  can- 
not give  occasion  for  a  man  to  court  'em;  and 
when  an  amorous  discourse  is  set  on  foot,  mini- 
ster as  good  matter  to  continue  it,  as  himself. 
And  do  yovt  alone  so  much  differ  from  all  them, 
that  what  they,  with  so  much  circumstance,  affect 
and  toil  for,  to  seem  learn'd,  to  seem  judicious,  to 
seem  sharp  and  conceited,  you  can  bury  in  your- 
self with  silence,  and  rather  trust  your  graces  t» 
the  fair  Conscience  of  virtue,  than  to  the  world's 
or  your  own  proclamation  ? 

Epi.  [softly.]  I  should  be  sorry  else. 

Mor.  Whatsay  you,  lady?  good  lady,  speak  out 


1  auditcious — liberal,  spirited. 

2  jump — fit,  agree.     See  note  1,  p.  4G,  col.  2. 

^  girds — ^jokes,  or  jibes.    See  note  7,  p.  -19,  col.  1. 
*  bed-phere. — Phere  or  fere  means  companion,  partner, 
husband ;  Anglo-Saxon,  gefera. 


BEN  7ONSON. 


189 


EpL  I  should  be  sorry  else. 

Mor.  That  sorrow  doth  fill  me  with  gladness. 
O  Morose,  thou  art  happy  above  mankind !  pray 
that  thou  mayest  contain  thyself.  I  will  only 
put  her  to  it  once  more,  and  it  shall  be  with  the 
utmost  touch  and  test  of  their  sex. — But  hear  me, 
fair  lady ;  I  do  also  love  to  see  her  whom  I  shall 
choose  for  my  heifer,  1  to  be  the  first  and  principal 
in  all  fashions,  precede  all  the  dames  at  court  by 
a  fortnight,  have  council  of  tailors,  lineners,  laco- 
woraen,  embroiderers;  and  sit  with  them  some- 
times twice  a  day  upon  French  intelligences,  and 
then  come  forth  varied  like  nature,  or  oftener 
than  she,  and  better  by  the  help  of  art,  her 
emulous  servant.  This  do  I  affect :  and  how 
will  you  be  able,  ladj',  with  this  frugality  of 
speech,  to  give  the  manifold  but  necessary  in- 
structions, for  that  bodice,  these  sleeves,  those 
skirts,  this  cut,  that  stitch,  this  embroidery,  that 
lace,  this  wire,  those  knots,  that  ruff,  those  roses, 
this  girdle,  that  fan,  the  t'other  scarf,  these  gloves  ? 
Ha  !  what  say  you,  lady  ? 

Epi.  [softly.']  I'll  leave  it  to  you,  sir. 

ilor.  How,  lady  ?     Pray  you  rise  a  note. 

Epi.  I  leave  it  to  wisdom  and  j-ou,  sir. 

Mor.  Admirable  creature !  I  will  trouble  you 
no  more :  I  will  not  sin  against  so  sweet  a  sim- 
plicity.    Let  me  now  be  bold  td  print  on  those 

divine  lips  the  seal  of  being  mine Cutbeard,  I 

give  thee  the  lease  of  thy  house  free ;  thank  me 
not  but  with  thj'  leg.  [Out.  shalcvs  his  head.~\ — I 
know  what  thou  wouldst  say,  she's  poor,  and  her 
friends  deceased.  She  has  brought  a  wealthy 
dowry  in  her  silence,  Cutbeard ;  and  in  respect 
of  her  povei'ty,  Cutbeard,  I  shall  have  her  more 
loving  and  obedient,  Cutbeard.  Go  thy  ways, 
and  get  me  a  minister  presently,  with  a  soft,  low 
voice,  to  marry  us ;  and  pray  him  he  will  not  be 
impertinent,  but  brief  as  he  can  ;  away :  softly, 
Cutbeard.  [Exit  Cut.] — Sirrah,  conduct  your 
mistress  into  the  dining-room,  your  now  mistress. 
[Exit  MvTE,  folloiued  by  Epi.] — Oh,  my  felicity! 
how  shall  I  be  revenged  on  mine  insolent  kins- 
man, and  his  plots  to  fright  me  from  marrying  ! 
This  night  I  will  get  an  heir,  and  thrust  him 
out  of  my  blood,  like  a  stranger.  He  would  be 
knighted,  forsooth,  and  thought  by  that  means 
to  reign  over  me !  his  title  must  do  it.  No,  kins- 
man, I  will  now  make  you  bring  me  the  tenth 
lord's  and  the  sixteenth  lady's  letter,  kinsman ; 
and  it  shall  do  you  no  good,  kinsman.  Your 
knighthood  itself  shall  come  on  its  knees,  and  it 
shall  be  rejected ;  it  shall  be  sued  for  its  fees  to 
execution,  and  not  be  redeem'd  ;  it  shall  cheat  at 
the  twelve-penny  ordinary,  it  knighthood,  for  its 
diet,  all  the  term-time,  and  tell  tales  for  it  in  the 
vacation  to  the  hostess ;  or  it  knighthood  shall 
do  worse,  take  sanctuary  in  Cole  harbour,^  and 
fast.  It  shall  fright  all  its  friends  with  borrow- 
ing letters  ;  and  when  one  of  the  fourscore  hath 
brought  it  knighthood  ten  shillings,  it  knight- 
hood shall  go  to  the  Cranes,  or  the  Bear  at  the 
Bridge  foot,  and  be  drunk  in  fear ;  it  shall  not 
have  money  to  discharge  one  tavern-reckoning, 
to  invite  the  old  creditors  to  foi'bear  it  knighthood, 
or  the  new,  that  should  be,  to  trust  it  knighthood. 
It  shall  be  the  tenth  name  in  the  bond  to  take  up 
the  commodity  of  pipkins  and  stone-jugs :  and 
the  part  thereof  shall  not  furnish  it  knighthood 
forth  for  the  attempting  of  a  baker's  widow,  a 
brown  baker's  widow.  It  shall  give  it  knight- 
hood's name  for  astallion,  to  all  gamesome  citizens' 


1  heifer — yoke-mate. 

'^  A  very  ancient  building  in  the  parish  of  All-Hallows 
tlie  Less,  near  the  Thames.  It  seems  at  this  time  to  have 
been  a  retreat  for  debtors,  gamesters,  &c. 


wives,  and  be  refused,  when  the  master  of  a 
dancing-school,  or  how  do  you  call  him,  the  worst 
reveller  in  the  town  is  taken :  it  shall  want  clothes, 
and  by  reason  of  that,  wit,  to  fool  to  lawyei's.  It 
shall  not  have  hope  to  repair  itself  bj'  Constan- 
tinople, Ireland,  or  Virginia  ;i  but  the  best  and 
last  fortune  to  it  knighthood  shall  be  to  make 
Dol  Tearsheet,  or  Kate  Common  a  lady,  and  so 
it  knighthood  may  eat.  [Exit. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV. 

A  Lane  near  Morose's  House. 
Enter  Truewit,  Dauphine,  and  Clerimont. 

Ti-ue.  Are  you  sure  he  is  not  gone  by  ? 

Dcnip.  No,  I  stayed  in  the  shop  ever  since. 

Cler.  But  he  ,may  take  the  other  end  of  the 
lane. 

Daup.  No,  I  told  him  I  would  be  here  at  this 
end  :  I  appointed  him  hither. 

True.  What  a  barbarian  it  is  to  stay  then  ! 

Daiip.  Yonder  he  comes. 

Cler.  And  his  charge  left  behind  him,  which  is 
a  very  good  sign,  Dauphine. 

Enter  Cutp>eard. 

Daup.  How  now,  Cutbeard  !  succeeds  it,  or  no? 

Cut.  Past  imagination,  sir,  omnia  secunda  ;-  you 
could  not  have  pray'd  to  have  had  it  so  well. 
Saltat  se7iex,^  as  it  is  in  the  proverb ;  he  does 
triumph  in  his  felicity-,  admires  the  party  !  he  has 
given  me  the  lease  of  my  houise  too  !  and  I  am 
now  going  for  a  silent  minister  to  marry  them, 
and  away. 

True.  'Slight  !  get  one  of  the  silenced  mini- 
sters;* a  zealous  brother  would  tormeut  him 
purely. 

Cut.  Cum  privileffio,  sir. 

Daup).  Oh,  by  no  means;  let's  do  nothing  to 
hinder  it  now.  When  'tis  done  and  finished,  I 
am  for  you,  for  any  device  of  vexation. 

Cut.  And  that  shall  be  within  this  half  hour, 
upon  my  dexterity,  gentlemen.  Contrive  ^vhat 
you  can  in  the  meantime,  bonis  avibus.^       [Exit. 

Cler.  How  the  slave  doth  Latin  it ! 

True.  It  would  be  made  a  jest  to  posterity, 
sirs,  this  day's  mirth,  if  ye  will. 

Cler.  Beshrew  his  heart  that  will  not,  I  pro- 
nounce. 

Da^qy.  And  for  my  part.     What  is  it  ? 

True.  To  translate  all  La-Foole's  company, 
and  his  feast  thither,  to-day,  to  celebrate  this 
bride-ale.6 

Daup.  Ay,  marry ;  but  how  will't  be  done  ? 

True.  I'll  undertake  the  directing  of  all  the 
lady-guests  thither,  and  then  the  meat  must 
follow. 

Cler.  For  God's  sake,  let's  effect  it ;  it  will  be 
an  excellent  comedy  of  affliction,  so  many  several 
noises. 

Daup.  But  are  they  not  at  the  other  place 
already,  think  you  ? 


^  to  repair  itself ,  &c.  Thisalludesprobahly  to  James's 
schemes  for  establishing  order  in  Ireland,  one  of  which 
was  the  grant  of  lands,  about  this  time,  to  English 
settlers  in  Ulster,  and  for  the  revival  of  the  colonies 
in  Virginia.  What  is  meant  by  Constantinople  is  not 
so  easy  to  guess. — Gifford. 

2  '  everything  favourable.' 

3  '  The  old  man  dances.' 

*  See  note  5,  p.  185,  col.  1. 

5  bonis  avibus — '  with  good  birds;'  ie.  with  favourable 
omens. 
''  bride-ale. — Ale  means  a  festival. 


1 90 


True.  I'll  warrant  you  for  tlie  college-honours : 
one  of  their  faces  has  not  the  priming  colour  laid 
on  yet,  nor  the  other  her  smock  sleek'd. 

Cler.  Oh,  but  they'll  rise  earlier  than  ordinary 
to  a  feast. 

True.  Best  go  see,  and  assure  ourselves. 

Cler.  Who  knows  the  house  ? 

True.  I'll  lead  you.  Were  you  never  there 
yet.' 

Daup.  Not  I. 

Cler.  Nor  I. 

True.  Where  have  you  lived  then  ?  not  know 
Tom  Otter ! 

Cler.  No ;  for  God's  sake,  what  is  he  ? 

True.  An  excellent  animal,  equal  with  your 
Daw  or  La-Foole,  if  not  transcendent,  and  does 
Latin  it  as  much  as  your  barber.  He  is  his  wife's 
subject ;  he  calls  her  princess,  and  at  such  times 
as  these  follows  her  up  and  down  the  house  like 
a  page,  with  his  hat  off,  partly  for  heat,  partly 
for  reverence.  At  this  instant  he  is  marshalling 
of  his  bull,  bear,  and  horse. 

Baup.  What  be  those,  in  the  name  of  Sphynx  ? 

True.  Why,  sir,  he  has  been  a  great  man  at 
the  Bear-garden  in  his  time  ;  and  from  that 
subtle  sport  has  ta'en  the  witty  denomination  of 
his  chief  carousing  cups.  One  he  calls  his  bull, 
another  his  bear,  another  his  horse.  And  then 
he  has  his  lesser  glasses,  that  he  calls  his  deer 
and  his  ape ;  and  several  degrees  of  th^m  too ; 
and  never  is  well,  nor  thinks  any  entertainment 
perfect,  till  these  be  brought  out,  and  set  on  the 
cupboard. 

Cler.  For  God's  love ! — we  should  miss  this, 
if  we  should  not  go. 

True.  Nay,  he  has  a  thousand  things  as  good, 
that  will  speak  him  all  day.  He  will  rail  on  his 
wife,  with  certain  commonplaces,  behind  her 
back  ;  and  to  her  face — 

Daup.  No  more  of  him.  Let's  go  see  him,  I 
petition  you.  [Exeunt. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  L 

-.  A  Room  in  Otter's  House. 

Enter  Captain  Otter  with  his  cups,  and 
Mistress  Otter. 

Ott.  Nay,  good  princess,  hear  me  pauca  verba.^ 
Mrs.  Ott.  By  that  light,  I'll  have  you  chain'd 
up,  with  your  bull-dogs  and  bear-dogs,  if  you  be 
not  civil  the  sooner.  I'll  send  you  to  kennel, 
i'faith.  Tou  were  best  bait  me  with  your  bull, 
bear,  and  horse.  Never  a  time  that  the  courtiers 
or  collegiates  come  to  the  house,  but  you  make 
it  a  Shrove-Tuesday  !  I  would  have  you  get 
your  Whitsuntide  velvet  cap,  and  your  staff  in 
your  hand,  to  entertain  them.    Yes,  in  troth,  do. 

Ott.  Not  so,  princess,  neither ;  but  under  cor- 
rection, sweet  princess,  give  me  leave. — These 
things  I  am  known  to  the  courtiers  by.  It  is 
reported  to  them  for  my  humour,  and  they  re- 
ceive it  so,  and  do  expect  it.  Tom  Otter's  bull, 
bear,  and  horse  is  known  all  over  England,  in 
rei"um  natura.^ 

Mrs.  Ott.  'Fore  me,  I  will  na-ture  them  over 
to  Paris-garden,  and  na-ture  you  thither  too,  if 
you  pronounce  them  again.  Is  a  bear  a  fit  beast, 
or  a  bull,  to  mix  in  society  with  great  ladies? 
Think  in  your  discretion,  in  any  good  policy. 

Ott.  The  horse,  then,  good  princess. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Well,  I  am  contented  for  the  horse ; 


'  '  a  iiiw  words.' 


2  '  in  the  nature  of  things.' 


they  love  to  be  well  horsed,  I  know :  I  love  it 
myself. 

Ott.  And  it  is  a  delicate,  fine  horse  this  :  Poeta- 
rum  Pegasus.i  Under  correction,  princess,  Jupiter 
did  turn  himself  into  a — taurus,  or  bull,  under 
correction,  good  princess. 

Enter  Truewit,  Clerimout,  and  Dauphejte, 
behind. 

Mrs.  Ott.  By  my  integrity,  I'll  send  you  over 
to  the  Bank-side  ;  ^  I'll  commit  you  to  the  master 
of  the  Garden,  if  I  hear  but  a  syllable  more. 
Must  my  house  or  my  roof  be  polluted  with  the 
scent  of  bears  and  bulls,  when  it  is  perfumed  for 
great  ladies  ?  Is  this  according  to  the  instru- 
ment, when  I  married  you  ?  that  I  would  be 
princess,  and  reign  in  mine  own  house,  and  you 
would  be  my  subject,  and  obey  me  .'  What  did 
you  bring  me,  should  make  you  thus  peremptory  ? 
Do  I  allow  you  your  half-crown  a  day,  to  spend 
where  you  will,  among  your  gamesters,  to  vex 
and  torment  me  at  such  times  as  these  ?  Who 
gives  you  your  maintenance,  I  pray  you  ?  who 
allows  you  your  horse-meat  and  man's  meat  ? 
your  three  suits  of  apparel  a  year .'  your  four 
pair  of  stockings,  one  silk,  three  worsted  ?  your 
clean  linen,  your  bands  and  cuffs,  when  I  can 
get  you  to  wear  them? — 'tis  marie ^  you  have 
them  on  now.  Who  graces  you  with  courtiers 
or  great  personages,  to  speak  to  you  out  of  their 
coaches,  and  come  home  to  your  house  ?  Were 
you  ever  so  much  as  look'd  upon  by  a  lord  or  a 
lady,  before  I  married  you,  but  on  the  Easter  or 
Whitsun-holidays,  and  then  out  at  the  banquet- 
ing-house  window,  when  Ned  Whiting  or  George 
Stone'  were  at  the  stake  ? 

True.  For  God's  sake,  let's  go  stave  her  off 
him. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Answer  me  to  that.  And  did  not  I 
take  yoii  up  from  thence,  in  an  old  greasy  buff- 
doublet,  with  points,  and  green  velvet  sleeves, 
out  at  the  elbows  ?     You  forget  this. 

True.  She'll  worry  him,  if  we  help  not  in 
time.  [Tli^y  come  foncard. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Oh,  here  are  some  of  the  gallants ! 
Go  to,  behave  yourself  distinctly,  and  with  good 
morality ;  or,  I  protest,  I'U  take  away  your  ex- 
hibition.* 

True.  By  your  leave,  fair  Mistress  Otter,  I'll 
be  bold  to  enter  these  gentlemen  in  your  ac- 
quaintance. 

Mrs.  Ott.  It  shall  not  be  obnoxious  or  difficil,* 
sir. 

True.  How  does  my  noble  captain?  Is  the 
bull,  bear,  and  horse  in  rerum  natura  still  ? 

Ott.  Sir,  sic  visum  superis.'' 

Mrs.  Ott.  I  would  you  would  but  intimate 
them— do.  Go  your  ways  in,  and  get  toasts  and 
butter  made  for  the  woodcocks  ;  that's  a  fit  pro- 
vince for  you.  [Drives  him  off. 

Cler.  Alas  !  what  a  tyranny  is  this  poor  feUow 
married  to ! 

True.  Oh,  but  the  sport  will  be  anon,  when 
we  get  him  loose. 

Daup.  Dares  he  ever  speak  ? 

True.  No  Anabaptist  ever  rail'd  with  the  like 
licence  :  but  mark  her  language  in  the  meantime, 
I  beseech  you. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Gentlemen,  you  are  very  aptly  come. 
My  cousin,  Sir  Amorous,  will  be  here  briefly. 


1  '  the  Pegasus  of  the  poets.' 

2  See  note  6,  p.  86,  col.  1.  *  jnar?e— marvel. 

'^  Two  noted  hears  of  that  age,  who  went  hy  the  names 
of  their  owners. 
5  e;i-/i!6/i;(i)n— .illowance.  *  dr^i7— difficult. 

'  '  so  it  pleased  the  gods.' 


BEN  JONSON. 


191 


True.  In  good  time,  lady.  Was  not  Sir  John 
Daw  here,  to  ask  for  him,  and  the  company  ? 

Mrs.  Ott.  I  cannot  assure  you,  Master  Truewit. 
Here  was  a  very  melancholy  knight  in  a  ruff, 
that  demanded  my  subject  for  somebody — a 
gentleman,  I  think. 

Cler.  Ay,  that  was  he,  lady. 

Mrs.  Ott.  But  he  departed  straight,  I  can  re- 
solve you. 

Davp.  What  an  excellent  choice  phrase  this 
lady  expresses  in ! 

True.  Oh,  sir,  she  is  the  only  authentical 
courtier,  that  is  not  naturally  bred  one,  in  the 
city. 

Mrs.  Ott.  You  have  taken  that  report  upon 
trust,  gentlemen. 

True.  No,  I  assure  you,  the  court  governs  it 
so,  lady,  in  your  behalf. 

Mrs.  Ott.  I  am  the  servant  of  the  court  and 
courtiers,  sir, 

True.  They  are  rather  your  idolaters. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Not  so,  sir. 

Enter  Cutbeard. 

Baup.  How  now,  Cutbeard !  any  cross  ? 

Cut.  Oh  no,  sir,  omnia  bene.^  'Twas  never 
better  on  the  hinges  ;  all's  sui-e.  I  have  so 
pleased  him  with  a  curate,  that  he's  gone  to't 
almost  with  the  delight  he  hopes  for  soon. 

Baup.  What  is  he  for  a  vicar  ?  - 

Cut.  One  that  has  catch'd  a  cold,  sir,  and  can 
scarce  be  heard  six  inches  off ;  as  if  he  spoke 
out  of  a  bulrush  that  were  not  pick'd,  or  his 
throat  were  full  of  pith :  a  fine  qiiick  fellow,  and 
an  excellent  barber^  cf  prayers.  I  came  to  tell 
you,  sir,  that  you  might  omnem  movere  lapidem,* 
as  tliey  say,  be  ready  with  your  vexation. 

Baup.  Gramercy,  honest  Cutbeard !  be  there- 
abouts with  thy  key,  to  let  us  in. 

Cut.  I  will  not  fail  you,  sir ;  ad  manum.^   l_Exit. 

True.  Well,  I'll  go  watch  my  coaches. 

Cler.  Do ;  and  we'll  send  Daw  to  you,  if  you 
meet' him  not.  [^Exit  Trve^vit. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Is  Master  Truewit  gone  ? 

Baup.  Yes,  ladj' ;  there  is  some  unfortunate 
business  fallen  out. 

Mrs.  Ott.  So  I  adjudged  by  the  physiognomy 
of  the  fellow  that  came  in ;  and  I  had  a  dream 
last  night,  too,  of  the  new  pageant,  and  my  lady 
mayoress,  which  is  always  very  ominous  to  me. 
I  told  it  my  Lady  Haughty  t'other  day,  when  her 
honour  came  hither  to  see  some  China  stuffs ; 
and  she  expounded  it  out  of  Artemidorus,  and  I 
have  found  it  since  very  true.  It  has  done  me 
many  affronts. 

Cler.  Your  dream,  lady  ? 

Mrs.  Ott.  Yes,  sir,  anything  I  do  but  dream 
of  the  city.  It  stain'd  me  a  damask  table-cloth, 
cost  me  eighteen  pound  at  one  time,  and  burnt 
me  a  black  satin  gown,  as  I  stood  by  the  fire  at 
my  Lady  Centaure's  chamber  in  the  college,  an- 
other time.  A  third  time,  at  the  lords'  niasqixe, 
it  dropt  all  my  wire  and  my  ruff  with  wax  caudle, 
that  I  coiild  not  go  up  to  the  banquet.  A  fourth 
time,  as  I  was  taking  coach  to  go  to  Ware,  to 
meet  a  friend,  it  dash'd  me  a  new  suit  all  over  (a 
crimson  satin  doublet,  and  blaclc  velvet  skirts) 
"with  a  brewer's  horse,  that  I  was  fain  to  go  in 
and  shift  me,  and  kept  my  chamber  a  leash  ^  of 
daj's  for  the  anguish  of  it. 

Baup.  These  were  dire  mischances,  lady. 


'  '  all's  well.'  2  i.g.  '  AVhat  vicar  is  lie  ? 

*  barber,  <fcc. — i.e.  one  \yho  cuts  them  short. 

■•  '  move  every  stone.'  ^  '  at  hand.' 

^  leash — lot ;  it  was  sometimes  used  for  three. 


Cler.  I  would  not  dwell  in  the  city,  an  'twere 
so  fatal  to  me. 

3Irs.  Ott.  Yes,  sir ;  but  I  do  take  advice  of  my 
doctor  to  dream  of  it  as  little  as  I  can. 

Baup.  You  do  well.  Mistress  Otter. 

Enter  Sir  John  Daw,  and  is  talcen  aside  by 
'  Clerimont. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Will  it  please  you  to  enter  the  house 
farther,  gentlemen  ? 

Baup.  And  your  favour,  lady ;  but  we  stay  to 
speak  with  a  knight.  Sir  John  Daw,  who  is  here 
come.    We  shall  follow  you,  lady. 

Mrs.  Ott.  At  your  own  time,  sir.  It  is  my 
cousin.  Sir  Amorous,  his  feast — 

Baup.  I  know  it,  lady. 

Mrs.  Ott.  And  mine  together.  But  it  is  for 
his  honour,  and  therefore  I  take  no  name  of  it, 
more  than  of  the  place. 

Baup.  You  are  a  bounteous  kinswoman. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Your  servant,  sir.  \Exit. 

Cler.  [coming  forward  with  Daw.]  Why,  do 
not  you  know  it.  Sir  John  Daw  .' 

Baio.  No,  I  am  a  rook  if  I  do. 

Cler.  I'll  tell  you,  then ;  she's  married  by  this 
time.  And  whereas  you  were  put  in  the  head 
that  she  was  gone  with  Sir  Dauphine,  I  assure 
you  Sir  Dauphine  has  been  the  noblest,  honestest 
friend  to  you,  that  ever  gentleman  of  your  quality 
could  boast  of.  He  has  discover'd  the  whole 
plot,  and  made  your  mistress  so  acknowledging, 
and  indeed  so  ashamed  of  her  injury  to  you,  that 
she  desires  you  to  forgive  her,  and  but  grace  her 
wedding  with  your  presence  to-day. .  She  is  to 
be  married  to  a  very  good  fortune,  she  says,  his 
uncle,  old  Morose  ;  and  she  will'd  me  in  private 
to  tell  you  that  she  shall  be  able  to  do  you  more 
favours,  arid  with  more  security  now  than  be- 
fore. 

Bato.  Did  she  say  so,  i'faith  ? 

Cler.  Why,  what  do  you  think  of  me,  Sir  John  ? 
ask  Sir  Dauphine. 

Baw.  Nay,  I  believe  you. — Good  Sir  Dauphine, 
did  she  desire  me  to  forgive  her  ? 

Baup.  I  assure  you.  Sir  John,  she  did. 

Baw.  Nay,  then,  I  do  with  all  my  heart,  and 
I'll  be  jovial. 

Cler.  Yes  ;  for,  look  you,  sir,  this  was  the  in- 
jury to  you.  La-Foole  intended  this  feast  to 
honour  her  bridal  day,  and  made  you  the  pro- 
perty to  invite  the  college  ladies,  and  promise 
to  bring  her ;  and  then,  at  the  time  she  would 
have  appear'd,  as  his  friend,  to  have  given 
3'ou  the  dor.*  Whereas  now.  Sir  Dauphine  has 
brought  her  to  a  feeling  of  it,  with  this  kind  of 
satisfaction,  that  you  shall  bring  all  the  ladies 
to  the  place  where  she  is,  and  be  very  jovial ; 
and  there  she  will  have  a  dinner,  which  shall  be 
in  your  name ;  and  so  disappoint  La-Foole,  to 
make  you  good  again,  and,  as  it  were,  a  saver  in 
the  main. 

Baiv.  As  I  am  a  knight,  I  honour  her ;  and 
forgive  her  heartily. 

Cler.  About  it  then  presently.  Truewit  is  gone 
before  to  confront  -  the  coaches,  and  to  acquaint 
you  with  so  much,  if  he  meet  you.  Join  with  him 
and  'tis  well. — 

Enter  Sir  Amorous  La-Foole. 

See ;  here  comes  yoiu-  antagonist ;  but  take  you 
no  notice,  but  be  very  jovial. 

La-F.  Are  the  ladies  come.  Sir  John  Daw,  and 
your  mistress  ?  \_Exit  Daw.] — Sir  Dauphine !  you 


1  See  note  1,  p.  18G,  col.  2. 

2  confront— xa^zt. 


192 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


are  exceeding  welcome,  and  honest  Master  Oleri- 
mont.  Where's  my  cousin  ?  did  you  see  no  col- 
legiates,  gentlemen  ? 

Datq).  Collegiates !  Do  you  not  hear,  Sir 
Amorous,  how  you  are  abused  ? 

La-F.  How,  sir ! 

Clev.  Will  you  speak  so  kindly  to  Sir  John 
Daw,  that  has  done  you  such  an  affront? 

La-F.  Wherein,  gentlemen  ?  Let  me  be  a 
suitor  to  you  to  know,  I  beseech  you. 

Cler.  Why,  sir,  his  mistress  is  married  to-day 
to  Sir  Da.uphine's  uncle,  your  cousin's  neighbour, 
and  he  has  diverted  all  the  ladies,  and  all  your 
company  thither,  to  frustrate  your  provision,  and 
stick  a  disgrace  upon  you.  He  was  here  now  to 
have  enticed  us  away  from  you  too  :  but  we  told 
him  his  own,  I  think. 

La-F.  Has  Sir  John  Daw  wrong'd  me  so  in- 
humanely ? 

Daup.  He  has  done  it.  Sir  Amorous,  most  ma- 
liciously and  treacherously :  but,  if  you'll  be  ruled 
by  us,  you  shall  quit  him,  i'  faith. 

La-F.  Good  gentlemen,  I'll  make  one,  believe 
it.     How,  I  pray  ? 

Daup.  Marry,  sir,  get  me  your  pheasants,  and 
your  godwits,  and  your  best  meat,  and  dish  it  in 
silver  dishes  of  your  cousin's  presently  ;  and  say 
nothing,  but  clap  me  a  clean  towel  about  you,  like 
a  sewer  ;  ^  and,  bareheaded,  march  afore  it  with  a 
good  confidence  ('tis  but  over  the  way,  hard  by), 
and  we'll  second  you,  where  you  shall  set  it  on 
the  board,  and  bid  them  welcome  to't,  which  shall 
shov/  'tis  yours,  and  disgrace  his  preparation 
utterly.  And  for  your  cousin,  whereas  she  should 
be  troubled  here  at  home  with  care  of  making  and 
giving  welcome,  she  shall  transfer  all  that  labour 
thither,  and  be  a  principal  guest  herself;  sit 
rank'd  with  the  college  honours,  and  be  honour'd, 
and  have  her  health  drunk  as  often,  as  bare,  and 
as  loud  as  the  best  of  them. 

La-F.  I'll  go  tell  her  presently.  It  shall  be 
done  ;  that's  resolved.  \_Exit. 

Cler.  I  thought  he  would  not  hear  it  out,  but 
'twould  take  him. 

Daup.  Well,  there  be  guests  and  meat  now  ; 
bow  shall  we  do  for  music .'' 

Chi:  The  smell  of  the  venison  going  through 
the  street,  wDl  invite  one  noise  ^  of  fiddlers  or 
other. 

Daup.  I  would  it  would  call  the  trumpeters 
hither ! 

Cler.  Faith,  there  is  hope:  they  have  intelli- 
gence of  all  feasts.  There's  good  correspondence 
betvrixt  them  and  the  London  cooks :  'tis  twenty 
to  one  but  we  have  them. 

Davp.  'Twill  be  a  most  solemn  day  for  my 
uncle,  and  an  excellent  fit  of  mirth  for  us. 

Cler.  Ay,  if  we  can  hold  up  the  emulation  be- 
twixt Foole  and  Daw,  and  never  bring  them  to 
expostulate. 

Daup.  Tut,  flatter  them  both,  as  Truewit  says, 
and  you  may  take  their  landerstandings  in  a  piu-se- 
net.3  They'll  believe  themselves  to  be  just  such 
men  as  we  make  them,  neither  more  nor  less. 
They  have  nothing,  not  the  use  of  their  senses 
but  by  tradition. 

Re-enter  La-Foole,  like  a  Sewer. 

Cler.   See!    Sir   Amorous   has   his   towel    on 
already.     Have  you  persuaded  your  cousin  ? 
La-F.  Yes,  'tis  very  feasible.     She'll  do  any- 


1  See  note  1,  p.  90,  col.  1. 

2  noise — company  or  concert;  a  term  frequently  oc- 
curring in  the  Uramatists. 

'  purse-net— a.  net,  of  which  the  mouth  is  drawn  to- 
gether in  a  string. 


thing,  she  says,  rather  than  the  La-Fooles  shall 
be  disgraced. 

Daup.  She  is  a  noble  kinswoman.  It  will  bo 
such  a  pestling'  device.  Sir  Amorous  :  it  will 
pound  all; your  enemy's  practices  to  powder,  and 
blow  him  up  with  his  own  mine,  his  own  train. 

La-F.  Naj',  we'll  give  fire,  I  warrant  you. 

Cler.  But  you  must  carry  it  private!  j',  without 
any  noise,  and  take  no  notice  by  any  means — 

Re-enter  Captain  Otter. 

Otf.  Gentlemen,  my  princess  says  you  shall 
have  all  her  silver  d\shes^  festinate :"  and  she's 
gone  to  alter  her  tire  a  little,  and  go  with  you — 

Cler.  And  yourself  too.  Captain  Otter  ? 

Daup.  By  any  means,  sir. 

Ott.  Yes,  sir,  I  do  mean  it :  but  I  would  entreat 
my  cousin  Sir  Amorous,  and  you  gentlemen,  to  bo 
suitors  to  my  princess,  that  I  may  carry  my  bull 
and  my  bear,  as  well  as  my  horse. 

Cler.  That  you  shall  do.  Captain  Otter. 

La-F.  My  cousin  will  never  consent,  gentlemen. 

Daup.  She  must  consent,  Sir  Amorous,  to 
reason. 

La-F.  Why,  she  says  they  are  no  decorum 
among  ladies. 

Ott.  But  they  are  decora,^  and  that's  better,  sir. 

Cler.  Ay,  she  must  hear  argument.  Did  not 
Pasiphae,  who  was  a  queen,  love  a  bull  ?  and 
was  not  Calisto,  the  mother  of  Areas,  turn'd  into 
a  bear,  and  made  a  star,  Mistress  Ursula,  in  the 
heavens? 

Ott.  Oh  lord  !  that  I  could  have  said  as  much  ! 
I  will  have  these  stories  painted  in  the  Bear- 
garden, ex  Ovklii  meiamorphosi.* 

Davp.  Where  is  your  princess,  captain?  Pray, 
be  our  leader. 

Ott.  That  I  shall,  sir. 

Cler.  Make  haste,  good  Sir  Amorous.  \_Excunt, 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IL 

A  Room  in  Mokose's  House. 

Enter  "M-onosE,  Epiccene,  Tarson,  and  CuTnEARD. 

Mor.  Sir,  there's  an  angel  for  yourself,  and  a 
brace  of  angels  for  your  cold.  Muse  not  at  this 
manage  of  my  bounty.  It  is  fit  we  should  thank 
fortune,  double  to  nature,  for  any  benefit  she 
confers  upon  us  ;  besides,  it  is  your  imperfection, 
but  my  solace. 

Par.  [speaks  as  having  a  cold.']  I  thank  your 
worship ;  so  it  is  mine  now. 

Mor.  What  says  he,  Cutbeard  ? 

Cut.  He  says,  prxsto^^  sir;  whensoever  your 
worship  needs  him  he  can  be  ready  with  the 
like.  He  got  this  cold  with  sitting  up  late,  and 
singing  catches  with  cloth-workers.® 

Mor.  No  more.     I  thank  him. 

Par.  God  keep  your  worship,  and  give  you 
much  joy  with  your  fair  spouse  ! — uh  !  uh !  uh ! 

Mor.  Oh,  oh !  stay,  Cutbeard  !  let  him  give 
me  five  shillings  of  my  money  back.  As  it  is 
bounty  to  reward  benefits,  so  it  is  equitj'  to  mulct 
injuries.     I  will  have  it.    What  says  he? 

Cler.  He  cannot  change  it,  su\ 

Mor.  It  must  be  changed. 

Cut.  Cough  again.  [^Aside  to  Parson. 


1  pestling— ^oxmOXng  with  a  pestle. 

2  -make  haste.'  3  ■  ornaments.' 
<  '  from  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.''        ^  '  ready.' 

6  The  Protestants  who  came  from  Flanders,  and 
brought  witli  tliem  the  woollen  manufacture,  were  much 
given  to  singing  at  their  work.— AVuallet. 


BEN  yONSON. 


193 


Mor.  What  says  he  ? 

Cut.  He  will  cough  out  the  rest,  sin 

Par.  Uh,  uh,  uh !       _         _ 

Mor.  Away,  away  with  him  !  stop  his  mouth  ! 
away  !  I  forgive  it. — _ 

\_Exit  Cut.  thrusting  out  the  Par. 

Epi.  Fie,  Master  Morose,  that  you  will  use  this 
Tiolence  to  a  man  of  the  church. 

Mor.  How ! 

Epi.  It  does  not  become  your  gravity  or  breed- 
ing, as  you  pretend,  in  court,  to  have  offer'd  this 
outrage  on  a  waterman,  or  any  more  boisterous 
creature,  much  less  on  a  man  of  his  civil  coat. 

Mor.  Tou  can  speak  then ! 

Epi.  Yes,  sir. 

Mor.  Speak  out,  I  mean. 

Epi.  Ay,  six*.  Why,  did  you  think  you  had 
married  a  statue,  or  a  motion  only  ?  one  of  the 
French  puppets,  with  the  eyes  turn'd  with  a  wire  ? 
or  some  innocent'  out  of  the  hospital,  that  would 
stand  with  her  hands  thus,  and  a  plaise^  mouth, 
and  look  upon  you .' 

Mor.  Oh  immodesty !  a  manifest  woman  I 
What,  Cutbeard! 

Epi.  Nay,  never  quarrel  with  Cutbeard.  sir  :  it 
is  too  late  now.  I  confess  it  doth  bate  somewhat 
of  the  modesty  I  had  when  I  writ  simply  maid  ; 
but  I  hope  I  shall  make  it  a  stock  still  competent 
to  the  estate  and  dignity  of  your  wife. 

Mor.  She  can  talk  ! 

Ejn.  Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

Enter  Mute. 

Mor.  What,  sirrah !  None  of  my  knaves  there  ? 
Where  is  this  impostor  Cutbeard  ? 

[Mute  makes  siffns. 

Epi.  Speak  to  him,  fellow,  speak  to  hini!  I'll 
have  none  of  this  coacted,^  unnatural  dumbness 
in  my  house,  in  a  family  where  I  govern. 

lExit  Mute. 

Mor.  She  is  my  regent  already !  I  have  married 
a  Penthesilea,  a  Semiramis  ;  sold  my  liberty  to  a 
distaff. 

Enter  Truewit. 

True.  Where's  Master  Morose  ? 

Mor.  Is  he  come  again  1  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
me! 

True.  I  wish  you  all  joy,  Mistress  Epicoene, 
with  your  grave  and  honourable  match. 

Epi.  I  return  you  the  thanks,  Master  Truewit, 
so  friendly  a  wish  deserves. 

Mor.  She  has  acquaintance,  too ! 

True.  God  save  you,  sir,  and  give  you  all  con- 
tentment in  your  fair  choice,  here!  Before,  I 
was  the  bird  of  night  to  you,  the  owl ;  but  now  I 
am  the  messenger  of  peace,  a  dove,  and  bring  j'ou 
the  glad  wishes  of  many  friends  to  the  celebra- 
tion of  this  good  hour. 

Mor.  What  hour,  sir  ? 

True.  Your  marriage  hour,  sir.  I  commend 
your  resolution,  that,  notwithstanding  all  the 
dangers  I  laid  afore  you,  in  the  voice  of  a  night- 
crow,  would  yet  go  on  and  be  yourself.  It  shows 
you  are  a  man  constant  to  your  own  ends,  and 
upright  to  your  purposes,  that  would  not  be  put 
off  with  left-handed*  cries. 

Mor.  How  should  you  arrive  at  the  knowledge 
of  so  much  ? 

Ti-tie.  Why,  did  you  ever  hope,  sir,  committing 
the  secrecy  of  it  to  a  barber,  that  less  than  the 


1  innocent — natural  fool. 

^  plaise  mouth — i.e.  a  prim  or  prudish  mouth;  the  plaice 
having  a  very  small,  contracted  mouth. 
^  coacted — forced;  Lat, coa^o, co</o,  to  compel. 
*  le/t-handed—'iXi-omeneCi,  unlucky. 


whole  town  should  know  it  ?  You  might  as  well 
have  told  it  the  conduit,  or  the  bake-house,  or 
the  infantry  that  follow  the  court,  and  with  more 
security.  Could  your  gravity  forget  so  old  and 
noted  a  remnant  as,  lijj^ns  et  tonsorihus  notum  ?  ' 
Well,  sir,  forgive  it  yourself  now,  the  fault,  and 
be  communicable  with  your  friends.  Here  will 
be  three  or  four  fashionable  ladies  from  the  col- 
lege to  visit  you  presently,  and  their  train  of 
minions  and  followers. 

Mor.  Bar  my  doors !  bar  my  doors  !  Where 
are  all  my  eaters .'  -  my  mouths  now  ? — 

Enter  Servants. 

Bar  up  my  doors,  you  varlets ! 

Epi.  He  is  a  varlet  that  stirs  to  such  an  office. 
Let  them  stand  open.  I  would  see  him  that  dares 
move  his  eyes  toward  it.  Shall  I  have  a  bar- 
ricado  made  against  my  friends,  to  be  barr'd  of 
any  pleasure  they  can  bring  in  to  me  with  their 
honourable  visitation.'  [Exeunt  Ser. 

3for.  Oh  Amazonian  impudence  ! 

True.  Nay,  faith,  in  this,  sir,  she  speaks  but 
reason ;  and,  methinks,  is  more  continent  than 
you.  Would  you  go  to  bed  so  j)resently,  sir, 
afore  noon .'  A  man  of  your  head  and  hair  should 
owe  more  to  that  reverend  ceremony,  and  not 
mount  the  marriage  bed  like  a  town  bull  or  a 
mountain  goat ;  but  stay  the  duo  season,  and 
ascend  it  then  with  religion  and  fear.  Those 
delights  are  to  be  steeped  in  the  humour  and 
silence  of  night ;  and  give  the  day  to  other  open 
pleasures,  and  jollities  of  feasting,  of  music,  of 
revels,  of  discourse  ;  we'll  have  all,  sir,  that  may 
make  your  Hymen  high  and  happy. 

Mor.  Oh !   my  torment,  my  torment ! 

True.  Nay,  if  you  endure  the  first  half-hour, 
sir,  so  tediously  and  with  this  irksomeness,  what 
comfort  or  hope  can  this  fair  gentlewoman  make 
to  herself  hereafter,  in  the  consideration  of  so 
many  years  as  are  to  come — 

Mor.  Of  my  affliction.  Good  sir,  depart,  and 
let  her  do  it  alone. 

True.  I  have  done,  sir. 

Mor.  That  cursed  barber ! 

True.  Yes,  faith,  a  cursed  wretch  indeed,  sir. 

3Ior.  I  have  married  his  cittern, '  that's  common 
to  all  men.     Some  plague  above  the  plague — 

True.  All  Egypt's  ten  plagues. 

3Ior.  Revenge  me  on  him  ! 

Triie.  'Tis  very  well,  sir.  If  you  laid  on  a 
curse  or  two  more,  I'll  assure  you  he'll  bear  them. 
As,  that  he  may  get  the  pox  with  seeking  to  cure 
it,  sir ;  or  that,  while  he  is  curling  another  man's 
hair,  his  own  may  drop  off ;  or  for  burning  some 
male-bawd's  lock,  he  may  have  his  brain  beat  out 
with  the  curling-iron. 

Mor.  No,  let  the  wretch  live  wretched.  May 
he  get  the  itch,  and  his  shop  so  lousy,  as  no  man 
dare  come  at  him,  nor  he  come  at  no  man ! 

True.  Ay,  and  if  he  would  swallow  all  his  balls 
for  pills,  let  not  them  pitrge  him. 

Mor.  Let  his  warming-pan  be  ever  cold. 

True.  A  perpetual  frost  underneath  it,  sir. 

Mor.  Let  him  never  hope  to  see  fire  again. 

True.  But  in  hell,  sir. 


'  'known  to  the  tlear-eyed  and  to  the  barbers'— i.e. 

every  body. 

-  eaters — servants. 

2  married  his  cittern. — It  appears  from  innumerable 
passages  in  our  old  writers  that  barbers'  shops  were 
furnished  with  some  musical  instrument  (commonly  a 
cittern  or  guitar)  for  the  amitsement  of  such  customers 
as  chose  to  stnim  upon  it,  while  waiting  for  their  turn 
to  be  shaved,  &c. ;  and  this  point  once  established,  no 
further  difficulty  remains.  Decker  speaks  of  '  A.  barber's 
cittern,  for  every  serving-man  to  play  upon' — Giffokd. 


194 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Mor.  His  chairs  be  always  empty,  his  scissors 
rust,  and  his  combs  mould  in  their  cases. 

True.  Very  dreadful  that !  And  may  he  lose 
the  invention,  sir,  of  carving  lanterns  in  paper. 

Mor.  Let  there  be  no  bawd  carted  that  year, 
to  employ  a  bason  of  his : '  but  let  him  be  glad  to 
eat  his  sponge  for  bread. 

True.  And  drink  lotium  to  it,  and  much  good 
do  him. 

Mor.  Or,  for  want  of  bread — 

True.  Eat  ear-wax,  sir.  I'll  help  you.  Or, 
draw  his  own  teeth,  and  add  them  to  the  lute- 
string. 

Mor.  No ;  beat  the  old  ones  to  powder,  and 
make  bread  of  them. 

True.  Yes,  make  meal  of  the  mill-stones. 

Mor.  May  all  the  botches  and  biirns  that  he 
has  cured  on  others  break  out  upon  him. 

True.  And  he  now  forget  the  cure  of  them  in 
himself,  sir ;  or,  if  he  do  remember  it,  let  him 
have  scraped  all  his  linen  into  lint  for't,  and  have 
not  a  rag  left  him  for  to  set  up  with. 

Mor.  Let  him  never  set  up  again,  but  have  the 
gout  in  his  hands  for  ever ! — Now,  no  more,  sir. 

True.  Oh,  that  last  was  too  high  set ;  you  might 
go  less  with  him,  i'faith,  and  be  revenged  enough : 
as,  that  he  be  never  able  to  new-paint  his  pole — 

Mor.  Good  sir,  no  more,  I  forgot  myself. 

True.  Or,  want  credit  to  take  up  with  a  comb- 
maker — 

3Ior.  No  more,  sir. 

True.  Or,  having  broken  his  glass  in  a  former 
de^paii-,  fall  now  into  a  much  greater,  of  ever 
getting  another — 

Mor.  I  beseech  you,  no  more. 

True.  Or,  that  he  never  be  trusted  with  trim- 
ming of  any  but  chimney-sv/eepers — 

Mor.  Sir — 

True.  Or  may  he  cut  a  collier's  throat  with  his 
razor,  by  chance-medley,  and  yet  be  hanged  for't. 

Mor.  I  will  forgive  him,  rather  than  hear  any 
more.     I  beseech  you,  sir. 

Enter  Daw,  introducing  Lady  Haughty,  Cen- 
TAUKE,  Mavis,  and  Trusty. 

Daw.  This  way,  madam. 

Mor.  Oh,  the  sea  breaks  in  uj)on  me !  another 
flood !  an  inundation !  I  shall  be  overwhelmed 
with  noise.  It  beats  already  at  my  shores.  I 
feel  an  earthquake  in  myself  for't. 

Daw.  'Give  you  joy,  mistress. 

Mor.  Has  she  servants  2  too  ! 

Daw.  I  have  brought  some  ladies  here  to  see 
and  know  you.  My  Lady  Haughty — \_as  he  pre- 
sents them  severally,  Epi.  kisses  iheni] — this  my 
Lady  Centaure — Mistress  Dol  Mavis — Mistress 
Trusty,  my  Lady  Haughty's  woman.  Where's 
your  husband  ?  let  see  him :  can  he  endure  no 
noise  ?  let  me  come  to  him. 

Mor.  What  nomenclator  is  this ! 

True.  Sir  John  Daw,  sii*,  your  wife's  servant, 
this. 

Mor.  A  Daw,  and  her  servant !  Oh,  'tis  decreed, 
'tis  decreed  of  me,  an  she  have  such  servants. 

\_Going. 

True.  Nay,  sir,  you  must  kiss  the  ladies ;  you 
must  not  go  away,  now:  they  come  toward  yoU 
■to  seek  you  out. 

Hau.  I'  faith.  Master  Morose,  would  you  steal 
a  marriage  thus,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  friends, 
and  not  acquaint  us?     Well,  I'll  kiss  you  not- 


■  To  make  the  punishment  of  these  and  similar  cha- 
racters more  notorious,  beadles,  and  sometimes  volun- 
teers among  the  rabble,  attended  the  progress  of  the 
cart,  beating  basons,  brass  kettles,  etc.— Giffobd. 

2  servants— unthovizei  admirers.— Giffoed. 


withstanding  the  justice  of  my  quarrel.  —  You 
shall  give  me  leave,  mistress,  to  use  a  becoming 
familiarity  with  your  husband. 

JSpi.  Your  ladj'ship  does  me  an  honour  in  it, 
to  let  me  know  he  is  so  worthy  your  favour  :  as 
you  have  done  both  him  and  me  grace  to  visit  so 
unprepared  a  pair  to  entertain  you. 

Mor.  Compliment !  compliment ! 

E2n.  But  I  must  lay  the  burden  of  that  upon 
my  servant  here. 

Hau.  It  shall  not  need.  Mistress  Morose;  we 
will  all  bear,  rather  than  one  shall  be  opprest. 

Afar.  I  know  it:  and  you  will  teach  her  the 
faculty,  if  she  be  to  learn  it. 

[  Walks  aside  while  the  rest  talk  apart. 

Hau.  Is  this  the  silent  woman  ? 

Cen.  Nay,  she  has  found  her  tongue  since  she 
was  married.  Master  Truewit  says. 

Hau.  Oh,  Master  Truewit !  'save  you.  What 
kind  of  creature  is  your  bride  here  ?  She  speaks, 
me  thinks ! 

True.  Yes,  madam,  believe  it,  she  is  a  gentle- 
woman of  very  absolute'  behaviour,  and  of  a 
good  race. 

Hau.  And  Jack  Daw  told  us  she  could  not 
speak ! 

True.  So  it  was  carried  in  plot,  madam,  to  put 
her  upon  this  old  fellow,  by  Sir  Dauphine,  his 
nephew,  and  one  or  two  more  of  us:  but  she  is  a 
woman  of  an  excellent  assurance,  and  an  extra- 
ordinai-y  happy  wit  and  tongue.  You  shall  see 
her  make  rare  sport  with  Daw  ere  night. 

Hau.  And  he  brought  us  to  laugh  at  her  ! 

Ti-ue.  That  falls  out  often,  madam,  that  he  that 
thinks  himself  the  master-wit,  is  the  master-fool. 
I  assure  your  ladyship,  ye  cannot  laugh  at  her ! 

Hau.  No !  we'll  have  her  to  the  college.  An 
she  have  wit,'  she  shall  be  one  of  us, ,  shall  she 
not,  Centaure  ?  we'll  make  her  a  coUegiate. 

Cen.  Yes,  faith,  madam,  and  Mavis  and  she 
will  set  up  a  side.2 

True.  Believe  it,  madam,  and  Mistress  Mavis 
she  will  sustain  her  part. 

Mav.  I'll  tell  you  that,  when  I  have  talk'd  with 
her,  and  tried  her. 

Hau.  Use  her  very  civilly.  Mavis. 

Mav.  So  I  will,  madam.  [Whispers  her, 

Mor.  Blessed  minute !  that  they  would  whisper 
thus  ever !  [Aside. 

True.  In  the  meantime,  madam,  would  but  your 
ladyship  help  to  vex  him  a  little.  You  know  his 
disease ;  talk  to  him  about  the  wedding  cere- 
monies, or  call  for  your  gloves,  or — 

Hau.  Let  me  alone.  Centaure,  help  me. — 
Master  bridegroom,  where  are  you  ? 

Mor.  Oh,  it  was  too  miraculously  good  to  last ! 

[Aside. 

Hau.  We  see  no  ensigns'  of  a  wedding  here; 
no  character  of  a  bride-ale.  Where  be  our  scarves 
and  our  gloves .'  I  pray  you  give  them  us.  Let 
us  know  your  bride's  colours,  and  yours  at  least. 

Cen.  Alas,  madam,  he  has  provided  none. 

Mor.  Had  1  known  your  ladyship's  painter,  I 
would. 

Hau.  He  has  given  it  you,  Centaure,  i'ffiith. 
But,  do  you  hear.  Master  Morose  ?  a  jest  will  not 
absolve  you  in  this  manner.  You  that  have 
suck'd  the  milk  of  the  court,  and  from  thence  have 
been  brought  up  to  the  very  strong  meats  and 
wine  of  it ;  been  a  courtier  from  the  biggen  to  the 
night-cap,*  as  we  may  say,  and  you  to  offend  in 

1  absolute — perfect. 

2  set  vp  a  side — become  partners  at  cards. 
2  ensigns — signs. 

^  from,  the  biggen  to  the  night-cap — from  infancy  to  age. 
A  biggen  was  a  kind  of  close  cap  which  bound  the  fore- 
head closely,  used  for  young  children. 


BEN  JONSON. 


195 


Buch  a  hisli  j)oiiit  of  ceremony  as  tbis,  and  let 
your  nuptials  want  all  marks  of  solemnity !  How 
much  plate  have  you  lost  to-day  (if  you  had  but 
regarded  your  profit),  what  gifts,  what  friends, 
thi-ough  your  mere  rusticity ! 

Mor.  Madam — 

Hau.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  must  insinuate  your 
errors  to  you;  no  gloves?  no  garters  ?  no  scarves  ? 
no  epithalamium  ?  no  masque  ? 

Daw.  Yes,  madam,  I'll  make  an  epithalamium, 
I  promise  my  mistress ;  I  have  begun  it  already ; 
will  your  ladyship  hear  it  ? 

Eau.  Ay,  good  Jack  Daw. 

Mor.  Will  it  please  your  ladyship  command  a 
chamber,  and  be  private  with  your  friend  ?  you 
shall  have  your  choice  of  rooms  to  retire  to  after : 
my  whole  house  is  yours.  I  know  it  hath  been 
your  ladyship's  errand  into  the  city  at  other  times, 
however  now  you  have  been  unhappily  diverted 
upon  me  ;  but  I  shall  be  loath  to  break  anj^ 
honourable  custom  of  your  ladyship's.  And 
therefore,  good  madam — 

Epi.  Come,  you  are  a  rude  bridegroom,  to  en- 
tertain ladies  of  honour  in  this  fashion. 

Cen.  He  is  a  rude  groom  indeed. 

Ti-ue.  By  that  light  you  deserve  to  be  grafted, 
and  have  your  horns  reach  from  one  side  of  the 
island  to  the  other. — Do  not  mistake  me,  sir ;  I 
but  speak  this  to  give  the  ladies  some  heart  again, 
not  for  any  malice  to  you. 

Mor.  Is  this  your  bravo,  ladies  ? 

True.  As  God  [shall]  help  me,  if  you  utter  such 
another  word,  111  take  mistress  bride  in,  and 
begin  to  you  in  a  very  sad  cup ;  do  you  see  ?  Go 
to,  know  your  friends,  and  such  as  love  you. 

,  Enter  Clerimont,  followed  by  a  number  of 
Musicians. 

Cler.  By  your  leave,  ladies.  Do  you  want  any 
music  ?  I  have  brought  you  variety  of  noises.' 
Play,  sirs,  all  of  you. 

[Aside  to  the  Musicians,  lolio  strike  up  all 
together. 

Mor.  Oh,  a  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  upon  me! 
This  day  I  shall  be  their  anvil  to  work  on ;  they 
wDl  grate  me  asunder.  'Tis  worse  than  the  noise 
of  a  saw. 

Cler.  No,  they  are  hair,  rosin,  and  guts.  I  can 
give  you  the  receipt. 

True.  Peace,  boys ! 

Cler.  Play!  I  say. 

True,  Peace,  rascals!  You  see  who's  your 
friend  now,  sir  :  take  courage,  put  on  a  martyr's 
resolution.  Mock  down  all  their  attemptings 
with  patience :  'tis  but  a  day,  and  I  would  suffer 
heroically.  Should  an  ass  exceed  me  in  fortitude? 
No.  You  betray  your  infirmity  with  your  hang- 
ing dull  ears,  and  make  them  insult  ;  bear  up 
bravely,  and  constantly.  [La-Foole  passes  over 
the  stage  as  a  Setoer,  followed  by  Servants  carrying 
dishes,  and  Mistress  Otter.] — Look  you  here,  six-, 
what  honour  is  done  you  unexpected,  by  your 
nephew;  a  wedding-dinner  come,  and  a  knight- 
sewer  before  it,  for  the  more  reputation :  and  fine 
Mistress  Otter,  your  neighbour,  in  the  rump  or 
tail  of  it.  * 

Mor.  Is  that  Gorgon,  that  Medusp,  come !  Hide 
me,  hide  me ! 

T7'ue.  I  warrant  you,  sir,  she  will  not  transform 
you.  Look  upon  her  with  a  good  courage.  Pray 
you  entertain  her,  and  conduct  your  guests  in. 
No !  —  Mistress  bride,  will  you  entreat  in  the 
ladies?  Your  bridegroom  is  so  shamefaced,  here. 
'   Epi.  Will  it  please  your  ladyship,  madam  ? 


1  noises— hands  of  musicians. 


Hau.  With  the  benefit  of  your  company,  mis- 
tress. 
Epi.  Servant,  pray  you  perform  your  duties. 
Daw.  And  glad  to  be  commanded,  mistress. 
Cen.  How  like  you  her  -^vit.  Mavis  ? 
3fav.  Very  prettily,  absolutely  well. 
Mrs.  Ott.  'Tis  my  place. 
Mav.  You  shall  pardon  me.  Mistress  Otter. 
Mrs.  Ott.  Why,  I  am  a  collegiate. 
Mav.  But  not  in  ordinary. 
Mrs.  Ott.  But  I  am. 

Mav.  We'll  dispute  that  within.  {Exeunt  Ladies. 
Cler.  Would  this  had  lasted  a  little  longer  ! 
True.  And  that  they  had  sent  for  the  heralds. 

Enter  Captain  Ottee. 

— Captain  Otter !  what  news  ? 

Ott.  I  have  brought  my  bull,  bear,  and  horse, 
in  private,  and  yonder  are  the  trumpeters  without, 
and  the  drum,  geutlemen. 

[The  drum  and  trumpets  sound  within. 

Mor.  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Ott.  And  we  will  have  a  rouse  ^  in  each  of  them, 
anon,  for  bold  Britons,  i'faith.    {They  sound  again. 

Mor.  Oh,  oh,  oh !  [Exit  hastily. 

Omnes.  Follow,  follow,  follow !  [Exewit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  Mokose's  House. 

Enter  True\vit  and  Clerimont. 

True.  Was  there  ever  poor  bi'idegroom  so  tor- 
mented? or  man,  indeed  ? 

Cler.  I  have  not  read  of  the  like  in  the  chroni- 
cles of  the  land. 

True.  Sure,  he  cannot  but  go  to  a  place  of  rest, 
after  all  this  purgatoi-y. 

Cler.  He  may  presume  it,  I  think. 

True.  The  spitting,  the  coughing,  the  laughter, 
the  sneezing,  the  dancing,  noise  of  the  music, 
and  her  masculine  and  loud  commanding,  and 
urging  the  whole  family,  makes  him  think  he 
has  married  a  fury. 

Cler.  And  she  carries  it  up  bravely. 

True.  Ay,  she  takes  any  occasion  to  speak : 
that's  the  height  ou't. 

Cler.  And  how  soberly  Dauphine  labours  to 
satisfy  him,  that  it  was  none  of  his  plot ! 

True.  And  has  almost  brought  him  to  the  faith, 
in  the  article.     Here  he  comes — 

Enter  Sir  Dauphine. 

Where  is  he  now  ?  what's  become  of  him,  Dau- 
phine ? 

Daup.  Oh,  hold  me  up  a  little,  I  shall  go  away 
in  the  jest  else.2  He  has  got  on  his  whole  nest  of 
night-caps,  and  lock'd  himself  up  in  the  top  of 
the  house,  as  high  as  ever  he  can  climb  from  the 
noise.  I  peep'd  in  at  a  cranny,  and  saw  him 
sitting  over  a  cross-beam  of  the  roof,  like  him  on 
the  saddler's  horse  in  Fleet-street,  upright :  and 
he  will  sleep  there. 

Cler.  But  where  are  your  collegiates  ? 

Daup.  Withdrawn  with  the  bride  in  private. 

True.  Oh,  they  are  instructing  her  in  the  col- 
lege-grammar. If  she  have  grace  with  them,  she 
knows  all  their  secrets  instantly. 

Cler.  Methinks  the  Lady  Haughty  looks  well 
to-day,  for  all  my  dispraise  of  her  in  the  morning. 
I  think  I  shall  come  about  to  thee  again,  TrueAvit. 

1  rouse — full  glass  or  bumper,  usually  drunk  to  some 
toast. 

-  I  shall  go  away,  &c. — I  shall  faint  with  laughing. — 
Whallet. 


196 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS, 


True.  Believe  it,  I  told  you  right.  "Women 
onght  to  repair  the  losses  time  and  years  have 
made  in  their  features  with  dressings.  And  an 
intelligent  woman,  if  she  know  by  herseH  the 
least  defect,  will  be  most  curious  to  hide  it :  and 
it  becomes  her.  If  she  be  short,  let  her  sit  much, 
lest,  when  she  stands,  she  be  thought  to  sit.  If 
she  have  an  ill  foot,  let  her  wear  her  gown  the 
longer,  and  her  shoe  the  thinner.  If  a  fat  hand, 
and  scald  '  nails,  let  her  carve  the  less,  and  act  in 
gloves.  If  a  sour  breath,  let  her  never  discourse 
fasting,  and  always  talk  at  her  distance.  If  she 
have  black  and  rugged  teeth,  let  her  offer  the 
less  at  laughter,  especially  if  she  laugh  wide  and 
open. 

Cler.  Oh,  you  shall  have  some  women,  when 
they  laugh,  you  would  think  they  bi-ayed,  it  is 
so  rude  and — 

True.  Ay,  and  others,  that  will  stalk  in  their 
gait  like  an  ostrich,  and  take  huge  stiides.  I  can- 
not endure  such  a  sight.  I  love  measure  in  the 
feet,  and  number  in  the  voice:  they  are  gentle- 
nesses that  oftentimes  draw  no  less  than  the  face. 

Daup.  How  earnest  thou  to  study  these  crea- 
tures so  exactly.'  I  would  thou  wouldst  make 
me  a  proficient. 

True.  Yes ;  but  you  must  leave-  to  live  in  your 
chamber,  then,  a  month  together  upon  Amadis 
de  Gaul,  or  Don  Quixote,  as  you  are  wont ;  and 
come  abroad  where  the  matter  is  frequent,  to 
court,  to  tiltings,  public  shows  and  feasts,  to 
plays,  and  church  sometimes :  thither  they  come 
to  show  their  new  tires  too ;  to  see,  and  be  seen. 
In  these  places  a  man  shall  find  whom  to  love, 
whom  to  play  with,  whom  to  touch  once,  whom 
to  hold  ever.  The  variety  arrests  his  judgment. 
A  wench  to  please  a  man  comes  not  down  drop- 
ping from  the  ceiling,  as  he  lies  on  his  back  dron- 
ing '  a  tobacco  pipe.     He  must  go  where  she  is. 

Daup.  Yes,  and  be  never  the  nearer. 

True.  Out,  heretic!  That  diffidence  makes  thee 
worthy  it  should  be  so. 

Cler.  He  says  true  to  you,  Dauphine. 

Daup.  Why? 

True.  A  man  should  not  doubt  to  overcome 
any  woman.  Think  he  can  vanquish  them,  and 
he  shall :  for  though  they  deny,  their  desire  is  to 
be  tempted.  Penelope  herself  cannot  hold  out 
long.  Ostend,  you  saw,  was  taken  at  last.  You 
must  pers^ver,  and  hold  to  your  purpose.  They 
would  solicit  us,  but  that  they  are  afraid.  How- 
soever, they  wish  in  their  hearts  we  should  solicit 
them.  Praise  them,  flatter  them,  you  shall  never 
want  eloquence  or  ti'ust :  even  the  chastest  delight 
to  feel  themselves  that  way  rubb'd.  With  praises 
you  must  mix  kisses  too :  if  they  take  them,  they'll 
take  more — though  they  strive,  they  would  be 
overcome. 

Cler.  Oh,  but  a  man  must  beware  of  force. 

True.  It  is  to  them  an  acceptable  violence,  and 
has  oft-times  the  place  of  the  greatest  courtesy. 
She  that  might  have  been  foi-ced,  and  you  let  her 
go  free  without  touching,  though  then  she  seem 
to  thank  you,  will  ever  hate  you  after ;  and  glad 
in  the  face,  is  assuredly  sad  at  the  heart. 

Cler.  But  all  women  are  not  to  be  taken  all 
ways. 

True.  'Tis  true  ;  no  more  than  all  birds,  or  all 
fishes.  If  you  appear  learned  to  an  ignorant 
wench,  or  jocund  to  a  sad,  or  witty  to  a  foolish, 
why  she  presently  begins  to  mistrust  herself. 
You  must  approach  them  in  their  own  height, 
their  own  line;  for  the  contrary  makes  many, 


1  scald — scurvy,  scabby,  disgusting. 

2  leave — cease. 

*  droning — probably  smoking  drowsily. 


that  fear  to  commit  themselves  to  noble  and 
worthy  fellows,  run  into  the  embraces  of  a  rascal. 
If  she  love  wit,  give  verses,  though  you  borrow 
them  of  a  friend,  or  buy  them,  to  have  good.  If 
valour,  talk  of  your  sword,  and  be  frequent  in 
the  mention  of  quarrels,  though  you  be  staunch 
in  fighting.'  If  activity,  be  seen  on  your  barbary* 
often,  or  leaping  over  stools,  for  the  credit  of 
your  back.  If  she  love  good  clothes  or  dressing, 
have  your  learned  council  about  you  every  morn- 
ing, your  French  tailor,  barber,  linener,  &c.  Let 
your  powder,  your  glass,  and  your  comb  be  your 
dearest  acquaintance.  Take  more  care  for  the 
ornament  of  your  head,  than  the  safety ;  and  -svish 
the  commonwealth  rather  troubled,  than  a  hair 
about  you.  That  will  take  her.  Then,  if  she  be 
covetous  and  craving,  do  you  promise  anything, 
and  perform  sparingly ;  so  shall  you  keep  her  in 
ai^petite  still.  Seem  as  you  would  give,  but  be 
like  a  barren  field,  that  yields  little,  or  unlucky 
dice  to  foolish  and  hoping  gamesters.  Let  your 
gifts  be  slight  and  dainty,  rather  than  precious. 
Let  cunning  be  above  cost.  Give  cherries  at 
time  of  year,  or  apricots ;  and  say  they  were  sent 
you  out  of  the  country,  though  you  bought  them 
in  Gheapside.  Admire  her  tires :  like  her  in  all 
fashions ;  comi^are  her  in  every  habit  to  some 
deity ;  invent  excellent  dreams  to  flatter  her,  and 
riddles ;  or,  if  she  be  a  great  one,  perform  always 
the  second  parts  to  her :  like  what  she  likes,  praise 
whom  she  praises,  and  fail  not  to  make  the  house- 
hold and  servants  yours,  yea  the  whole  family, 
and  salute  them  by  their  names  ('tis  but  light 
cost,  if  you  can  purchase  them  so),  and  make  her 
physician  your  pensioner,  and  her  chief  woman. 
Nor  will  it  be  out  of  your  gain  to  make  love  to 
her  too,  so  she  follow,  not  usher  her  lady's  plea- 
sure. All  blabbing  is  taken  away,  when  she 
comes  to  be  a  part  of  the  crime.^ 

Daup.  On  what  courtly  lap  hast  thou  late  slept, 
to  come  forth  so  sudden  and  absolute  a  courtling? 

True.  Good  faith,  I  should  rather  question  you, 
that  are  so  hearkening  after  these  mysteries.  I 
begin  to  suspect  your  diligence,  Dauphine.  Speak, 
art  thou  in  love  in  earnest  ? 

Daup.  Yes,  by  my  troth,  am  I ;  'twere  ill  dis- 
sembling before  thee. 

True.  With  which  of  them,  I  prithee  ? 

Daup.  With  all  the  coUegiates. 

Cler.  Out  on  thee  !  We'll  keep  you  at  home, 
believe  it,  in  the  stable,  an  you  be  such  a  stallion. 

True.  No ;  I  like  him  well.  Men  should  love 
wisely,  and  all  women :  some  one  for  the  face, 
and  let  her  please  the  eye  ;  another  for  the  skin, 
and  let  her  please  the  touch  ;  a  third  for  the  voice, 
and  let  her  please  the  ear  ;  and  where  the  objects 
mix,  let  the  senses  so  too.  Thou  would'st  think 
it  strange,  if  I  should  make  them  all  in  love  with 
thee  afore  night ! 

Daup.  I  would  say,  thou  hadst  the  best  philtre 
in  the  world,  and  couldst  do  more  than  Madam 
Medea,  or  Doctor  Foreman.* 

True.  If  I  do  not,  let  me  play  the  mountebank 
for  my  meat,  while  I  live,  and  the  bawd  of  my 
drink. 

Daup.  So  be  it,  I  say. 


1  The  sense  seems  to  be : — Though  you  should  really 
be  a  brave  man,  and  therefore  not  naturally  inclined  to 
boast  of  your  valour ;  yet,  to  please  your  mistress,  you 
may  often  make  it  the  subject  of  your  discourse. — 

GiFFORD. 

r  liarbary— horse. 

3  The  greater  part  of  the  above  is  taken  from  Ovid's 
Art  of  Love. 

■^  This  was  a  poor  stupid  wi-etch  who  pretended  to  deal 
with   spirits  for  the  recovery   of  lost  spoons,  &c.— 

GlFFOliD. 


BEN  JONSON. 


197 


Enter  Otter  with  his  three  Cups,  Daw,  and 
La-Foole. 

Olt.  Oil  lord,  gentlemen,  how  my  knights  and  I 
have  missed  you  here ! 

Cler.  Why,  captain,  what  service,  what  ser- 
vice ? 

Ott.  To  see  me  bring  up  my  bull,  bear,  and 
horse  ^  to  fight. 

Daw.  Yes,  faith,  the  captain  says  wo  shall  be 
his  dogs  to  bait  them. 

Daiup.  A  good  employment. 

True.  Come  on,  let's  see  your  course,  then. 

La-F.  I  am  afraid  my  cousin  will  be  offended, 
if  she  come. 

Ott.  Be  afraid  of  nothing. — Gentlemen,  I  have 
placed  the  drum  and  the  trumpets,  and  one  to 
give  them  the  sign  when  you  are  ready.  Here's 
my  bull  for  myself,  and  my  bear  for  Sir  John 
Daw,  and  my  horse  for  Sir  Amorous.  Now  set 
your  foot  to  mine,  and  yours  to  his,  and — 

La-F.  Pray  God  my  cousin  come  not. 

Ott.  St.  George  and  St.  Andrew,  fear  no  cousins. 
— Come,  sound,  sound!  [Drum  and  trumpets  sound.'] 
Et  rauco  strepuerunt  cornua  cantu.-    [2 hey  drink,  j 

True.  Well  said,  captain,  i'faith ;  well  fought 
at  the  bull. 

Cler.  Well  held  at  the  bear. 

True.  Low,  low !  captain. 

Datip.  Oh,  the  horse  has  kick'd  off  his  dog 
already. 

La-F.  I  cannot  drink  it,  as  I  am  a  knight. 

True.  Ods  so !  Off  with  his  spurs,  somebody. 

La-F.  It  goes  against  my  conscience.  My 
cousin  will  be  angry  with  it. 

Daw.  I  have  done  mine. 

True.  You  fought  high  and  fair.  Sir  John. 

Cler.  At  the  head. 

Daup.  Like  an  excellent  bear- dog. 

Cler.  You  take  no  notice  of  the  business,  I  hope  ? 

Daw.  Not  a  word,  sir ;  you  see  we  are  jovial. 

Ott.  Sir  Amorous,  you  must  not  equivocate. 
It  must  be  puU'd  down,  for  all  my  cousin. 

Clei:  'Sfoot,  if  you  take  not  your  drink,  they'll 
think  you  are  discontented  with  something;  you'll 
betray  all,  if  you  take  the  least  notice. 

La-F.  Not  I ;  I'll  both  drink  and  talk  then. 

Ott.  You  must  pull  the  horse  on  his  knees,  Sir 
Amorous ;  fear  no  cousins.     Jacta  est  alea.^ 

True.  Oh,  now  he's  in  his  vein,  and  bold.  The 
least  hint  given  him  of  his  wife  now,  ■will  make 
him  rail  desperately, 

Cler.  Speak  to  him  of  her. 

True.  Do  you,  and  I'll  fetch  her  to  the  hearing 
of  it.  [Exit. 

Daup.  Captain  He-Otter,  your  She-Otter  is 
coming,  your  wife. 

Ott.  Wife!  buz?  titivilitium ! *  There's  no  such 
thing  in  nature.  I  confess,  gentlemen,  I  have  a 
cook,  a  laundress,  a  house-di-udge,  that  serves  my 
necessary  turns,  and  goes  under  that  title ;  but 
he's  an  ass  that  will  be  so  uxorious  to  tie  his 
affections  to  one  circle.  Come,  the  name  dulls 
appetite.  Here,  replenish  again;  another  bout. 
[Fills  the  cups  again.'\  Wives  are  nasty,  sluttish 
animals. 

Daup.  Oh,  captain! 

Ott.  As  ever  the  earth  bare,  trihus  verbis.^ — 
Where's  Master  True  wit  ? 

Daw.  He's  slipt  aside,  sir. 


1  The  names  of  his  various  cups. 
-  '  And  the  trumpets  rang  forth  with  deep  sounding 
note.' 
3  •  The  die  is  cast.' 

*  '  A  bagatelle ;  good  for  nothing.' 

*  in  three  words  ' — i.e.  in  few  words,  or  to  be  brief. 


Cler.  But  you  must  drink  and  be  jovial. 

Daio.  Yes,  give  it  me. 

La-F.  And  me  too. 

Daio.  Let's  be  jovial. 

La-F.  As  jovial  as  you  will. 

Ott.  Agreed.  Now  you  shall  have  the  bear, 
cousin,  and  Sir  John  Daw  the  horse,  and  I'll  have 
the  bull  still.  Sound,  Tritons  of  the  Thames ! 
[Brian  and  trumpets  sound  again.']  Nunc  est 
bibendum,  nunc pede  libera^ — 

Mor.  [above.']  Villains,  murderers,  sons  of  the 
earth,  and  traitors !  what  do  you  there .-' 

Cler.  Oh,  now  the  trumpets  have  waked  liiin, 
we  shall  have  his  company. 

Ott.  A  wife  is  a  scitrvy  clogdogdo,  an  unlucky 
thing,  a  very  foresaid  bear-whelp,  without  any 
good  fashion  or  breeding,  mala  bestia.^ 

Re-enter  Teuewit  behind,  with  Mistress  Ottek. 

Daup.  Why  did  you  marry  one  then,  captain  ? 

Ott.  A  pox !  —  1  married  with  six  thousand 
pound,  I.  I  was  in  love  with  that.  I  have  not 
kissed  my  Fury  these  forty  weeks. 

Cler.  The  more  to  blame  you,  captain. 

True.  Nay,  Mistress  Otter,  hear  him  a  little 
first. 

Ott.  She  has  a  breath  worse  than  my  grand- 
mother's, profecto.^ 

Mrs.  Ott.  bh  treacherous  liar!  Kiss  me,  sweet 
Master  Truewit,  and  prove  him  a  slandering 
knave. 

True.  I'll  rather  believe  you,  lady. 

Ott.  And  she  has  a  peruke  that's  like  a  pound 
of  hemp,  made  up  in  shoe-threads. 

3Irs.  Ott.  Oh  viper,  mandrake  ! 

Ott.  A  most  vile  face  !  and  yet  she  spends  me 
forty  pound  a  year  in  mercury  and  hogs-bones. 
All  her  teeth  were  made  in  the  Black- friars,  both 
her  eyebrows  in  the  Strand,  and  her  hair  in 
Silver-street.  Every  part  of  the  town  owns  a 
piece  of  her. 

Mrs.  Ott.  [comes  forward.]  I  cannot  hold. 

Ott.  She  takes  herself  asunder  still  when  she 
goes  to  bed,  into  some  twenty  boxes ;  and  about 
next  day  noon  is  put  together  again,  like  a  great 
German  clock :  and  so  comes  forth,  and  rings  a 
tedious  larum  to  the  whole  house,  and  then  is 
quiet  again  for  an  hour,  but  for  her  quarters — 
Have  you  done  me  right,  gentlemen  ? 

Mrs.  Ott.  [falls  upon  him,  and  beats  him.]  No, 
sir,  I'll  do  you  right  with  my  quarters,  with  my 
quarters. 

Ott.  Oh,  hold,  good  princess  ! 

True.  Sound,  soimd!  [Drum  and  trumpets  sound. 

Cler.  A  battle,  a  battle  ! 

Mrs.  Ott.  You  notorious  stinkardly  bearward, 
does  my  breath  smell .' 

Ott.  Under  correction,  dear  princess. — Look  to 
my  bear  and  my  horse,  gentlemen. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Do  I  want  teeth,  and  eyebrows,  thou 
bull-dog? 

True.  Sound,  sound  still !     [They  sound  again. 

Ott.  No,  I  protest,  under  correction — 

Mrs.  Ott.  Ay,  now  you  are  under  correction, 
you  protest :  but  you  did  not  protest  before  cor- 
rection, sir.  Thou  Judas,  to  offer  to  betray  thy 
princess !  I'll  make  thee  an  example — 

[Beats  him. 

Enter  Morose  with  his  long  sword. 

Mor.  I  will  have  no  such  examples  in  my 
house.  Lady  Otter. 


1 '  Now  let  us  drink,  now,  with  unfettered  foot,  [let  ua 
heat  the  earth,  &c.] '— Hokace,  Od.  i.  37. 
-  '  a  dirty  beast.' 
3  'really.' 


198 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Mrs.  Ott.  Ah  !— 

[Mrs.  Otter,  Daw,  and  La-Foole,  run  off. 

Mor.  Mistress  Maiy  Ambree,'  your  exam'ples 
are  dangerous. — Eogues,  hell-liouiids,  Stentors! 
out  of  my  doors,  you  sons  of  noise  and  tumult, 
begot  on  an  ill  May-day,  or  when  the  galley- 
foist  is  afloat  to  "Westminster !  ^  \_Drives  out  the 
musicians.']  A  trumpeter  could  not  be  conceived 
but  then. 

Daitp.  What  ails  you,  sir  ? 

Mor.  They  have  rent  my  roof,  walls,  and  all 
my  windows  asunder,  with  their  brazen  throats. 

[Exit. 

True.  Best  follow  him,  Dauphine. 

Baup.  So  I  will.  \Exit. 

Cler.  Where's  Daw  and  La-Foole  ? 

Ott.  They  are  both  run  away,  sir.  Good 
gentlemen,  help  to  pacify  my  princess,  and 
speak  to  the  great  ladies  for  me.  Now  must  I 
go  lie  with  the  bears  this  fortnight,  and  keep  out 
of  the  way,  till  my  peace  be  made,  for  this 
scandal  she  has  taken.  Did  you  not  see  my  bull- 
head, gentlemen  ? 

Cler.  Is't  not  on,  captain  ? 

True.  No;  but  he  may  make  a  new  one,  by 
that  is  on. 

Ott.  Oh,  here  it  is.  An  you  come  over,  gentle- 
men, and  ask  for  Tom  Ottei',  we'll  go  down  to 
Batcliff,  and  have  a  course  i'faith,  for  all  these 
disasters.     There  is  hona  spes  left.' 

True.  Away,  captain,  get  off  while  you  are 
well.  [Exit  Otter. 

Cler.  I  am  glad  we  are  rid  of  him. 

True.  You  had  never  been,  unless  we  had  put 
his  wife  upon  him.  His  humour  is  as  tedious  at 
last,  as  it  was  ridiculous  at  first.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 
A  long  open  Gallery  in  the  same. 

Enter  Lady  Haughty,  Mistress  Otter,  Mavis, 
Daw,  La-Foole,  Centaui'.e,  and  Epiccexe. 

Eau.  We  wonder'd  why  you  shriek'd  so,  Mis- 
tress Otter. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Oh  lord,  madam,  he  came  down  with 
a  huge  long  naked  weapon  in  both  his  hands, 
and  look'd  so  dreadfully  !  Sui-e,  he's  beside  him- 
self. 

Mav.  Why,  what  made  you  there,  Mistress 
Otter  ? 

Mrs.  Ott.  Alas,  Mistress  Mavis,  I  was  chas- 
tising my  subject,  and  thought  nothing  of  him. 

Daw.  Faith,  mistress,  you  must  do  so  too : 
learn  to  chastise.  Mistress  Otter  corrects  her 
husband  so,  he  dares  not  speak  but  under  cor- 
rection. 

La-F.  And  with  his  hat  off  to  her :  'twould 
do  you  good  to  see. 

Hau.  In  sadness,  'tis  good  and  mature  counsel; 
practise  it,  Morose.  I'll  call  you  Morose  still 
now,  as  I  call  Centature  and  Mavis ;  we  four  will 
be  all  one. 

Cen.  And  you'U  come  to  the  college,  and  live 
with  us  ? 


1  Of  this  celebrated  Amazon,  who  fought  at  the 
siege  of  Ghent,  1584,  Jonson  makes  frequent  mention. 

— GlFFORD. 

2  Alluding  to  the  sports  which  were  anciently  used 
on  May-day ;  and  particularly  to  the  insurrection  of  the 
apprentices  in  London,  against  foreigners  and  aliens, 
on  May-day,  1517,  afterwards  called  Evil  May-day. 
The  galley-foist  was  the  city-barge,  used  upon  the  Lord 
Mayor's  day. — Whallet.  Foist,  Fr.fuste,  was  a  sort  of 
galley. 

• '  good  hope.' 


Ilati.  Make  him  give  milk  and  honey. 

Mav.  Look  how  you  manage  him  at  first,  you 
shall  have  him  ever  after. 

Cen.  Let  him  allow  you  your  coach,  and  four 
horses,  yoiu-  woman,  your  chamber-maid,  your 
page,  your  gentleman-usher,  your  French  cook, 
and  four  grooms. 

Hau.  And  go  with  us  to  Bedlam,  to  the  China- 
houses,  and  to  the  Exchange. 

Cen.  It  will  ppen  the  gate  to  your  fame, 

Hau.  Here's  Centaure  has  immortalized  her- 
self, with  taming  of  her  wild  male. 

Mat:  Ay,  she  has  done  the  miracle  of  the 
kingdom. 

Enter  Clerimont  and  Truewit. 

Epi.  But,  ladies,  do  you  count  it  lawful  to 
have  such  plurality  of  servants,  and  do  them  all 
graces  ? 

Hau.  Why  not?  Whyshould  women  deny  their 
favours  to  men  ?  Are  they  the  poorer  or  the  worse  ? 

Daw.  Is  the  Thames  the  less  for  the  dyers' 
water,  mistress  ? 

La-F.  Or  a  torch  for  lighting  many  torches  ? 

True.  Well  said,  La-Foole.  What  a  new  one 
he  has  got ! 

Cen.  They  are  empty  losses  women  fear  in  this 
kind. 

Hau.  Besides,  ladies  should  be  mindful  of  the 
approach  of  age,  and  let  no  time  want  his  due 
use.     The  best  of  our  days  pass  first. 

Mav.  We  are  rivers,  that  cannot  be  call'd  back, 
madam.  She  that  now  excludes  her  lovers,  may 
live  to  lie  a  forsaken  beldame,  in  a  frozen  bed. 

Cen.  'Tis  true,  Mavis  :  and  who  will  wait  on 
us  to  coach  then  ?  or  write,  or  tell  us  the  news 
then,  make  anagrams  of  our  names,  and  invite 
us  to  the  Cockpit,  and  kiss  our  hands  all  the  play- 
time, and  draw  their  weapons  for  our  honours  ? 

Hau.  Not  one. 

Daiv.  Nay,  my  mistress  is  not  altogether  unin- 
telligent of  these  things ;  here  be  in  presence 
have  tasted  of  her  favours. 

Cler.  What  a  neighiug  hobby-horse  is  this ! 

Epi.  But  not  with  intent  to  boast  them  again, 
seiWaut. — And  have  you  those  excellent  receipts, 
madam,  to  keep  yoiu-selves  from  bearing  of  chil- 
dren ? 

Hau.  Oh  yes.  Morose :  how  should  we  maintain 
our  youth  and  beauty  else  ?  Many  births  of  a 
woman  make  her  old,  as  many  crops  make  the 
earth  barren. 

Enter  Morose  and  Dauphine. 

Mor.  0  my  cui'sed  angel,  that  instructed'  me 
to  this  fate ! 

Daup.  Why,  sir  ? 

Mor.  That  I  should  be  seduced  by  so  foolish  a 
devil  as  a  barber  will  make  ! 

Baup.  I  would  I  had  been  worthy,  sir,  to  have 
partaken  your  counsel;  you  should  never  have 
trusted  it  to  such  a  minister. 

Mor.  Would  I  could  redeem  it  with  the  loss  of 
an  eye,  nephew,  a  hand,  or  any  other  member. 

Daup.  Marry,  God  forbid,  sir,  that  you  should 
geld  yourself,  to  auger  your  wife. 

Mor.  So  it  would  rid  me  of  her! — and,  that 
I  did  supererogatory  penance  in  a  belfry,  at 
Westminster  Hall,  in  the  Cockpit,  at  the  fall  of 
a  stag,  the  Tower-wharf — what  place  is  there 
else? — Loudou-bridge,  Paris-garden, Billingsgate, 
when  the  noises  are  at  their  height,  and  loudest. 
Nay,  I  would  sit  out  a  play,  that  were  nothing 
but  fights  at  sea,  dinim,  trumpet,  and  tai'get. 


»  instructed — designed,  appointed. 


BEN  JONSON. 


199 


Daup.  I  hope  tliere  shall  be  no  such  need,  sir. 
Take  patience,  good  uncle.  This  is  but  a  day, 
and  'tis  well  worn  too  now. 

Mor.  Oh,  'twill  be  so  for  ever,  nephew,  I  fore- 
see it,  for  ever.  Strife  and  tumult  are  the  dowry 
that  comes  with  a  wife. 

True.  I  told  you  so,  sir,  and  you  would  not 
believe  me. 

Mor.  Alas,  do  not  rub  those  wounds.  Master 
Truewit,  to  blood  again:  'twas  my  negligence. 
Add  not  affliction  to  affliction.  I  have  per- 
ceived the  effect  of  it,  too  late,  in  Madam  Otter. 

Epi.  How  do  you,  sir .' 

Mor.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  more  unnecessary 
question  ?  as  if  she  did  not  see !  Why,  I  do  as 
you  see,  empress,  empress. 

Epi.  You  are  not  well,  sir ;  you  look  very  ill : 
something  has  distemper'd  you. 

Mor.  Oh,  horrible,  monstrous  impertinencies ! 
Would  not  one  of  these  have  served,  do  you 
think,  su-  ?  would  not  one  of  these  have  served  "i 

True.  Yes,  sir  ;  but  these  are  but  notes  of 
female  kindness,  sir ;  certain  tokens  that  she  has 
a  voice,  sir. 

Mor.  Oh,  is  it  so  !  Come,  an't  be  no  otherwise. 
— What  say  you  1 

Epi.  How  do  you  feel  yourself,  sir  ? 

Mor.  Again  that ! 

True.  Nay,  look  you,  sir,  yoii  would  be  friends 
with  your  wife  upon  unconscionable  terms  ;  her 
silence. 

Epi.  They  say  you  are  run  mad,  sir. 

Mor.  Not  for  love,  I  assure  you,  of  you ;  do 
you  see  ? 

Epi.  Oh  lord,  gentlemen  !  lay  hold  on  him,  for 
God's  sake.  What  shall  I  do  ?  who's  his  physi- 
cian, can  you  tell,  that  knows  the  state  of  his 
body  best,  that  I  might  send  for  him?  Good 
sir,  speak ;  I'll  send  for  one  of  my  doctors  else. 

Mor.  What!  to  poison  me,  that  I  might  die 
intestate,  and  leave  you  possest  of  all ! 

Epi.  Lord,  how  idly  he  talks,  and  how  his  eyes 
sparkle !  He  looks  green  about  the  temples !  do 
you  see  what  blue  spots  he  has  ! 

Cler.  Ay,  'tis  melancholy. 

Epi.  Gentlemen,  for  Heaven's  sake,  counsel 
me.  Ladies ;  —  servant,  you  have  read  Pliny 
and  Paracelsus ;  ne'er  a  word  now  to  comfort  a 
poor  gentlewoman  ?  Ay  me,  what  fortune  had 
I,  to  marry  a  distracted  man ! 

Daw.  I'll  tell  you,  misti-ess — 

True.  How  rarely  she  holds  it  up ! 

\^Aside  to  Cler. 

Mor.  What  mean  you,  gentlemen  ? 

Epi.  What  will  you  tell  me,  servant .' 

Daw.  The  disease  in  Greek  is  called  /*avla,^  in 
Latin  insania,  Juror,  vel  ecstasis  melancholica,^ 
that  is,  effressio,^  when  a  man  ex  melancholico 
evadit  fanaticus.* 

Mor.  Shall  I  have  a  lecture  read  upon  me  alive .' 

Daw.  But  he  may  be  but  phreneticus  yet,  mis- 
tress ;  and  phrenetis  is  only  delirium,  or  so. 

Epi.  Ay,  that  is  for  the  disease,  servant ;  but 
what  is  this  to  the  cure  ?  We  are  sure  enough 
of  the  disease. 

Mor.  Let  me  go. 

True.  Why,  we'll  entreat  her  to  hold  her  peace,sir. 

Mor.  Oh  no,  labour  not  to  stop  her.  She  is 
like  a  conduit  pipe,  that  will  gush  out  with  more 
force  when  she  opens  again. 


1  '  mania.' 

2  ensania,  &c.  — '  insanity,    madness,    or  melancholy 
ei^tasy.' 

*  'outgoing,'  -wliicli   is  also  tlie  literal  meaning  of 
ecstasy.  ^ 

*  '  from  teing  melancholy,  turns  out  mad.' 


Hati.  I'll  tell  you.  Morose,  you  must  talk 
divinity  to  him  altogether,  or  moral  philosophy. 

La-F.  Ay,  and  there's  an  excellent  book  of 
moral  philosophy,  madam,  of  Keynard  the  Fox, 
and  all  the  beasts,  called  Doni's  Philosophy.! 

Cen.  There  is  indeed,  Sir  Amorous  La-Foole. 

Mor.  Oh  misery! 

La-F.  I  have  read  it,  my  Lady  Centaure,  all 
over,  to  my  cousin  here. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Aj,  and  'tis  a  very  good  book  as  any 
is,  of  the  moderns. 

Daw.  Tut,  he  must  have  Seneca  read  to  him, 
and  Plutarch,  and  the  ancients  ;  the  moderns  are 
not  for  this  disease. 

Cler.  Why,  you  discommended  them  too,  to- 
day, Sir  John. 

Daw.  Ay,  in  some  eases  :  but  in  these  they  are 
best,  and  Aristotle's  Ethics. 

Mav.  Say  yoii  so,  Sir  John?  I  think  you  are 
deceived  ;  you  took  it  upon  trust. 

Hau.  Where's  Tmsty,  my  woman  ?  I'll  end 
this  difference.  I  prithee,  Otter,  call  her.  Her 
father  and  mother  were  both  mad,  when  they  put 
her  to  me. 

Mor.  1  think  so. — Nay,  gentlemen,  I  am  tame. 
This  is  but  an  exercise,  I  know  a  marriage  cere- 
mony, which  I  must  endure. 

Hau.  And  one  of  them,  I  know  not  which,  was 
cured  with  the  Sick  Man's  Salve,^  and  the  other 
with  Green's  Groat's-worth  of  Wit. 

True.  A  very  cheap  cure,  madam. 

.    Enter  Tkusty. 

llau.  Ay,  'tis  very  feasible, 

Mrs.  Ott.  My  lady  call'd  for  you,  Mistress 
Trusty  :  you  must  decide  a  controversy. 

Hau.  Oh,  Trusty,  which  was  it  you  said,  your 
father  or  your  mother,  that  was  cured  with  the 
Sick  Man's  Salve  ? 

Trus.  My  mother,  madam,  with  the  Salve. 

True.  Then  it  was  the  sick  woman's  salve  ? 

Trus.  And  my  father  with  the  Groat's-worth 
of  Wit.  But  there  was  other  means  vised:  we 
had  a  preacher  that  would  preach  folk  asleep 
still;  and  so  they  were  prescribed  to  go  to 
church,  by  an  old  woman  that  was  their  physi- 
cian, thrice  a  week — 

Epi.  To  sleep  ? 

Trus.  Yes,  forsooth:  and  every  night  they 
read  themselves  asleep  on  those  books. 

Ejji.  Good  faith,  it  stands  with  great  reason. 
I  would  I  knew  where  to  procure  those  books. 

jMor.  Oh! 

La-F.  I  can  help  you  with  one  of  them,  Mis- 
tress Morose,  the  Groat's-worth  of  Wit. 

Epi.  But  I  shall  disfurnish^  you,  Sir  Amorous : 
can  you  spare  it  ? 

La-F.  Oh  yes,  for  a  week,  or  so.  I'll  read  it 
myself  to  him. 

E2n.  No,  I  must  do  that,  sir;  that  must  be  my 
office. 

Mor.  Oh,  oh ! 

Epi.  Sure  he  would  do  well  enough,  if  he 
coiild  sleep. 

Mor.  No,  I  should  do  well  enough,  if  you  could 


1  A  very  old  collection  of  oriental  apologues,  called 
Calilah  a  Dumnah  (better  linown  as  the  Fables  of 
Palpay),  was  rendered  into  English  from  Latin  by  Sir 
Thomas  North  in  1605,  and  called  Doni's  Moral  Phi- 
losophy. Sir  Amorous  confounds  it  with  the  popular 
history  of  Reynard  the  Fox. — Gifford. 

2  Sick  Man's  Salve  was  a  devotional  tract  written  by- 
Thomas  Becon,  an  old  Calvinistical  divine,  and  pub- 
lished about  1591.    For  the  other,  see  Greene's  Life. 

3  disfurnish — deprive. 


200 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


sleep.   Have  I  no  friend  that  will  make  liei-  drunk, 
or  give  her  a  little  laudanum,  or  opium  ? 

True,.  Why,  sir,  she  talks  ten  times  worse  in 
her  sleep. 

Mor.  How! 

Chr.  Do  you  not  know  that,  sir  ?  never  ceases 
all  night. 

True.  And  snores  like  a  porpoise. 

Mor.  Oh,  redeem  me,  fate ;  redeem  me,  fate ! 
For  how  many  causes  may  a  man  be  divorced, 
nephew.? 

Daup.  I  know  not,  truly,  sir. 

True.  Some  divine  must  resolve  you  in  that, 
sir,  or  canon-lawyer. 

Mor.  I  will  not  rest,  I  will  not  think  of  any 
other  hope  or  comfort,  till  I  know. 

\_Exlt  with  Dauphine. 

Cler.  Alas,  poor  man  ! 

True.  You'll  make  him  mad  indeed,  ladies,  if 
you  pm'sue  this. 

Hau.  No,  we'll  let  him  breathe  now,  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  or  so. 

Cler.  By  my  faith,  a  large  truce ! 

Hau.  Is  that  his  keeper,  that  is  gone  with  him  ? 

Daw.  It  is  his  nephew,  madam. 

La-F.  Sir  Dauphine  Eugenie. 

Cen.  He  looks  like  a  very  pitiful  knight — 

Daw.  As  can  be.  This  marriage  has  put  him 
out  of  all. 

La-F.  He  has  not  a  penny  in  his  purse,  madam. 

DaiD.  He  is  ready  to  cry  all  this  day. 

La-F.  A  very  shark;  he  set  me  in  the  nick 
t'other  night  at  primero. 

Triie.  How  these  swabbers  talk  ! 

Cler.  Ay,  Otter's  wine  has  swell'd  their  hu- 
mours above  a  spring-tide. 

Hau.  Good  Morose,  let's  go  in  again.  I  like 
your  couches  exceeding  well ;  we'll  go  lie  and 
talk  there. 

[Exeunt  Hau.,  Cen.,  Ma  v.,  Trus.,  La-Foole, 
and  Daw. 

Epi.  [following  them.']  I  wait  on  you,  madam. 

True,  [stojyping  her.]  'Slight,  I  will  have  them 
as  silent  as  signs,  and  their  post  too,  ere  I  have 
done.  Do  you  hear,  lady-bride?  I  pray  thee 
now,  as  thou  art  a  noble  wench,  continue  this 
discourse  of  Dauphine  within  ;  but  praise  him 
exceedingly  :  magnify  him  with  all  the  height  of 
affection  thou  canst ; — I  have  some  purpose  in't : 
and  but  beat  off  these  two  rooks.  Jack  Daw  and 
his  fellow,  with  any  discontentment,  hither,  and 
I'll  honour  thee  for  ever. 

Ejri.  I  was  about  it  here.  It  angered  me  to  the 
Boul  to  hear  them  begin  to  talk  so  malapert. 

True.  Pray  thee  perform  it,  and  thou  winn'st 
me  an  idolater  to  thee  everlasting. 

Epi.  Will  you  go  in  and  hear  me  do't  ? 

True.  No,  I'll  stay  here.  Drive  them  out  of 
your  companj',  'tis  all  I  ask ;  which  cannot  be 
any  way  better  done,  than  by  extolling  Dauphine, 
whom  they  have  so  slighted. 

Epi.  I  warrant  you;  you  shall  expect  one  of 
them  presently.  [Exit. 

Cler.  What  a  cast  of  kestrils'  are  these,  to  hawk 
after  ladies,  thus ! 

True.  Ay,  and  strike  at  such  an  eagle  as 
Dauphine. 

Cler.  He  will  be  mad  when  we  tell  him.  Here 
he  comes. 

Re-enter  Dauphine. 

Cler.  Oh  sir,  you  ai-e  welcome. 

True.  Where's  thine  uncle? 

Da2ip.  Run  out  of  doors  in  his  night-caps,  to 


•  cast  of  kestrUs — cast  means  couple ;  a  kestril  is  a  base, 
degenerate  hawk. 


talk  with  a  casuist  about  his  divorce.  It  works 
admirably. 

Time.  Thou  wouldst  have  said  so,  an  thou  hadst 
been  here  !  The  ladies  have  laugh'd  at  thee  most 
comically,  since  thou  went'st,  Dauphine. 

Cler.  And  ask'd,  if  thou  wert  thine  uncle's 
keeper. 

True.  And  the  brace  of  baboons  answer' d.  Yes ; 
and  said  thou  wert  a  pitiful  poor  fellow,  and 
did'st  live  upon  posts,  and  hadst  nothing  but 
three  suits  of  apparel,  and  some  few  benevolences 
that  the  lords  gave  thee  to  fool  to  them,  and 
swaggei". 

Daup.  Let  me  not  live,  I'll  beat  them :  I'll  bind 
tliem  both  to  grand-madani's  bedposts,  and  have 
them  baited  with  monkeys. 

True.  Thou  shalt  not  need,  they  shall  be  beaten 
to  thy  hand,  Dauphine.  I  have  an  execution  to 
serve  upon  thee,  I  warrant  them,  shall  serve;  trust 
my  plot. 

Daup.  Ay,  you  have  many  plots  !  so  you  had 
one  to  make  all  the  wenches  in  love  with  me. 

True.  Why,  if  I  do  it  not  yet  afore  night,  as 
near  as  'tis,  and  that  they  do  not  every  one  invite 
thee,  and  be  ready  to  scratch  for  thee,  take  the 
mortgage  of  my  wit. 

Cler.  Tore  God,  I'll  be  his  witness  thou  shalt 
have  it,  Dauphine  :  thou  shalt  be  his  fool  for  ever, 
if  thou  dost  not. 

True.  Agreed.  Perhaps  'twill  be  the  better 
estate.  Do  you  observe  this  gallery,  or  rather 
lobby,  indeed  ?  Here  are  a  couple  of  studies,  at 
each  end  one  :  here  will  I  act  such  a  tragi-comedy 
between  the  Guelphs  and  the  Ghibellines,'  Daw 
and  La-Foole.  Which  of  them  comes  out  first, 
will  I  seize  on ;  you  two  shall  be  the  chorus  be- 
hind the  arras,  and  whip  out  between  the  acts 
and  speak.  If  I  do  not  make  them  keep  the  peace 
for  this  remnant  of  the  day,  if  not  of  the  year,  I 
have  failed  once.  I  hear  Daw  coming  :  hide  [they 
withdraw^,  and  do  not  laugh,  for  God's  sake. 

Re-enter  Daw. 

Daio.  Which  is  the  way  into  the  garden,  trow  ? 

True.  0  Jack  Daw !  I  am  glad  I  have  met  with 
you.  In  good  faith,  I  must  have  this  matter  go 
no  further  between  you :  I  must  have  it  taken  up. 

Daw.  What  matter,  sir  ?  between  whom  ? 

True.  Come,  you  disguise  it:  Sir  Amorous  and 
you.  If  you  love  me.  Jack,  you  shall  make  use 
of  your  philosophy  now,  for  this  once,  and  deliver 
me  your  sword.  This  is  not  the  wedding  the 
Centaurs  were  at,  though  there  be  a  she  one  here. 
[Takes  his  swoj'd.l  The  bride  has  entreated  me 
I  will  see  no  blood  shed  at  her  bridal :  you  saw 
her  whisper  me  erewhile. 

Daw.  As  I  hope  to  finish  Tacitus,  I  intend  no 
murder. 

True.  Do  you  not  wait  for  Sir  Amorous  ? 

Daio.  Not  I,  by  my  knighthood. 

Ti-ue.  And  your  scholarship  too  ? 

Daw.  And  my  scholarship  too. 

True.  Go  to,  then  I  return  you  your  sword,  and 
ask  you  mercy ;  but  put  it  not  up,  for  yon  will  be 
assaulted.  I  understood  that  you  had  apprehended 
it,  and  walked  here  to  brave  him;  and  that  you 
had  held  your  life  contemptible,  in  regard  of  your 
honour. 

Daw.  No,  no ;  no  such  thing,  I  assure  you.  He 
and  I  parted  now,  as  good  friends  as  could  be. 

True.  Trust  not  you  to  that  visor.'''    I  saw  him 

1  These  were  two  factions  that,  in  the  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  centuries,  harassed  Italy  with  great  animosity 
and  violence. 

■-  A  visor  was  the  masque,  or  part  of  the  helmet  that 
covered  the  face;  here  it  seems  to  be  used  for  appear- 
ance, countenance. 


BEN  JONS  ON. 


201 


since  diuuer  with  another  face.  I  have  known 
many  men  in  my  time  vex'd  witli  losses,  with 
deatlis,  and  with  abuses  ;  but  so  offended  a  wight 
as  Sir  Amorous,  did  I  never  see  or  read  of.  For 
taking  away  his  guests,  sir,  to-day,  that's  the 
cause ;  and  he  declares  it  behind  your  back  with 
such  threatenings  and  contempts.  He  said  to 
Dauphine,  you  were  the  arrant'st  ass — 

Daw.  Ay,  he  may  say  his  pleasure. 

True.  And  swears  you  are  so  protested  a 
coward,  that  he  knows  you  will  never  do  hiin 
I  any  manl}-  or  single  right;  and  therefore  he  will 
take  his  course. 

Daw.  I'll  give  him  any  satisfaction,  sir — but 
fighting. 

Ti-ue.  Ay,  sir ;  but  who  knows  what  satisfac- 
tion he'll  take .'  Blood  he  thirsts  for,  and  blood 
be  will  have ;  and  whereabouts  on  you  he  will 
have  it,  who  knows  but  himself  .■' 

Daw.  I  pray  you,  Master  Truewit,  be  you  a 
mediator. 

True.  Well,  sir,  conceal  yourself  then  in  this 
study  till  I  return.  [Puts  him  into  the  study.'] 
Nay,  you  must  be  content  to  be  lock'd  in ;  for, 
for  mine  own  reputation,  I  would  not  have  you 
seen  to  receive  a  public  disgrace,  while  I  have  the 
matter  in  managing.  Ods  so,  here  he  comes ; 
keep  your  breath  close,  that  he  do  not  hear  you 
sigh. — In  good  faith.  Sir  Amorous,  he  is  not  this 
way  ;  I  pray  j'ou  be  merciful,  do  not  murder  him  ; 
he  is  a  Christian,  as  good  as  you  :  you  are  arm'd 
as  if  you  sought  revenge  on  all  his  race. — Good 
Dauphine,  get  him  away  from  this  place.  I  never 
knew  a  man's  choler  so  high,  but  he  would  speak 
to  his  friends,  he  would  hear  reason. — Jack  Daw, 
Jack !  asleep  ! 

Daw.  [ivithin.']  Is  he  gone.  Master  TrueM'it  ? 

True.  Ay ;  did  you  hear  him  .' 

Daw.  0  lord  !  yes. 

True.  What  a  quick  ear  fear  has ! 

Daiv.  [comes  out  of'  the  closet.]  But  is  he  so 
arm'd,  as  you  say .' 

True.  Arm'd !  Did  you  ever  see  a  fellow  set 
out  to  take  possession  ? ' 

Daw.  Ay,  sir. 

True.  That  may  give  you  some  light  to  con- 
ceive of  him ;  but  'tis  nothing  to  the  pi'incipal. 
Some  false  brother  in  the  house  has  furnish'd  him 
strangely ;  or,  if  it  were  out  of  the  house,  it  was 
Tom  Otter. 

Daio.  Indeed,  he's  a  captain,  and  his  wife  is  his 
kinswoman. 

Ti-ue.  He  has  got  somebody's  old  two-hand 
sword,  to  mow  you  off  at  the  knees  ;  and  that 
sword  hath  spawn'd  such  a  dagger ! — But  then  he 
is  so  hung  with  pikes,  halberds,  petronels,  cali- 
vers,^  and  muskets,  that  he  looks  like  a  justice  of 
peace's  hall ;  a  man  of  two  thousand  a  j'ear  is  not 
cess'd  at  so  many  weapons  as  he  has  on.  There 
was  never  fencer  challenged  at  so  many  several 
foils.  You  would  think  he  meant  to  murder  all 
St.  Pulchre's  parish.  If  he  could  but  victual 
himself  half  a  year  in  his  breeches,  he  is  suffi- 
ciently arm'd  to  overrun  a  country. 

Daio.  Good  lord  !  what  means  he,  sir  ?  I  pray 
you,  Master  Truewit,  be  you  a  mediator. 

True.  Well,  I'll  try  if  he  will  be  appeased  with 
a  leg  or  an  arm ;  if  not,  you  must  die  once. 


'  When  estates  were  litigated,  or  transferred  to  a 
hungry  favourite,  taking  possesion  was  a  service  of  some 
danger,  and  tlie  new  owner  set  fortli  with  his  attendants 
and  servants  well  armed. 

2  petronels  and  calivers,  says  Gifford,  seem  to  ans^ver 
to  our  blunderbusses  or  horse-pistols  and  fowling-pieces 
respectively. 


Daw.  I  would  be  loth  to  lose  my  right  arm  for 
writing  madrigals. 

True.  Wh}^,  if  ho  will  be  satisfied  with  a  thumb 
or  a  little  finger,  all's  one  to  me.  You  must  think, 
I'll  do  my  best.  [Shuts  him  up. 

Daw.  Good  sir,  do. 

[Cler.  and  Daup.  come  forward. 

Cler.  What  hast  thou  done  .' 

True.  He  will  let  me  do  nothing,  he  does  all 
afore  ;  he  offers  his  left  arm. 

Cler.  His  left  wing  for  a  Jack  Daw. 

Daup.  Take  it  by  all  means. 

True.  How  !  maim  a  man  for  ever,  for  a  jest  ? 
What  a  conscience  hast  thou ! 

Daup.  'Tis  no  loss  to  him  ;  he  has  no  employ- 
ment for  his  arms,  but  to  eat  spoon-meat.  Beside, 
as  good  maim  his  body  as  his  repiutation. 

True.  He  is  a  scholar  and  a  wit,  and  yet  he 
does  not  think  so.  But  he  loses  no  reputation 
with  us ;  for  we  all  resolved  him  an  ass  before. 
To  your  places  again. 

Cler.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  be  in  at  the  other  a 
little. 

True.  Look,  you'll  spoil  all ;  these  be  ever  your 
tricks. 

Cler.  No  ;  but  I  could -hit  of  some  things  that 
thou  wilt  miss,  and  thou  wilt  say  are  good  ones. 

True.  I  warrant  you.  I  pray  forbear,  I'll  leave 
it  off,  else. 

Daup.  Come  away,  Clerimont. 

[Daup.  and  Clek.  withdraiu  as  before. 

Enter  La-Foole. 

True.  Sir  Amorous ! 

La-F.  Master  Truewit. 

True.  Whither  were  you  going  ? 

La-F.  Down  into  the  court  to  make  water. 

True.  By  no  means,  sir ;  you  shall  rather  tempt 
your  breeches. 

La-F.  Why,  sir  ?  _ 

True.  Enter  here  if  you  love  your  life. 

[Opening  the  door  of  the  other  study. 

La-F.  Why?  why? 

True.  Question  till  your  throat  be  cut,  do. 
Dally  till  the  enraged  soul  find  you. 

La-F.  Who  is  that  ? 

True.  Daw  it  is  :  will  you  in  ? 

La-F.  Ay,  ay,  I'll  in.     What's  the  matter  ? 

True.  Nay,  if  he  had  been  cool  enough  to  tell 
us  that,  there  had  been  some  hope  to  atone'  you ; 
but  he  seems  so  implacably  enraged  ! 

La-F.  'Slight,  let  him  rage  !  I'll  hide  myself. 

True.  Do,  good  sir.  But  what  have  you  done 
to  him  within,  that  should  provoke  him  thus  ? 
You  have  broke  some  jest  upon  him  afore  the 
ladies. 

La-F.  Not  I,  never  in  my  life  broke  jest  upon 
any  man.  The  bride  was  praising  Sir  Dauphine, 
and  he  went  away  in  snuff,-  and  I  followed  him ; 
unless  he  took  offence  at  me  in  his  drink  erewhile, 
that  I  would  not  pledge  all  the  horse  full. 

True.  By  my  faith,  and  that  may  be  ;  yon 
remember  well :  but  he  walks  the  round  up  and 
down,  through  every  room  o'  the  house,  with  a 
towel  in  his  hand,  crying.  Whereas  La-Foole  ? 
Who  saw  La-Foole?  And  when  Dauphine  and  I 
demanded  the  cause,  we  can  force  no  answer  from 
him,  but — 0  revenge,  how  sweet  art  thou!  I  will 
strangle  him  in  this  toiuel — which  leads  us  to  con- 
jecture that  the  main  cause  of  his  fury  is,  for 
bringing  your  meat  to-day  with  a  towel  about 
you,  to  his  discredit. 


'  atone — make  at  one,  reconcile. 

-  in  snuff — in  anger;  probably  from  sniffing,  or  mak- 
ing a  contemptuous  noise  with  the  nostrils. 


202 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


La-F.  Like  enough.  Why,  an  he  be  angry  for 
that,  I'll  stay  here  till  his  anger  be  blown  over. 

True.  A  good,  becoming  resolution,  sir ;  if  you 
can  put  it  on  o'  the  sudden. 

La-F.  Yes,  I  can  put  it  on :  or,  I'll  away  into 
the  country  presently. 

True.  How  will  you  go  out  of  the  house,  sir  ? 
He  knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and  he'll  watch 
this  se'ennight,  but  he'll  have  you :  he'll  outwait 
a  Serjeant  for  you. 

La-F.  Why,  then  I'll  stay  here. 

True.  You  must  think  how  to  victual  yourself 
in  time  then. 

La-F.  Why,  sweet  Master  Truewit,  will  you 
entreat  my  cousin  Otter  to  send  me  a  cold  venison 
pasty,  a  bottle  or  two  of  wine,  and  a  chamber-pot? 

True.  A  stool  were  better,  sir,  of  Sir  Ajaxi  his 
invention. 

La-F.  Ay,  that  will  be  better,  indeed ;  and  a 
pallet  to  lie  on. 

True.  Oh,  I  would  not  advise  you  to  sleep  by 
any  means. 

La-F.  Would  you  not,  sir?  Why,  then  I  will 
not. 

True.  Yet  there's  another  fear — 

La-F.  Is  there  ?  what  is't  ? 

True.  No,  he  cannot  break  open  this  door  with 
his  foot,  sure. 

La-F.  I'll  set  my  back  against  it,  sir.  I  have 
a  good  back. 

7?-Me.  But  then  if  he  should  batter  ? 

La-F.  Batter !  If  he  dare,  I'll  have  an  action  of 
battery  against  him. 

True.  Cast  ^  you  the  worst.  He  has  sent  for 
powder  already,  and  what  he  will  do  with  it,  no 
man  knows :  perhaps  blow  up  the  corner  of  the 
house  where  he  suspects  you  are.  Here  he  comes ; 
in  quickly.  [Thrusts  in  La-Foole  and  shuts  the 
door.'\ — I  protest.  Sir  John  Daw,  he  is  not  this 
way :  what  will  you  do  ?  Before  God,  you  shall 
hang  no  petard  here  :  I'll  die  rather.  Will  you 
not  take  my  word  ?  I  never  knew  one  but  would 
be  satisfied. — Sir  Amorous  \speahs  through  the 
hey-hoW]  there's  no  standing  out :  he  has  made 
a  petard,  of  an  old  brass  pot,  to  force  your  door. 
Think  upon  some  satisfaction,  or  terms  to  offer 
him. 

La-F.  [within.']  Sir,  I'U  give  him  any  satisfac- 
tion.    I  dare  give  any  terms. 

True.  You'll  leave  it  to  me,  then  ? 

La-F.  Ay,  sir.    I'll  stand  to  any  conditions. 

True,  [beckoning  forward  Cler.  and  Daup.] 
How  now,  what  think  you,  sirs?  were't  not  a 
difficult  thing  to  determine  which  of  these  two 
fear'd  most  ? 

Cler.  Yes;  but  this  fears  the  bravest:  the  other 
a  whiniling  s  dastard.  Jack  Daw !  But  La-Foole, 
a  brave  heroic  coward !  and  is  afraid  in  a  great 
look  and  a  stout  accent ;  I  like  him  rarely. 

True.  Had  it  not  been  pity  these  two  should 
have  been  concealed  ? 

Cler.  Shall  I  make  a  motion  ? 

True.  Briefly ;  for  I  must  strike  while  'tis  hot. 


1  Sir  Ajax — a  title  familiarly  imposed  on  Sir  John 
Harrington,  for  a  very  meritorious  effort  to  introduce 
cleanliness  into  our  dwellings,  at  a  period  when  the 
sv/eetest  of  them  would  have  offended  the  dullest  nose 
of  modem  times.  In  l.!)96  he  published  A  new  discourse 
of  a  state  subject,  or  the  metamorphosis  of  Ajax,  in 
which  he  pointed  out  the  propriety  of  adopting  some- 
thing like  the  water-closets  of  the  present  day. — Gif- 
FORD.    Ajax  is  a  play  on  A  Ja/ces,  i.e.  a  privy. 

*  Cas<— reckon  upon,  or  look  for. 

3  whiniling — perhaps  the  same  as  whining,  hut  may 
be  a  mistake  for  whiniling,  applied  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  in  contempt  to  a  delicate  young  girl. 


Cle?:  Shall  I  go  fetch  the  ladies  to  the  cata- 
strophe ? 

True.  Umph !  ay,  by  my  troth. 

Daup.  By  no  mortal  means.  Let  them  con- 
tinue in  the  state  of  ignorance,  and  err  still ; 
think  them  wits  and  fine  fellows,  as  they  have 
done.    'Twere  sin  to  reform  them. 

True.  Well,  I  will  have  them  fetch'd,  now  I 
think  on't,  for  a  private  purpose  of  mine. — Do, 
Clerimont,  fetch  them,  and  discourse  to  them  all 
that's  past,  and  bring  them  into  the  gallery 
here. 

Datip.  This  is  thy  esti-eme  vanity,  now.  Thou 
think'st  thou  wert  undone,  if  every  jest  thou 
mak'st  were  not  piiblished. 

True.  Thou  shalt  see  how  unjust  thou  art  pre- 
sently. Clerimont,  say  it  was  Dauphine's  plot. 
[Exit  Clerimont.] — Trust  me  not,  if  the  whole 
drift  be  not  for  thy  good.  There  is  a  carpet'  in 
the  next  room,  put  it  on,  with  this  scarf  over  thy 
face,  and  a  cushion  on  thy  head,  and  be  ready 
when  I  call  Amorous.  Away !  [Exit  Daup.] — 
John  Daw ! 

[Goes  to  Daw's  closet  and  brings  him  out. 

Daw.  What  good  news,  sir  ? 

Tnte.  Faith,  I  have  followed  and  argued  with 
him  hard  for  you.  I  told  him  you  were  a  knight, 
and  a  scholar,  and  that  you  knew  fortitude  did 
consist  magis  patiendo  quam  J'aciendo,  magis  Je- 
rendo  quam  feriendo.- 

Dav).  It  doth  so  indeed,  sir. 

True.  And  that  you  would  suffer,  I  told  him. 
So  at  first  he  demanded,  by  my  troth,  in  my  con- 
ceit, too  much. 

Daw.  What  was  it,  sir  ? 

True.  Your  upper  Hp,  and  six  of  your  fore- 
teeth. 

Daw.  'Twas  unreasonable. 

True.  Nay,  I  told  him  plainly,  you  could  not 
spare  them  all.  So  after  long  argument,  pro  et 
con,  as  you  know,  I  brought  him  down  to  your 
two  butter-teeth,  and  them  he  would  have. 

Daw.  Oh,  did  you  so  ?  Why,  he  shall  have 
them. 

True.  But  he  shall  not,  sir,  by  your  leave.  The 
conclusion  is  this,  sir :  because  you  shall  be  very 
good  friends  hereafter,  and  this  never  to  be  re- 
membered or  upbraided — besides,  that  he  may 
not  boast  he  has  done  any  such  thing  to  you  in 
his  own  person — he  is  to  come  here  in  disguise, 
give  you  five  kicks  in  private,  sir,  take  your 
sword  from  you,  and  lock  you  up  in  that  study 
during  pleasure,  which  will  be  but  a  little  while, 
we'll  get  it  released  presently. 

Daw.  Five  kicks !  he  shall  have  six,  sir,  to  be 
friends. 

True.  Believe  me,  you  shall  not  over-shoot 
yourself,  to  send  him  that  word  by  me. 

Daw.  Deliver  it,  sir  ;  he  shaU  have  it  with  all 
my  heart,  to  be  friends. 

True.  Friends  !  Nay,  an  he  should  not  be  so, 
and  heartily  too,  upon  these  terms,  he  shall  have 
me  to  enemy  while  I  live.  Come,  sir,  bear  it 
bravely. 

Daw.  0  lord,  sir,  'tis  nothing. 

True.  True;  what's  six  kicks  to  a  man  that 
reads  Seneca  ? 

Daw.  I  have  had  a  hundred,  sir. 

True.  Sir  Amorous ! 


1  carpet— i.e.  table-cover.  Cai^pets  were  not  at  this 
period  laid  on  the  floor,  except  occasionally  to  kneel 
on,  or  for  purposes  of  state. 

2  '  more  in  endurance  than  in  action,  more  in  bear- 
ing than  in  striking.' 


BEN  JONSON. 


203 


Re-enter  Dauphine  disguised. 
No  speaking  one  to  another,  or  rehearsing  old 
matters. 

Daw.  [as  Daup.  Icichs  him.']  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five.  I  protest,  Sir  Amorous,  you  shall  have 
six. 

True.  Nay,  I  told  you,  you  should  not  talk. 
Come  give  him  sis,  an  he  will  needs.  [Dauphine 
hichs  him,  again.']— Yq-qx  sword,  \takes  his  sword.] 
Now  return  to  your  safe  custody ;  you  shall  pre- 
sently meet  afore  the  ladies,  and  be  the  dearest 
friends  one  to  another.  \_Puts  Daw  into  the  study.] 
— Give  me  the  scarf  now,  thou  shalt  beat  the  other 
barefaced.  Stand  by.  [Dauphijse  retires,  and 
Teuewit  goes  to  the  other  closet,  and  releases  La- 
Foole.]— Sir  Amorous ! 

La-F.  What's  here  !  A  sword  ? 

True.  I  cannot  help  it,  without  I  should  take 
the  quarrel  upon  myself.  Here  he  has  sent  you 
his  sword — 

La-F.  I'll  receive  none  on't. 

True.  And  he  wds  you  to  fasten  it  against  a 
wall,  and  break  your  head  in  some  few  several 
places  against  the  hilts. 

La-F.  I  will  not :  tell  him  roundly.  I  cannot 
endure  to  shed  my  own  blood. 

True.  "Will  you  not  ? 

La-F.  No.  I'll  beat  it  against  a  fair  flat  wall, 
if  that  will  satisfy  him ;  if  not,  he  shaU  beat  it 
himself  for  Amorous. 

Ti~ue.  Why,  this  is  strange  starting  off,  when 
a  man  undertakes  for  you !  I  offer'd  htm  another 
condition ;  will  you  stand  to  that  ? 

La-F.  Ay,  what  is't  ? 

True.  That  you  will  be  beaten  in  private. 

La-F,  Yes,  I  am  content,  at  the  blunt.' 

Enter,  above.  Haughty,  Centaure,  Mavis, 
Mistress  Oitek,  Epiccene,  and  Trusty. 

True.  Then  you  must  submit  yourself  to  be 
hoodwinked  in  this  scarf,  and  be  led  to  him, 
■where  he  will  take  your  sword  from  you,  and 
make  you  bear  a  blow  over  the  mouth,  gules, 
and  tweaks  by  the  nose  sans  nombre.^ 

La-F.  I  am  content.  Butwhymust  I  be  blinded.' 

True.  That's  for  your  good,  sir  ;  because,  if  he 
should  grow  insolent  ujson  this,  and  publish  it 
hereafter  to  your  disgrace  (which  I  hope  he  will 
not  do),  you  might  swear  safely,  and  protest,  he 
never  beat  you,  to  your  knowledge. 

La-F.  Oh,  I  conceive. 

True.  I  do  not  doubt  but  you'll  be  perfect  good 
friends  upon't,  and  not  dare  to  utter  an  iU  thought 
one  of  another  in  future. 

La-F.  Not  I,  as  God  help  me,  of  him. 

True.  Nor  he  of  you,  sir.  If  he  should  [hinds 
his  eyes.] — Come,  sir  [leads  him  Jbrward.] — All 
hid,  Sir  John ! 

Enter  Dauphine,  and  tweaJcs  him  by  the  nose. 
La-F.  Oh,  Sir  John!  Sir  John!  Oh,  0-0-0-0-0- 
Oh— 

Ti-ue.  Good  Sir  John,  leave  tweaking,  you'll 
blow  his  nose  off. — 'Tis  Sir  John's  pleasure,  you 
should  retu-e  into  the  study.  [Puts  him  up  again.] 
— Why,  now  you  are  friends.  All  bitterness  be- 
tween you,  I  hope,  is  buried ;  you  shall  come  forth 
by  and  by,  Damon  and  Pythias  upwn't,  and  em- 
brace with  all  the  rankness  of  friendship  that 
can  be. — I  trust  we  shall  have  them  tamer  in 
their  language  hereafter.  Dauphine,  I  worship 
thee. — God's  will,  the  ladies  have  surprised  us ! 


1  at  the  Hunt — 'v\'ith  the  flat  side  of  the  sword. 
-  '  witliout  number.' 


Enter  Haughty,  Centauee,  Mavis,  Mistress 
Otter,  Epiccene,  and  Trusty,  behind. 

Hau.  Centaure,  how  our  judgments  were  im- 
posed on  by  these  adulterate  knights  ! 

Cen.  Nay,  madam,  Mavis  was  more  deceived 
than  we ;  'twas  her  commendation  utter'd  them 
in  the  college. 

Mav.  I  commended  but  their  wits,  madam, 
and  their  braveries,  il  never  look'd  toward  their 
valours. 

Eau.  Sir  Dauphine  is  valiant,  and  a  wit  too,  it 
seems. 

Mav.  And  a  bravery  too. 

Hau.  Was  this  his  project  ? 

Mrs.  Ott.  So  Master  Glerimont  intimates,madam. 

Eau.  Good  Morose,  when  you  come  to  the  col- 
lege, will  you  bring  him  with  you  ?  He  seems  a 
very  perfect  gentleman. 

Epi.  He  is  so,  madam,  believe  it. 

Cen.  But  when  will  you  come,  Morose  ? 

Epi.  Three  or  four  days  hence,  madam,  when 
I  have  got  me  a  coach  and  horses. 

Eau.  No,  to-morrow,  good  Morose ;  Centaure 
shall  send  you  her  coach. 

Mav.  Yes,  faith,  do,  and  bring  Sir  Dauphine 
with  you. 

Eau.  She  has  promised  that.  Mavis. 

Mav.  He  is  a  very  worthy  gentleman  in  his 
exteriors,  madam. 

Eau.  A.J,  he  shows  he  is  judicial  in  his  clothes. 

Cen.  And  yet  not  so  superlatively  neat  as  some, 
madam,  that  have  their  faces  set  in  a  brake.i 

Eau.  Ay,  and  have  every  hair  in  form. 

Mav.  That  wear  purer  linen  than  ourselves, 
and  profess  more  neatness  than  the  French  her- 
maphrodite ! 

Ejyi.  Ay,  ladies,  they,  what  they  tell  one  of  us, 
have  told  a  thousand;  .and  are  the  only  thieves 
of  our  fame,  that  think  to  take  us  with  that  per- 
fume, or  with  that  lace,  and  laugh  at  us  un- 
conscionably when  they  have  done. 

Eau.  But  Sir  Dauphine's  carelessness  becomes 
him. 

Cen.  I  could  love  a  man  for  such  a  nose. 

Mav.  Or  such  a  leg. 

Cen.  He  has  an  exceeding  good  eye,  madam. 

Mav.  And  a  very  good  lock.- 

Cen,  Good  Morose,  bring  him  to  my  chamber 
first. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Please  your  honours  to  meet  at  my 
house,  madam. 

True.  See  how  they  eye  thee,  man !  They  are 
taken,  I  warrant  thee. 

[Haughty  comes  forward. 

Eau.  Tou  have  unbraced  our  brace  of  knights 
here,  Master  Truewit. 

True.  Not  I,  madam;  it  was  Sir  Dauphine's 
ingine  :'  who,  if  he  have  disfurnish'd  your  lady- 
ship of  any  guard  or  sei-vice  by  it,  is  able  to 
make  the  place  good  again  in  himself. 

Eau.  There  is  no  suspicion  of  that,  sir. 

Cen.  God  so.  Mavis,  Haughty  is  kissing. 

Mav.  Let  us  go  too,  and  take  part. 

[They  come  forward. 

Eau.  But  I  am  glad  of  the  fortune  (beside  the 
discovery  of  two  such  empty  caskets)  to  gain  the 


1  hraTce.  This  word  was  formerly  used  in  m  any  senses ; 
among  others  it  meant  a  powerful  iron  curb  for  restive 
horses,  and  also  a  wooden  frame  in  which  the  feet  of 
young  and  vicious  horses  were  confined  by  farriers, 
preparatory  to  their  being  shod.  Gifford  thinks  the 
latter  the  reference  in  the  text. 

-  /oci— the  favourite  love-lock  which  it  was  the  fashion 
of  these  times  to  bestow  so  much  attention  upon. 

2  ingine — ingenuity,  wit,  cleverness. 


204 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


knowledge  of  so  rich  a  mine  of  virtue  as  Sir  Dau- 
phiue. 

Cen.  We  would  be  all  glad  to  style  him  of  our 
friendship,  and  see  him  at  the  college. 

Mav.  He  cannot  mix  with  a  sweeter  society, 
I'll  prophesy;  and  I  hope  he  himself  will  think 
so. 

Daup.  I  should  be  rude  to  imagine  otherwise, 
lady. 

True.  Did  I  not  tell  thee,  Dauphine  ?  "Why, 
all  their  actions  are  governed  by  crude  opinion, 
without  reason  or  cause  ;  they  know  not  why 
they  do  anything;  but,  as  they  are  iuform'd, 
believe,  judge,  praise,  condemn,  love,  hate,  and, 
in  emulation  one  of  another,  do  all  these  things 
alike.  Only  they  have  a  natural  inclination 
sways  them  generally  to  the  worst,  when  they 
are  left  to  themselves.  But  pursue  it,  now  thou 
hast  them. 

Hau.  Shall  we  go  in  again,  Morose  ? 

Ei^L  Yes,  madam. 

Cen.  We'll  entreat  Sir  Dauphine's  company. 

True.  Stay,  good  madam,  the  interview  of  the 
two  friends,  Pylades  and  Orestes:  I'll  fetch  them 
out  to  you  straight. 

Hau.  Will  you.  Master  Truewit  ? 

Daup.  Ay ;  but,  noble  ladies,  do  not  confess  in 
your  countenance,  or  outward  bearing  to  them, 
any  discovery  of  their  follies,  that  we  may  see 
how  the}'  will  bear  up  again,  with  what  assur- 
ance and  erection. 

Hau.  We  will  not.  Sir  Dauphine. 

Cen.  Mav.  Upon  our  honours.  Sir  Dauphine. 

True,  [ffoes  to  the  first  closet.']  Sir  Amorous,  Sir 
Amorous  !     The  ladies  are  here. 

La-F.  \within.']  Are  they  ? 

True.  Yes;  but  slip  out  by  and  by,  as  their 
backs  are  turn'd,  and  meet  Sir  John  here,  as  by 
chance,  when  I-  call  you.  [goes  to  the  othe?:'] — 
Jack  Daw. 

Daw.  \jvithin.'\  What  say  you,  sir  ? 

True.  Whip  out  behind  me  suddenly,  and  no 
anger  in  your  looks  to  your  adversary.  Now, 
now! 

[La-Foole  and  Daw  slip  out  of  their  re- 
spective  closets,  and  salute  each  other. 

La-F.  Noble  Sii-  John  Daw,  where  have  you 
been  ? 

Daw.  To  seek  you.  Sir  Amorous. 

La-F.  Me  !  I  honour  you. 

Daw.  I  prevent '  you,  sir. 

Cler.  They  have  forgot  their  rapiers. 

Trtie.  Oh,  they  meet  in  peace,  man. 

Daup.  Where's  your  sword.  Sir  John  ? 

Cler.  And  yours,  Sir  Amorous  ? 

Daw.  Mine !  My  boy  had  it  forth  to  mend  the 
handle,  e'en  now. 

La-F.  And  my  gold  handle  was  broke  too,  and 
my  boy  had  it  forth. 

Daup.  Indeed,  sir ! — How  their  excuses  meet ! 

Cler.  What  a  consent  there  is  in  the  handles ! 

True.  Nay,  there  is  so  in  the  points  too,  I 
warrant  you. 

Enter  Morose,  with  the  tioo  swords  drawn  in  his 
hands. 

Mrs.  Ott.  Oh  me !  madam,  he  comes  again,  the 
madman !     Away ! 

[Ladies,  Daw,  and  La-Fooi,e,  run  off. 

Mar.  What  make  these  naked  weapons  here, 
gentlemen  ? 

True.  Oh,  sir,  here  hath  like  to  have  been 
murder  since  you  went ;  a  couple  of  knights 
fallen  out  about  the  bride's  favours!     We  were 


'  prevent — come  before,  forestall. 


fain  to  take  away  their  weapons;  your  house  had 
been  begg'd '  by  this  time  else. 

Mor.  For  what  ? 

Cler.  For  manslaughter,  sir,  as  being  accessory. 

Mor.  And  for  her  favours  ? 

True.  Ay,  sir,  heretofore,  not  present. — Cleri- 
mont,  carry  them  their  swords  now.  They  have 
done  ^11  the  hurt  they  will  do. 

[Exit  Cler.  icith  the  two  swords. 

Daup.  Have  you  spoke  with  the  lawyer,  sir  ? 

Mor.  Oh  no !  there  is  such  a  noise  in  the 
court,  that  they  have  frighted  me  home  with 
more  violence  than  I  went !  Such  speaking  and 
counter-speaking,  with  their  several  voices,  of 
citations,  appellations,  allegations,  certificates, 
attachments,  interrogatoi'ies,  references,  convic- 
tions, and  afflictions  indeed,  among  the  doctors 
and  proctors,  that  the  noise  here  is  silence  to't, 
a  kind  of  calm  midnight! 

True.  Why,  sir,  if  you  would  be  resolved  in- 
deed, I  can  bring  you  hither  a  very  sufficient 
lawyer,  and  a  learned  divine,  that  shall  inquire 
into  every  least  scruple  for  you. 

Mor.  Can  you,  Master  Truewit .' 

True.  Yes,  and  are  verj^  sober,  grave  persons, 
that  will  despatch  it  in  a  chamber,  with  a  whisper 
or  two. 

Mor.  Good  sir,  shall  I  hope  this  benefit  from 
you,  and  trust  myself  into  your  hands .' 

True.  Alas,  sir !  your  nephew  and  I  have  been 
ashamed  and  oft-times  mad,  since  you  went,  to 
think  how  you  are  abused.  Go  in,  good  sir,  and 
lock  yourself  up  till  we  call  you ;  we'll  tell  you 
more  anon,  sir. 

3Ior.  Do  your  pleasure  with  me,  gentlemen.  I 
believe  in  you,  and  that  deserves  no  delusion. 

[Exit. 

True.  You  shall  find  none,  sir; — but  heap'd, 
heap'd  plenty  of  vexation. 

Daup.  What  wilt  thou  do  now.  Wit  ? 

Triie.  Kecover  me  hither  Otter  and  the  barber, 
if  you  can,  by  any  means,  presently. 

Daup.  Why,  to  what  purpose  ? 

True.  Oh,  I'll  make  the  deepest  divine  and 
gravest  lawyer  out  of  them  two  for  him — 

Daup.  Thou  canst  not,  man ;  these  are  waking 
dreams. 

True.  Do  not  fear  me.  Clap  but  a  civil  -  gown 
with  a  welt  on  the  one,  and  a  canonical  cloak 
with  sleeves  on  the  other,  and  give  them  a  few 
terms  in  their  mouths,  if  there  come  not  forth  as 
able  a  doctor  and  complete  a  parson,  for  this  turn, 
as  hiay  be  wish'd,  trust  not  ray  election :  and  1 
hope,  without  wronging  the  dignity  of  either 
profession,  since  they  are  but  persons  put  on, 
and  for  mirth's  sake,  to  torment  him.  The 
barber  smatters  Latin,  I  remember. 

Daup.  Yes,  and  Otter  too. 

True.  Well,  then,  if  I  make  them  not  wrangle 
out  this  case  to  his  no  comfort,  let  me  be  thought 
a  Jack  Daw  or  La-Foole,  or  anything  worse.  Go 
you  to  your  ladies,  but  first  send  for  them. 

Daup.  I  will.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

A  room  in  Morose's  House. 

Enter  La-Foole,  Clerimont,  and  Daw. 

La-F.    Where  had  you  our    swords,    Master 
Clerimont .' 


1  your  house  had  been  begg'd — for  a  riot,  &c.,  for  which 
it  would  liave  fallen  as  a  deodand  to  the  ciown. 

2  civil  gown— the  gown  of  a  civilian;  a  welt  is  a  hem 
or  border  of  fur,  <tc. 


BEN  JONSON. 


20: 


Ckr.  Why,  Dauphiue  took  them  from  the 
madman. 

La-F.  And  he  took  them  from  our  boys,  I 
warrant  you. 

Ckr  Very  like,  sir. 

La-F.  Thank  you,  good  Master  Clerimont. 
Sir  John  Daw  and  I  are  both  beholden  to  you. 

Ckr.  Would  I  knew  how  to  make  you  so, 
gentlemen ! 

Daw.  Sir  Amorous  and  I  are  your  servants,  sir. 

Enter  Mavis. 

Mav.  Gentlemen,  have  any  of  you  a  pen  and 
ink?  I  would  fain  write  out  a  riddle  in  Italian, 
for  Sir  Dauphine  to  translate. 

Ckr.  Not  I,  in  troth,  lady  ;  I  am  no  scrivener. 

Daw.  I  can  furnish  you,  I  thihk,  lady. 

\_Exeunt  Daw  and  Mavis. 

Cler   He  has  it  in  the  haft  of  a  knife,  I  believe. 

La-F.  No,  he  has  his  box  of  instruments. 

Cler.  Like  a  surgeon ! 

La-F.  For  the  mathematics :  his  square,  his 
comjoasses,  his  brass  jsens,  and  black-lead,  to 
di-aw  maps  of  every  place  and  person  where  ho 
comes. 

Ckr.  How,  maps  of  persons ! 

La-F.  Yes,  sir,'  of  Nomentack'  when  he  was 
here,  and  of  the  prince  of  Moldavia,  and  of  his 
mistress,  Mistress  Epicosne. 

Re-enter  Daw. 

Ckr.  Away !  he  hath  not  found  out  her  lati- 
tude, I  hope. 

La-F.  You  are  a  pleasant  gentleman,  sir. 

Ckr.  Faith,  now  we  are  in  private,  let's  wanton 
it  a  little,  and  talk  waggishly. — Sir  John,  I  am 
telling  Sir  Amorous  here,  that  you  two  govern 
the  ladies  wherever  you  come ;  you  cai'ry  the 
feminine  gender  afore  you. 

Daio.  They  shall  rather  carry  us  afore  them, 
if  they  will,  sir. 

Ckr.  Nay,  I  believe  that  they  do,  vrithal — but 
that  you  are  the  prime  men  in  their  affections, 
and  direct  all  their  actions — 

Daw.  Not  I ;   Sir  Amorous  is. 

La-F.  I  protest,  Sir  John  is. 

Daw.  As  I  hope  to  rise  in  the  state.  Sir  Amo- 
rous, you  have  the  person.  " 

Ixt-F.  Sir  John,  you  have  the  person,  and  the 
discourse  too. 

Daw.  Not  I,  sir.  I  have  no  discourse — and 
then  you  have  activity  beside. 

La-F.  I  protest.  Sir  John,  you  come  as  high 
from  Tripoly  -  as  I  do,  eveiy  whit :  and  lift  as 
many  join'd  stools,  and  leap  over  them,  if  you 
would  use  it. 

Ckr.  Well,  agree  on't  together,  knights ;  for 
between  you,  you  divide  the  kingdom  or  com- 
monwealth of  ladies'  affections  :  I  see  it,  and  can 
perceive  a  little  how  they  observe  you,  and  fear 
you,  indeed.  You  could  tell  strange  stories,  my 
masters,  if  you  would,  I  know. 

Daw.  Faith,  we  have  seen  somewhat,  sir. 

Ckr.  You  lay  in  the  same  house  with  the 
bride  here  ? 

Daw.  Yes,  and  conversed  with  her  hourly,  six-. 

Ckr.  And  what  humour  is  she  of .'  Is  she 
coming  and  open,  free .' 

Daw.  Oh,  exceeding  open,  sir.  I  was  her  ser- 
vant, and  Sir  Amorous  was  to  be. 

1  Nomentack  was  an  Indian  chief  from  Virginia,  who 
was  brought  to  England  some  years  before  this  was 
written. — Giffokd. 

2  A  phrase,  says  Upton,  to  signify  feats  of  activity, 
vaulting,  leaping,  &c.  Gififord  thinks  it  a  pun  on  the 
first  part  of  the  name. 


Ckr.  Come,  you  have  both  had  favours  from 
her :  I  know,  and  have  heard  so  much. 

Daw.  Oh  no,  sir. 

La-F.  You  shall  excuse  Us,  sir ;  we  must  not 
wound  reputation. 

Ckr.  Why,  I  commend  you,  lads.  Little  knows 
Don  Bridegroom  of  this ;  nor  shall  he,  for  me. 

Daw.  Hang  him,  mad  ox  ! 

Ckr.  Speak  softly ;  here  comes  his  nephew 
with  the  Lady  Haughty.  He'll  get  the  ladies 
from  you,  sirs,  if  you  look  not  to  him  in  time. 

La-F.  Why,  if  he  do,  we'll  fetch  them  home 
again,  I  warrant  you. 

[Exit  with  Daw.     Cler.  walks  aside. 

Enter  Dauphine  and  Haughty. 

Hau.  I  assure  you.  Sir  Dauphine,  it  is  the 
price  and  estimation  of  your  virtue  only  that 
hath  embark'd  me  to  this  adventure;  and  I  could 
not  but  make  out  to  tell  you  so:  nor  can  I  re- 
pent me  of  the  act,  since  it  is  always  an  argu- 
ment of  some  virtue  in  ourselves,  that  we  love 
and  affect  it  so  in  others. 

Daup.  Your  ladyship  sets  too  high  a  price  on 
my  weakness. 

Ilau.  Sir,  I  can  distinguish  gems  from  pebbles — 

Daup.  Are  you  so  skilful  in  stones  ?        [Aside. 

Hau.  And  howsoever  1  may  suffer  in  such  a 
judgment  as  yours,  by  admitting  equality  of  rank 
or  society  with  Centaure  or  Mavis — 

Daup.  You  do  not,  madam;  I  perceive  they 
are  your  mere  foils. 

Hau.  Then  are  you  a  friend  to  truth,  sh- ;  it 
makes  me  love  you  the  more.  It  is  not  the  out- 
ward, but  the  inward  man  that  I  affect.  They 
are  not  apprehensive  of  an  eminent  jierfection, 
but  love  flat  and  dully. 

Cen.  \iuithin.']  Where  are  you,  my  Lady 
Haughty .' 

Hau.  I  come  presently,  Centaure. — My  cham- 
ber, sir,  my  page  shall  show  you  ;  and  Trusty, 
my  woman,  shall  be  ever  awake  for  you  :  you 
need  not  fear  to  communicate  anything  with  her, 
for  she  is  a  Fidelia.  I  pray  you  wear  this  jewel 
for  my  sake.  Sir  Dauphine — 

Enter  Centaure. 
Where's  Mavis,  Centaure  ? 

Cen.  Within,  madam,  a  writing.  I'll  follow 
you  presently.  [Exit  Hau.] — I'll  but  speak  a. 
word  with  Sir  Dauphine. 

Daup.  With  me,  madam  ? 

Cen.  Good  Sir  Dauphine,  do  not  trust  Haughty, 
nor  make  any  credit '  to  her,  whatever  you  do 
besides.  Sir  Dauphine,  I  give  you  this  caution, 
she  is  a  perfect  courtier,  and  loves  nobody  but 
for  her  uses  ;  and  for  her  uses  she  loves  all.  Be- 
sides, her  physicians  give  her  out  to  be  none  o' 
the  clearest,  whether  she  pay  them  or  no.  Heaven 
knows ;  and  she's  above  fifty  too,  and  pargets  !  '^ 
See  her  in  a  forenoon.  Here  comes  Mavis,  a 
worse  face  than  she !  You  would  not  like  this  by 
candle-light. 

Re-enter  Mavis. 
If  you'll  come  to  my  chamber  one  o'  these  morn- 
ings early,  or  late  in  an  evening,  I'll  tell  you  more. 
Where's  Hatighty,  Mavis .' 

Mav.  Within,  Centaure. 

Cen.  What  have  you  there  .'' 

3Iav.  An  Italian  riddle  for  Sir  Dauphine, — you 
shall  not  see  it,  i'  faith,  Centaure.  [Exit  Cen.] — 
Good  Sir  Dauphine,  solve  it  for  me  :  I'll  call  tor 
it  anon.  [Exit. 


^  mai-e  any  credit — a  Latinism  for,  give  her  any  credit. 
'  parffeis—(Xanhs,  or  plasters  her  face. 


206 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Cler.  \coming  foriuard.'\  How  now,  Daiipliine  ? 
how  dost  thou  quit  thyself  of  these  females  ? 

Daup.  'Slight,  they  haunt  me  like  fairies,  and 
give  me  jewels  here  !     I  cannot  be  rid  of  them! 

Cler.  Oh,  you  must  not  tell  though. 

Daujj.  Mass,  I  forgot  that!  I  was  never  so 
assaulted.  One  loves  for  virtue  and  bribes  me 
with  this  [shows  the  jeiceT] ;  another  loves  me 
with  caution,  and  so  would  possess  me ;  a  third 
brings  me  a  riddle  here  ;  and  all  are  jealous,  and 
rail  each  at  other. 

Cler.  A  riddle !  pray  let  me  see  it.  [Reads. 

Sir  Dauphins,  I  chosethis  way  of  intimation  forprivacy. 
The  ladies  here,  I  Icnow,  have  both  liopc  and  purpose  to 
malie  a  collegiate  and  servant  of  you.  If  I  might  be  so 
honoured  as  to  appear  at  any  end  of  so  noble  a  work, 
I  would  enter  into  a  fame  of  taking  physic  to-morrow, 
and  continue  it  four  or  five  days,  or  longer  for  your  visita- 
tion. Mavis. 

By  my  faith,  a  subtle  one!  Call  you  this  a 
riddle  ?  What's  their  plain-dealing,  ti-ow  ? 

Daup.  We  lack  Truewit  to  tell  us  that. 

Cler.  We  lack  him  for  somewhat  else  too  ;  his 
knights  reformadoes'  are  wound  up  as  high  and 
insolent  as  ever  they  were. 

Daup.  You  jest.    ' 

Cler.  No  drunkards,  either  with  wine  or  vanity, 
ever  confess'd  such  stories  of  themselves.  I 
would  not  give  a  fly's  leg  in  balance  against  all 
the  women's  reputations  here,  if  they  could  be 
but  thought  to  speak  truth ;  and  for  the  bride, 
they  have  made  their  affidavit  against  her  di- 
rectly— 

Daup.  What!  that  they  have  lain  with  her  ? 

Cler.  Yes ;  and  tell  times  and  circumstances, 
with  the  cause  why,  and  the  place  where.  I  had 
almost  brought  them  to  affirm  that  they  had  done 
it  to-day. 

Daup.  Not  both  of  them? 

Cler.  Yes,  faith ;  with  a  sooth  or  two  more  I 
had  effected  it.  They  would  have  set  it  down 
under  their  hands. 

Davp.  Why,  they  will  be  our  sport,  I  see,  still, 
whether  we  will  or  no. 

E7iter  Truewit. 
True.  Oh,  are  you  here  ?  Come,  Dauphine,  go 
call  your  uncle  presently ;  I  have  fitted  my  divine 
and  my  canonist,  dyed  their  beards  and  all.  The 
knaves  do  not  know  themselves,  they  are  so  ex- 
alted and  altered.  Preferment  changes  any  man. 
Thou  shalt  keep  one  door  and  I  anothei-,  and 
then  Clerimont  in  the  midst,  that  he  may  have  no 
means  of  escape  from  their  cavilling  when  they 
grow  hot  once  again.  And  then  the  women,  as 
I  have  given  the  bride  her  instructions,  to  break 
in  upon  him  in  the  renvoy.2  Oh,  'twill  be  full 
and  twanging !    Away !  fetch  him. 

[Exit  Daup. 

Enter  Ottek  disguised  as  a  divine,  and  Cutbeakd 

as  a  canon  lawyer. 
Come,  master  doctor,  and  master  par-son,  look  to 
your  'parts  now,  and  discharge  them  bravely ; 
you  are  well  set  forth,  perform  it  as  well.  If  you 
chance  to  be  out,  do  not  confess  it  with  standing 
still,  or  humming,  or  gaping  one  at  another ;  but 
go  on,  and  talk  aloud  and  eagerly :  use  vehement 
action,  and  only  remember  your  terms,  and  you 
are  safe.  Let  the  matter  go  where  it  will :  you 
have  many  will  do  so.  But  at  first  be  very 
solemn  and  grave,  like  your  garments,   though 

^  reformadoes — a  Spanish  military  term,  signifying 
an  officer  who  for  some  disgrace  is  deprived  of  his  com- 
mand, but  retains  his  rank  and  perhaps  his  pay.— Nares. 
Thetenn  is  applied  here  to  Daw  and  La-Foole. 

*  /'enuo!/— conclusion. 


you  loose  yourselves  after,  and  skip  out  like  a 
brace  of  jugglers  on  a  table.  Here  he  comes :  set 
your  faces,  and  look  superciliously,  while  I  pre- 
sent you. 

Re-enter  Dauphine  with  Morose. 

Mor.  Are  these  the  two  learned  men  ? 

True.  Yes,  sir  ;  please  you  salute  them. 

Mor.  Salute  them !  I  had  rather  do  anything, 
than  wear  out  time  so  unfruitfully,  sir.  I  wonder 
how  these  common  forms,  as  God  save  you  !  and 
You  are  welcome  !  are  come  to  be  a  habit  in  our 
lives ;  or,  /  am  glad  to  see  you  !  when  I  cannot 
see  what  the  profit  can  be  of  these  words,  so  long 
as  it  is  no  whit  better  with  him  whose  affairs  are 
sad  and  grievous,  that  he  hears  this  salutation. 

True.  'Tis  true,  sir;  we'll  go  to  the  matter  then. 
— Gentlemen,  master  doctor,  and  master  parson, 
I  have  acquainted  you  sufficiently  with  the  busi- 
ness for  which  you  are  come  hither ;  and  you  are 
not  now  to  inform  yourselves  in  the  state  of  the 
question,  I  know.  This  is  the  gentleman  who 
expects  your  resolution,  and  therefore,  when  you 
please,  begin. 

Ott.  Please  you,  master  doctor. 

Cut.  Please  you,  good  master  parson. 

Ott.  I  would  here  the  canon  law  speak  first. 

Cut^  It  must  give  place  to  positive  divinity,  sir. 

Mor.  Nay,  good  gentlemen,  do  not  throw  me 
into  circumstances.  Let  your  comforts  arrive 
quickly  at  me,  those  that  are.  Be  swift  in  afford- 
ing me  my  peace,  if  so  I  shall  hope  any.  I  love 
not  your  disputations  or  your  court  tumults.  And 
that  it  be  not  strange  to  you,  I  will  tell  you  :  My 
father,  in  my  education,  was  wont  to  advise  me, 
that  I  should  always  collect  and  contain  my  mind, 
not  suffering  it  to  flow  loosely ;  that  I  should  look 
to  what  things  were  necessary  to  the  carriage  of 
my  life,  and  what  not  ;  embracing  the  one,  and 
eschewing  the  other ;  in  short,  that  I  shoiid  en- 
dear myself  to  rest,  and  avoid  turmoil;  which 
now  is  grown  to  be  another  nature  to  me.  So 
that  I  come  not  to  your  public  pleadings,  or  your 
places  of  noise :  not  that  I  neglect  those  things 
that  make  for  the  dignity  of  the  commonwealth  ; 
but  for  the  mere  avoiding  of  clamours  and  im- 
pertinences of  orators  that  know  not  how  to  be 
silent.  And  for  the  cause  of  noise,  am  I  now  a 
suitor  to  you.  You  do  not  know  in  what  a 
misery  I  have  been  exercised  this  day,  what  a 
torrent  of  evil !  my  very  house  turns  round  with 
the  tumult !  I  dwell  in  a  windmill :  the  perpetual 
motion  is  here,  and  not  at  Eltham.* 

True.  Well,  good  master  doctor,  will  you  break 
the  ice  ?    Master  parson  will  wade  after. 

Ciit.  Sir,  though  unworthy,  and  the  weaker,  I 
will  presume. 

Ott.  'Tis  no  presumption,  domine  doctor. 

Mo7\  Yet  again ! 

Cut.  Your  question  is.  For  how  many  causes  a 
man  may  have  divortium  legitimum,-  a  lawful 
divorce?  First  you  must  understand  the  nature 
of  the  word  divorce,  a  divertendo  ^ — 

Mor.  No  excursions  upon  words,  good  doctor ; 
to  the  question  briefly. 

Cut.  I  answer  then,  the  canon  law  affords  di- 
vorce but  in  few  cases ;  and  the  principal  is  in 
the  common  case,  the  adulterous  case.  But  there 
are  duodecim  impedimenta,  twelve  impediments,  as 
we  call  them,  all  which  do  not  dirimere  contractum, 
but  irritum  reddere  matrimonium,  as  we  say  in  the 
canon  law,  not  take  away  the  bond,  but  cause  a 
nullity  therein. 

1  Here  was  a  puppet-show  of  great  celebrity  in  our 
author's  time. — Gifford. 
*  '  A  lawful  divorce.'  *  '  from  turning  asunder.' 


Mor.  I  understood  you  before.  Good  sir,  avoid 
your  impertinency  of  translation. 

Ott.  He  cannot  open  this  too  much,  sir,  by  your 
favour. 

Mor.  Yet  more ! 

True.  Oh,  you  must  give  the  learned  men  leave, 
sir. — To  your  impediments,  master  doctor. 

Cut.  The  first  is  impedimentum  en-oris.^ 

Ott.  Of  which  there  are  several  species. 

Cut.  Ay,  as  error  personx." 

Ott.  If  you  contract  yourself  to  one  person, 
thinking  her  another. 

Cut.  Then,  error  fortunx.^ 

Ott.  If  she  be  a  beggar,  and  you  thought  her 
rich. 

Cut.  Then,  error  qiialitatis.* 

Ott.  If  she  prove  stubborn  or  headstrong,  that 
you  thought  obedient. 

Mor.  How !  is  that,  sir,  a  lawful  impediment  ? 
One  at  once,  I  pray  you,  gentlemen. 

Ott.  Ay,  ante  copulam,  but  not  post  copulam,^ 
sii\ 

Cut.  Master  parson  says  right.  Nee  post  nup- 
tiarum  lenedictionem.^  It  doth  indeed  but  irrita 
reddere  sponsalia,  annul  the  contract ;  after  mar- 
riage it  is  of  no  obstancy. 

True.  Alas,  sir,  what  a  hope  are  we  fallen  from 
by  this  time ! 

l^After  poor  Morose  is  iadgered  in  this  way  for 
some  time']  Epiccene  rushes  in,  folloioed  hy 
Haughty,  Centauke,  Mavis,  Mistress 
Otter,  Daw,  and  La-Foole. 

Epi.  I  will  not  endure  it  any  longer.  Ladies, 
I  beseech  you,  help  me.  This  is  such  a  wrong 
as  never  was  offered  to  poor  bride  before  :  upon 
her  marriage-day  to  have  her  husband  conspire 
against  her,  and  a  couj^le  of  mercenary  com- 
panions to  be  brought  in  for  form's  sake,  to  per- 
suade a  separation !  If  you  had  blood  or  virtue 
in  you,  gentlemen,  ypu  would  not  suffer  such 
earwigs  about  a  husband,  or  scorpions  to  creep 
between  man  and  wife. 

Mor.  Oh  the  variety  and  changes  of  my  tor- 
ment! 

Eau.  Let  them  be  cudgell'd  out  of  doors  by 
our  grooms. 

Cen.  I'll  lend  j'ou  my  footman. 

Mav.  We'll  have  our  men  blanket '  them  in  the 
hall. 

Mrs.  Ott.  As  there  was  one  at  our  house, 
madam,  for  peeping  in  at  the  door. 

Baio.  Content,  i'  faith. 

True.  Stay,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  You'll  hear 
before  you  proceed  ? 

Mav.  I'd  have  the  bridegroom  blanketted  too. 

Cen.  Begin  with  him  first. 

Hau.  Yes,  by  my  troth. 

Mor.  Oh  mankind^  generation  ! 

Daup.  Ladies,  for  my  sake  forbear. 

Hau.  Yes,  for  Sir  Dauphine's  sake. 

Cen.  He  shall  command  us. 

La-F.  He  is  as  fine  a  gentleman  of  his  inches, 
madam,  as  any  is  about  the  town,  and  wears  as 
good  colours  when  he  lists. 

True.  Be  brief,  sir,  and  confess  your  infirmity. 
She'll  be  a-fire  to  be  quit  of  you,  if  she  but  hear 
that  named  once;  you  shall  not  entreat  her  to 

'  'impediment  from  mistake.' 

2  '  mistake  of  person.' 

3  'mistalvc  of  fortune.' 

*  '  mistake  of  quality  or  character.' 

*  '  before  marriage,  but  not  after.' 

*  '  Nor  after  the  nuptial  benediction.* 

"  blanket  them— toss  them  in  a  blanket. 
8  manlcind  —  masculine,  always  a  term  of  reproach 
when  applied  to  a  female.— Giffokd. 


stay.    She'll  fly  you  like  one  that  had  the  marks  i 
upon  him. 

Mor.  Ladies,  I  must  crave  all  your  pardons — 

True.  Silence,  ladies. 

Mor.  For  a  wrong  I  have  done  to  your  whole 
sex,  in  marrying  this  fair  and  virtuous  gentle- 
woman— 

Cler.  Hear  him,  good  ladies. 

Mor.  Being  guilty  of  an  infirmity,  which, 
before  I  conferred  'with  these  learned  men,  I 
thought  I  might  have  concealed — 

True.  But  now  being  better  informed  in 
his  conscience  by  them,  he  is  to  declare  it,  and 
give  satisfaction  by  asking  your  public  forgive- 
ness. 

Mor.  I  am  no  man,  ladies. 

All.  How! 

Mor.  Utterly  unable  in  nature,  by  reason  of 
frigidity,  to  perform  the  duties,  or  any  the  least 
office  of  a  husband. 

Epi.  No,  ladies,  you  shall  not  need;  I'll  take 
him  with  all  his  faults. 

Mor.  Worst  of  all ! 

Cler.  Why  then,  'tis  no  divorce,  doctor,  if  she 
consent  not? 

Mor.  Worse,  worse  than  worst ! 

True.  Nay,  sir,  be  not  utterly  disheartened; 
we  have  yet  a  small  relic  of  hope  left,  as  near  as 
our  comfort  is  blown  out.  Clerimont,  produce 
your  brace  of  knights. 

Daw.  Pardon  us,  good  Master  Clerimont. 

La-F.  You  will  excuse  us.  Master  Clerimont. 

Cler.  Nay,  you  must  make  it  good  now, 
knights,  there  is  no  remedy;  I'll  eat  no  words 
for  you,  nor  no  men :  you  know  you  spoke  it  to 
me. 

Daw.  Is  this  gentleman-like,  sir  ? 

True.  Jack  Daw,  he's  worse  than  Sir  Amo- 
rous ;  fiercer  a  great  deal.  [Aside  to  Daw.] — Sir 
Amorous,  beware,  there  be  ten  Daws  in  this 
Clerimont.  [^Aside  to  La-Foole. 

La-F.  I'll  confess  it,  sir. 

Daw.  Will  you.  Sir  Amorous,  will  you  wound 
reputation  ? 

La-F.  I  am  resolved. 

Ti-ue.  So  should  you  be  too.  Jack  Daw:  what 
should  keep  you  off  ?  She's  but  a  woman,  and 
in  disgrace  ;  he'll  be  glad  on't. 

Daw.  Will  he  ?  I  thought  he  would  have  been 
angry. 

Cler.  You  wUl  despatch,  knights;  it  must  be 
done,  i'faith. 

True.  Why,  an  it  must,  it  shall,  sir,  they  say : 
they'll  ne'er  go  back. — Do  not  tempt  his  patience. 

[_Aside  to  them. 

Daw.  Is  it  true  indeed,  sir  ? 

La-F.  Yes,  I  assure  you,  sir. 

Mor.  What  is  true,  gentlemen?  what  do  yon 
assure  me  ? 

Daw.  That  we  have  known  your  bride,  sir — 

La-F.  In  good  fashion. 

Epi.  I  am  undone !  I  am  undone ! 

Mor.  Oh !  let  me  worship  and  adore  you, 
gentlemen ! 

Epi.  I  am  undone !  [  Weeps. 

Mor.  Yes,  to  my  hand,  I  thank  these  knights. 
Master  parson,  let  me  thank  you  otherwise. 

\_Gives  him  money. 

Cen.  And  have  they  confess'd  ? 

Mav.  Now  out  upon  them,  informers  ! 

True.  You  see  what  creatures  you  may  bestow 
your  favours  on,  madams. 

Hau.  I  would  accept  against  them  as  beaten 
knights,  wench,  and  not  good  witnesses  in  law. 


1  maris — i.e.  of  the  plague,  or  some  contagious  dis- 
temper.— Whallet. 


208 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Mrs.  Ott.  Poor  gentlewoman,  how  she  takes  it! 

Hau.  Be  comforted,  Morose,  I  love  you  the 
better  for't. 

Cen.  So  do  I,  I  protest. 

Cut.  But,  gentlemen,  you  have  not  known  her 
since  matrimonium  ? 

Daw.  Not  to-day,  master  doctor. 

La-F.  No,  sir,  not  to-day. 

Cut.  Why,  then  I  say,  for  any  act  before,  the 
matrimonium  is  good  and  perfect ;  unless  the  wor- 
shipful bridegroom  did  precisely,  before  witness, 
demand  if  she  were  virgo  ante  nuptias.^ 

Epi.  No,  that  he  did  not,  I  assure  you,  master 
doctor. 

Cut.  If  he  cannot  prove  that,  it  is  ratum  con- 
jugium,^  notwithstanding  the  premises ;  and  they 
do  no  way  impedire.^  And  this  is  my  sentence, 
this  I  pronounce. 

Ott.  I  am  of  master  doctor's  resolution  too,  sir ; 
if  you  made  not  that  demand  ante  nuptlas. 

Mor.  Oh  my  heart !  wilt  thou  break  ?  wilt  thou 
break  ?  This  is  worst  of  all  worst  worsts  that 
hell  could  have  devised !  Marry  a  whore,  and  so 
much  noise ! 

Danp.  Come,  I  see  now  plain  confederacy  in 
this  doctor  and  this  parson,  to  abuse  a  gentleman. 
You  study  his  affliction.  I  pray  begone,  com- 
panions.— And,  gentlemen,  I  begin  to  suspect 
you  for  having  parts  with  them. — Sir,  will  it 
please  you  hear  me  ? 

Mor.  Oh,  do  not  talk  to  me  ;  take  not  from  me 
the  pleasure  of  dying  in  silence,  nephew. 

Baup.  Sir,  I  must  speak  to  you.  I  have  been 
long  your  poor  despised  kinsman,  and  many  a 
hard  thought  has  strengthened  you  against  me  : 
but  now  it  shall  appear  if  either  I  love  you  or 
your  peace,  and  prefer  them  to  all  the  world  be- 
side. I  will  not  be  long  or  grievous  to  you,  sir. 
If  I  free  you  of  this  iinhappy  match  absolutely, 
and  instantly,  after  all  this  trouble,  and  almost 
in  your  despair,  now — 

Moi'.  It  cannot  bo. 

Daup.  Sir,  that  you  be  never  troubled  with  a 
murmur  of  it  more,  what  shall  I  hope  for,  or  de- 
serve of  you  ? 

Mor.  Oh  !  what  thou  wilt,  nephew ;  thou  shalt 
deserve  me,  and  have  me. 

Daup.  Shall  I  have  your  favour  perfect  to  me, 
and  love  hereafter  ? 

Mor,  That,  and  anything  beside.  Make  thine 
own  conditions.  My  whole  estate  is  thine;  manage 
it ;  I  will  become  thy  ward. 

Daup.  Nay,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  unreasonable. 

Epi.  Will  Sir  Dauphine  be  mine  enemy  too  ? 

Daup.  You  know  I  have  been  long  a  suitor 
to  you,  uncle,  that  out  of  your  estate,  which  is 
fifteen  hundred  a  year,  you  would  allow  me  but 
five  hundred  during  life,  and  assure  the  rest  upon 
me  after ;  to  which  I  have  often,  by  myself  and 
friends,  tendered  you  a  writing  to  sign,  which 
you  would  never  consent  or  incline  to.  If  you 
please  but  to  effect  it  now — 

Mor.  Thou  shalt  have  it,  nephew:  I  will  do 
it,  and  more. 

Daup.  If  I  quit  you  not  presently,  and  for  ever, 
of  this  cumber,*  you  shall  have  power  instantly, 
afore  all  these,  to  revoke  your  act,  and  I  will  be- 
come whose  slave  you  will  give  me  to  for  ever. 

Mor.  Where  is  the  writing  ?  I  will  seal  to  it, 
that,  or  to  a  blank,  and  write  thine  own  condi- 
tions. 

Ein.  Oh  me,  most  unfortunate,  wretched  gentle- 
woman ! 

Eau.  Will  Sir  Dauphine  do  this? 


1  '  virgin  before  marriage.'      *  '  a  proper  marriage.' 
•  '  liiiider.'  *  cumber — incumbrance. 


Epi.  Good  sir,  have  some  compassion  on  me. 

Mor.  Oh,  my  nephew  knows  you.  belike. 
Away  crocodile  ! 

Cen.  He  does  it  not  siu-e  without  good  ground. 

Daup.  Here,  sir.         \_Gives  Mm  the piarchments. 

Mor.  Come,  nephew,  give  me  the  pen ;  I  will 
subscribe  to  anything,  and  seal  to  what  thou  wilt, 
for  my  deliverance.  Thou  art  my  restorer.  Here, 
I  deliver  it  thee  as  my  deed.  If  there  be  a  word 
in  it  lacking,  or  writ  with  false  orthography,  I 
protest  before  [heaven]  I  will  not  take  the  ad- 
vantage. [Returns  the  writings. 
Daup.  Then  here  is  your  release,  sir.  [takes 
off 'Epicce'se's  pei-uke  and  other  disguises.] — You 
have  married  a  boy,  a  gentleman's  son,  that  I 
have  brought  up  this  half  year  at  my  great 
charges,  and  for  this  composition,  which  I  have 
now  made  with  you. — What  say  you  master 
doctor  ?  This  is  jtistum  impediment um,^  I  hope, 
error  per sonse?  ^ 

Ott.  Yes,  sir,  in  primo  gradu.^ 

Cut.  In  primo  gradu. 

Daup.  I  thank  you,  good  Doctor  Cutbeard,  and 
Parson  Otter,  [pulls  their  false  beards  and  goxcns 
off.'] — You  are  beholden  to  them,  sir,  that  have 
taken  this  pains  for  you  ;  and  my  friend.  Master 
Truewit,  who  enabled  them  for  the  business. 
Now  you  may  go  in  and  rest ;  be  as  private  as 
you  will,  sir.  [Exit  Morose.]  I'll  not  trouble 
you,  till  you  trouble  me  with  your  funeral,  which 
I  care  not  how  soon  it  come. — Cutbeard,  I'll  make 
your  lease  good.  Thanh  me  not,  but  with  your  leg, 
Cutbeard. — And,  Tom  Otter,  your  princess  shall 
be  reconciled  to  you. — How,  now,  gentlemen, 
do  you  look  at  me  ? 

Cler.  A  boy ! 

Daup.  Yes,  Mistress  Epicrene. 

True.  Well,  Dauphine,  you  have  lurch'd*  your 
friends  of  the  better  half  of  the  garland,  by  con- 
cealing this  part  of  the  plot :  but  much  good  do 
it  thee,  thou  deserv'st  it,  lad. — And,  Clerimont,  for 
thy  unexpected  bringing  these  two  to  confession, 
wear  my  part  of  it  freely. — Nay,  Sir  Daw  and  Sir 
La-Foole,  you  see  the  gentlewoman  that  has  done 
you  the  favours  !  we  are  all  thankful  to  you,  and 
so  should  the  womankind  here,  specially  for  lying 
on  her,  though  not  with  her, — you  meant  so,  I 
am  sure.  But  that  we  have  stuck  it  upon  you  to- 
day, in  your  own  imagined  persons,  and  so  latelj', 
this  Amazon,  the  champion  of  the  sex,  should 
beat  you  now  thriftily,  for  the  common  slanders 
which  ladies  receive  from  such  cuckoos  as  you 
are.  You  are  they  that,  when  no  merit  or  fortune 
can  make  you  hope  to  enjoy  their  bodies,  will 
yet  lie  with  their  reputations,  and  make  their 
fame  suffer.  Away,  you  common  moths  of  these, 
and  all  ladies'  honours !  Go,  travel  to  make  legs 
and  faces,  and  come  home  with  some  new  matter 
to  be  laugh'd  at ;  you  deserve  to  live  in  an  air  as 
corrupted  as  that  wherewith  you  feed  rumour. 
[Exeunt  Daw  and  La-Foole.] — Madams,  you  are 
mute  upon  this  new  metamorphosis !  But  here 
stands  she  that  has  vindicated  your  fames.  Take 
heed  of  such  insectae  hereafter.  And  let  it  not 
trouble  you,  that  you  have  discovered  any  mys- 
teries to  this  young  gentleman  :  he  is  almost  of 
years,  and  will  make  a  good  visitant  within  this 
twelvemonth.  In  the  meantime,  we'U  all  under- 
take for  his  secrecy,  that  can  speak  so  weU  of  his 
silence.  (^Coining  forward,") — Spectators.,  if  you 
like  this  comedy,  rise  cheerfully,  and  now  Morose 
is  gone  in,  clap  your  hands.  It  may  be,  that  noise 
will  cure  him,  at  least  please  him.  [Exeunt. 


'  'just  impecliment.' 

3  'in  the  first  degree.' 

*  lui  ch'd — defeated,  disappointed. 


2  error  of  person. 


BEN  JONSON. 


209 


EVERY    MAN    IN    HIS    HUMOUR. 

A  COMEDY. 
ACTED  IN  THE  YEAR  159S  BY  THE  THEN  LORD  CHAMBERLAIN  HIS  SERVANTS. 

THE   AUTHOR   B.    J. 

London.     1616. 

TO  THE  MOST  LEAENED,  AND  MY  HONOURED  FRIEND, 

MASTER    CAMDEN, 

CLARENCIEUX. 

Sir, — There  are,  no  doubt,  a  supercilious  race 
in  the  world,  who  will  esteem  all  office,  done  you 
in  this  kind,  an  injury ;  so  solemn  a  vice  it  is 
with  them  to  use  the  authority  of  their  ignorance, 
to  the  crying  down  of  poetry,  or  the  professors: 
but  my  gratitude  must  not  leave  to  correct  their 
error ;  since  I  am  none  of  those  that  can  suffer 
the  benefits  conferred  upon  my  youth  to  perish 
with  my  age.  It  is  a  frail  memory  that  remem- 
bers but  present  things :  and,  had  the  favour  of 
the  times  so  conspired  with  my  disposition,  as  it 


could  have  brought  forth  other,  or  better,  you 
had  had  the  same  proportion,  and  number  of 
the  fruits,  the  first.  Now  I  pray  you  to  accept 
this  ;  such  wherein  neither  the  confession  of 
my  manners  shall  make  you  blush ;  nor  of  my 
studies,  repent  you  to  have  been  the  instructor  : 
and  for  the  profession  of  my  thankfulness,  I  am 
sure  it  will,  with  good  men,  find  either  praise  or 
excuse. 

Your  true  lover, 

Ben  Jonson. 


^ramafh  lirsffnie. 


Knowell,  an  old  Gentleman. 
Edward  Knowell,  his  Son. 
B  RAINWORM,  the  Father's  3Ian. 
George  Downright,  a  plain  Squire. 
Wellbred,  his  Half-Brother. 
KiTELY,  a  Merchant. 
Captain  Bobadill,  a  PauVs  Man.^ 
Master  Stephen,  a  Country  Gull. 

1  a  Paul's  Man,  i.e.  a  frequenter  of  the  middle  aisle  of 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  the  common  resort  of  cast  captains, 
sharpers,  gulls,  and  gossipers  of   every  description 

GiFFORB. 


Master  Mathew,  the  Town  Gull. 
Thomas  Cash,  KiteJy's  Cashier. 
Oliver  Cob,  a  Water-bearer. 
Justice  Clement,  an  old  merry  Magistrate. 
Roger  Formal,  his  Clerk. 
Wellbred's  Servant. 

Dame  Kitely,  Kitely's  Wife. 
Mistress  Bridget,  his  Sister. 
Tib,  Cob's  Wife. 


Servants,  ^-c. 


Scene — London. 


P  R  0  L  0  G  U  E.i 


Though  need  make  many  poets,  and  some  such 
As  art  and  nature  have  not  better'd  much ; 
Yet  ours  for  want  hath  not  so  loved  the  stage, 
As  he  dare  serve  the  ill  customs  of  the  age, 
Or  purchase  your  delight  at  such  a  rate, 
As,  for  it,  he  himself  must  justly  hate  : 
To  make  a  child  now  swaddled,  to  proceed 
Man,  and  then  shoot  up,  in  one  beard  and  weed. 
Past  threescore  years ;  or,  with  three  rusty  swords. 
And  help  of  some  few  foot  and  half-foot  words, 
Fight  over  York  and  Lancaster's  long  jars. 
And  in  the  tyring-house  bring  wounds  to  scars. 

>  This  prologue  makes  a  manly  appeal  to  the  good 
sense  of  the  people,  and  touches  with  spirit  as  well  as 
humour  on  the  defects  and  absurdities  of  the  old  stage. 
Lyly,  Kyd,  and  above  all,  the  ruder  dramatizers  of  our 
ancient  chronicles,  are  evidently  pointed  at.  'Squibs,' 
'battles,'  'flights  over  sea  and  land,  in  choruses,' 
'  drums,'  '  trumpets,'  '  creaking  thrones,'  and  all  the 
woful  machinery  of  a  poor  stage,  have  been  the  merry 
burden  of  many  a  prologue  and  epilogue,  from  the  first 
dawning  of  a  good  taste  under  Shakespeare. — Gifford. 


He  rather  prays  you  will  be  pleas'd  to  see 
One  such  to-day,  as  other  plays  should  be ; 
Where  neither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas, 
Nor  creaking  throne  comes  down  the   boys  to 

please : 
Nor  nimble  squib  is  seen  to  make  afeard 
The  gentlewomen ;  nor  roll'd  bullet  heard 
To  say,  it  thunders  ;  nor  tempestuous  drum 
Rumbles,  to  tell  you  when  the  storm  doth  come ; 
But  deeds,  and  language,  such  as  men  do  use. 
And  persons,  such  as  comedy  would  choose. 
When  she  would  show  an  image  of  the  times, 
And  sport  with  human  follies,  not  with  crimes. 
Except  we  make  them  such,  by  loving  still 
Our  popular  errors,  when  we  know  they're  ill. 
I  mean  such  errors  as  you'll  all  confess, 
By  laiighing  at  them,  they  deserve  no  less : 
Which  when  you  heartily  do,  there's  hope  left 

then. 
You,  that  have  so  grac'd  monsters,  may  like  men. 


2IO 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

A  Street. 

Enter  EInO'WELl,  at  the  door  of  his  house. 

Know.  A  goodly  day  toward,  and  a  fresh  moru- 
ing. — Brain  worm  ! 

Enter  Brainwoem. 

Call  up  your  young  master :  bid  him  rise,  sir. 
Tell  him  I  have  some  business  to  employ  him. 

Brai.  I  will,  sir,  presently. 

Know.  But  hear  you,  sirrah. 
If  he  be  at  his  book,  disturb  him  not. 

Brai.  Very  good,  sir.  [Exit. 

Know.  How  happy  yet  should  I  esteem  myself, 
Could  I,  by  any  practice,  wean  the  boy 
Prom  one  vain  course  of  study  he  affects. 
He  is  a  scholar,  if  a  man  may  trust 
The  liberal  voice  of  fame  in  her  report. 
Of  good  account  in  both  our  Universities, 
Either  of  which  hath  favoured  him  with  graces  : 
But  .their  indulgence  must  not  spring  in  me 
A  fond  opinion  that  he  cannot  err. 
Myself  was  once  a  student,  and  indeed, 
Fed  with  the  self-same  humour  he  is  now, 
Dreaming  on  nought  but  idle  poetry. 
That  fruitless  and  unprofitable  art. 
Good  unto  none,  but  least  to  the  i^rofessors  ; 
Which  then  I  thought  the  mistress  of  all  know- 


But  since,  time  and  the  truth  have  waked  my 

judgment. 
And  reason  taught  me  better  to  distinguish 
The  vain  from  the  useful  learnings. 

Enter  Master  Stephen. 

Cousin  Stephen, 
What  news  with  you,  that  you  are  here  so  early  ? 

Step.  Nothing,  but  e'en  come  to  see  how  you 
do,  uncle. 

Know.  That's  kindly  done ;  you  are  welcome, 
coz. 

Step.  Ay,  I  know  that,  sir ;  I  would  not  have 
come  else.    How  does  my  cousin  Edward,  uncle .' 

Know.  Oh,  well,  coz ;  go  in  and  see ;  I  doubt 
he  be  scarce  stirring  yet. 

Step.  Uncle,  afore  I  go  in,  can  you  tell  me,  an 
he  have  e'er  a  book  of  the  sciences  of  hawking 
and  hunting  ?  I  would  fain  borrow  it. 

Know.  Why,  I  hope  you  will  not  a-hawking 
now,  will  you  ? 

Step.  No,  wusse ;  but  I'll  practise  against  next 
year,  uncle.  I  have  bought  me  a  hawk,  and  a 
hood,  and  bells,  and  aU ;  I  lack  nothing  but  a 
book  to  keep  it  by. 

Know.  Oh,  most  ridiculous  ! 

Step.  Nay,  look  you  now,  you  are  angry,  uncle. 
Why,  you  know  an  a  man  have  not  skill  in  the 
hawking  and  hunting  languages  now-a-days,  I'll 
not  give  a  rush  for  him  :  they  are  more  studied 
than  the  Greek  or  the  Latin.  He  is  for  no  gal- 
lant's company  without  them ;  and  by  gadslid  I 
scorn  it,  I,  so  I  do,  to  be  a  consort  for  every  hum- 
drum :  hang  them,  scroyles ! '  there's  nothing  in 
them  i'  the  world.  What  do  you  talk  on  it  ?  Be- 
cause I  dwell  at  Hogsden,  I  shall  keep  company 
with  none  but  the  archers  of  Finsbury,-  or  the 
citizens  that  come  a-ducking  to  Islington  ponds ! 


^scroyles — scrofulous,  scatby fellows.— Giffokd.  Per- 
haps from  Fr.  escrouelles,  scrofula. 

2  archers  of  Finsbury. — In  1498,  all  the  gardens  about 
and  beyond  the  lordship  of  Finsbury  were  destroyed, 
and  of  them  were  made  a  plain  field  to  shoot  in.  People 
of  fashion  probably  mixed  but  little  in  these  parties. — 

GiFFOBD. 


A  fine  jest,  i' faith !  'Slid,  a  gentleman  mun  show 
himself  like  a  gentleman.     Uncle,  I  pray  you  be 
not  angry  ;  I  know  what  I  have  to  do,  I  trow,  I 
am  no  novice. 
Know.  You  are  a  prodigal,  absurd  coxcomb, 

go  to! 
Nay,  never  look  at  me,  'tis  I  that  speak ; 
Tako't  as  you  will,  sir,  I'll  not  flatter  you. 
Have  you  not  yet  found  means  enow  to  waste 
That  which  your  friends  have  left  you,  but  you 

must 
Go  cast  away  your  money  on  a  buzzard, 
And  know  not  how  to  keep  it,  when  you  have 

donef? 
Oh,  it  is  coinely !  this  will  make  you  a  gentleman ! 
Well,  cousin,  well,  I  see  you  are  e'en  past  hope 
Of  all  reclaim  :— ay,  so  ;  now  you  are  told  on't, 
You  look  another  way. 
Step.  What  would  you  ha'  me  do  ? 
Know.  AVhat  would  I  have  you  do  ?  I'll  tell 

you,  kinsman : 
Learn  to  be  wise,  and  practise  how  to  thrive  ; 
That  would  I  have  you  do :  and  not  to  spend 
Your  coin  on  every  bauble  that  you  fancy, 
Or  every  foolish  brain  that  humours  you. 
I  would  not  have  you  to  invade  each  place, 
Nor  thrust  yourself  on  all  societies. 
Till  men's  affections,  or  your  own  desert, 
Should  worthily  invite  you  to  your  rank. 
He  that  is  so  respectless  in  his  courses. 
Oft  sells  his  reputation  at  cheap  market. 
Nor  would  I,  you  should  melt  away  yourself 
In  flashing  bravery, i  lest,  while  you  affect 
To  make  a  blaze  of  gentry  to  the  world, 
A  little  puff  of  scorn  extinguish  it ; 
And  you  be  left  like  an  unsavouiy  snuff, 
Whose  property  is  only  to  offend. 
I'd  have  you  sober,  and  contain  yourself, 
Not  that  your  sail  be  bigger  than  your  boat; 
But  moderate  your  expenses  now,  at  first, 
As  you  may  keep  the  same  proportion  still : 
Nor  stand  so  much  on  your  gentility, 
Which  is  an  airy  and  mere  borrow'd  thing. 
From  dead  men's  dust  and  bones ;  and  none  of 

yours. 
Except  you  make,  or  hold  it. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Who  comes  here  ? 

Sei'v.  Save  you,  gentlemen ! 

Step.  Nay,  we  do  not  stand  much  on  our  gen- 
tility, friend;  yet  you  are  welcome:  and  I  assure 
you  mine  uncle  here  is  a  man  of  a  thousand  a 
year,  Middlesex  land.  He  has  but  one  son  in  all 
the  world ;  I  am  his  next  heir,  at  the  common 
law.  Master  Stephen,  as  simple  as  I  stadd  here, 
if  my  cousin  die,  as  there's  hope  he  wUl :  I  have 
a  pretty  living  o'  mine  own  too,  beside,  hard  by 
here. 

Serv.  In  good  time,  sir. 

Step.  In  good  time,  sir !  Why,  and  in  very  good 
time,  sir !    You  do  not  flout,  friend,  do  you  ? 

Serv.  Not  I,  sir. 

Step.  Not  you,  sir!  You  were  best  not,  sir  ;  an 
you  should,  here  be  them  can  perceive  it,  and  that 
quickly  too  ;  go  to  :  and  they  can  give  it  again 
soundly  too,  an  need  be. 

Serv.  Why,  sir,  let  this  satisfy  you ;  good  faith, 
I  had  no  such  intent. 

Step.  Sir,  an  I  thought  you  had,  I  would  talk 
with  you,  and  that  presently. 

Serv.  Good  Master  Stephen,  so  you  may,  sir,  at 
your  pleasure. 


1  flashing  bravery — extravagant  gaiety  of  apparel.— 

GlPFOKD. 


BEN  yONSON. 


211 


Step.  Aud  so  I  would,  sir,  good  my  saucy  com- 
panion !  an  you  were  out  o'  mine  uticle's  ground, 
I  can  tell  you ;  though  I  do  not  stand  upon  my 
gentility  neither,  in't. 

Know.  Cousin,  cousin,  will  this  ne'er  be  left  ? 

Step.  Whoreson,  base  fellow !  a  mechanical 
serving-man !  By  this  cudgel,  an  'twere  not  for 
shame,  I  would — 

Knoio.  What  would  you  do,  you  peremptory 
gull? 
If  you  cannot  be  quiet,  get  you  hence. 
You  see  the  honest  man  demeans  himself 
Modestly  tow'rds  you,  giving  no  reply 
To  your  unseason'd,  quarrelling,  rude  fashion ; 
And  still  you  huff  it,  with  a  kind  of  carriage 
As  void  of  wit,  as  of  humanity. 
Go,  get  you  in ;  'fore  heaven,  I  am  ashamed 
Thou  hast  a  kinsman's  interest  in  me. 

\Exit  Master  Stephen. 

Sere.  I  pray,  sir,  is  this  Master  Knowell's  house.^ 

Know.  Yes,  marry  is  it,  sir. 

Serv.  I  should  inquire  for  a  gentleman  here, 
one  Master  Edward  Knowell ;  do  you  know  any 
such,  sir,  I  pray  you  ? 

Know.  I  should  forget  myself  else,  sir. 

Sei-v.  Are  you  the  gentleman  ?  Cry  you  mercy, 
sir :  I  was  required  by  a  gentleman  in  the  city,  as 
I  rode  out  at  this  end  o'  the  town,  to  deliver  you 
this  letter,  sir. 

Know.  Tome,  sir!  What  do  you  mean  ?  Pray 
you  remember  your  court 'sy.  \JReads.'\  To  his 
most  selected  friend,  Master  Edward  Knowell. 
What  might  the  gentleman's  name  be,  sir,  that 
sent  it  ?     Nay,  pray  you  be  covered. 

Serv.  One  Master  Wellbred,  sir. 

Know.  Master  Wellbred !  a  young  gentleman, 
is  he  not  ? 

Serv.  The  same,  sir ;  Master  Kitely  married  his 
sister ;  the  rich  merchant  in  the  Old  Jewry. 

Know.  You  say  very  true. — Brainworm ! 

Enter  Bkactwokm. 
Brai.  Sir. 

Know.    Make  this  honest  friend  drink  here : 
pray  you,  go  in. 

[Exeunt  Brain woem  and  Servant. 
This  letter  is  directed  to  my  son ; 
Yet  I  am  Edward  Knowell  too,  and  may, 
With  the  safe  conscience  of  good  manners,  use 
The  fellow's  error  to  my  satisfaction. 
Well,  I  will  break  it  ope  (old  men  are  curious), 
Be  it  but  for  the  style's  saJce  and  the  phrase ; 
To  see  if  both  do  answer  my  son's  praises, 
Who  is  almost  grown  the  idolater 
Of  this  young  Wellbred.    What  have  we  here .' 
What's  this? 

[Reads."]  Why,  Ned,  I  Ijeseech  thee,  hast  thou  forsworn 
all  thy  friends  in  the  Old  Jewry?  or  dost  thou  think 
us  all  Jews  that  inhabit  there  ?  yet  if  thou  dost,  come 
oyer,  and  hut  see  om-  frippery ;  i  change  an  old  shirt  for 
a  whole  smock  with  us ;  do  not  conceive  tliat  antipathy 
between  us  and  Hogsden,  as  was  between  Jews  and 
hogs-flesh.  Leave  thy  vigUant  father  alone,  to  number 
over  his  green  apricots,  evening  and  morning,  on  the 
north-west  wall.  An  I  had  been  his  son,  I  had  saved  him 
the  labour  long  since,  if  taking  in  all  the  yoimg  wenches 
that  pass  by  at  the  back-door,  and  codling  every  kernel 
of  the  fruit  for  them,  would  have  served.  But,  pr'ythee, 
come  over  to  me  quickly,  this  morning;  I  have  such  a 
present  for  thee ! — our  Turkey  company  never  sent  the 
like  to  the  Grand  Signior.  One  is  a  rhymer,  sir,  of  your 
own  batch,  your  own  leaven ;  but  dotli  think  him  him- 
self poet-major  of  the  town,  wUling  to  be  shown,  and 
worthy  to  be  seen.  The  other — I  will  not  venture  his 
description  with  you,  tiU  you  come,  because  I  would 


I  frippery — a  place  where  old  clothes  are  exposed  for 
sale.  —  GiFfORD.  Fr.  friperie,  brocage,  old  clothes  ; 
j'ripier,  a  broker. 


have  you  make  hither  with  an  appetite.  If  the  worst  of 
'em  be  not  worth  your  journey,  draw  your  bill  of  charges, 
as  miconscionable  as  any  Guildhall  verdict  will  give  it 
you,  and  you  shall  be  allowed  your  viaticum. 

From  the  Windmill.'' 

From  the  Bordello  ^  it  might  come  as  well. 

The  Spittle,  or  Pict-hatch.     Is  this  the  man 

My  son  hath  sung  so  for  the  happiest  wit, 

The  choicest  brain,  the  times  have  sent  us  forth ! 

I  know  not  what  he  may  be  in  the  arts, 

Nor  what  in  schools ;  but,  surely,  for  his  manners, 

I  judge  him  a  profane  and  dissolute  wretch ; 

Worse  by  possession  of  such  great  good  gifts. 

Being  the  master  of  so  loose  a  spirit. 

Why,  what  unhallowed  ruffian  could  have  writ 

In  such  a  scui-rilous  manner  to  a  friend ! 

Why  should  he  thiuk  I  tell  my  apricots, 

Or  play  the  Hesperian  cU-agon  with  my  fruit. 

To  watch  it?     Well,  my  son,  I  had  thought  you 

Had  had  more  judgment  to  have  made  election 

Of  your  companions,  than  t'  have  ta'en  on  trust 

Such  petulant,  jeering  gamesters,  that  can  spare 

No  argument  or  subject  from  their  jest. 

But  I  perceive  affection  makes  a  fool 

Of  any  man  too  much  the  father. — Brainworm  ! 

Enter  Beainwoem. 

Erai.  Sir. 

Know.   Is  the  fellow  gone  that  brought  this 
letter? 

Brai.  Yes,  sir,  a  pretty  while  since. 

Know.  And  where  is  your  young  master  ? 

Brai.  In  his  chamber,  sir. 

Know.  He  spake  not  with  the  fellow,  did  he  ? 

Brai.  No,  sir,  he  saw  him  not. 

Know.  Take  you  this  letter,  and  deliver  it  my 
son ;  but  with  no  notice  that  I  have  opened  it,  on 
your  life. 

Brai.  0  Lord,  sir !  that  were  a  jest  indeed. 

[Exit. 

Know.  I  am  resolved  I  will  not  stop  his  journey, 
Nor  practise  any  violent  means  to  stay 
The  unbridled  course  of  youth  in  him ;  for  that 
Eestrain'd,  grows  more  impatient ;  and  in  kind 
Like  to  the  eager,  but  the  generous  greyhound, 
Who  ne'er  so  little  from  his  game  withheld. 
Turns  head,  and  leaps  up  at  his  holder's  throat. 
There  is  a  way  of  winning  more  by  love, 
And  urging  of  the  modesty  than  fear : 
Force  works  on  servile  natures,  not  the  free. 
He  that's  compelled  to  goodness,  may  be  good, 
But  'tis  but  for  that  fit ;  where  others,  drawn 
By  softness  and  example,  get  a  habit. 
Then,  if  they  stray,  but  warn  them,  and  the  same 
They  should  for  vii-tue  have  done,  they'll  do  for 
shame.  [Exit. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  IL 

A  Room  in  Knowell's  Bouse. 

Enter  E,  Knowell,  tcith  a  letter  in  Ms  hand, 
followed  hy  Beainwoeji. 

E.  Know.  Did  he  open  it,  say'st  thou  ? 
Brai.  Yes,  o'  my  word,  sir,  and  read  the  con- 
tents. 
E.   Know.    That  scarce   contents  me.     What 


'  Windmill. — This  house  then  stood  at  the  corner  of 
the  Old  Jewry,  toward  Lothbury,  and  was  remarkable 
for  the  various  changes  it  had  undergone.  In  Stow's 
time  it  was  a  tavern,  and  had  for  the  sign  a  windmill.— 
Whallet. 

-  Bordello — the  brothel  or  stews ;  fi'om  the  Fr.  Spittle 
— probably  the  Lock  Hospital.  Pict-hatch— see  p.  151, 
note  1,  col.  1. 


212 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


countenance,  prithee,  made  he  in  the  reading  of 
it  ?     "Was  he  angry,  or  pleased  ? 

Brai.  Nay,  sir,  I  saw  him  not  read  it,  nor  open 
it,  I  assure  your  worship. 

E.  Know.  No !  how  know'et  thou  then  that  he 
did  either  ? 

Brai.  Marry,  sir,  because  he  charged  me,  on 
my  life,  to  tell  nobody  that  he  open'd  it ;  which, 
unless  he  had  done,  he  would  never  fear  to  have 
it  revealed. 

E.  Know.  That's  ti-ue  :  well,  I  thank  thee, 
Brain  worm. 

Enter  Stephen, 

Step.  Oh,  Brainworm,  didst  thou  not  see  a  fellow 
here  in  what-sha-call-him  doublet  ?  He  brought 
mine  uncle  a  letter  e'en  now. 

Brai.  Yes,  Master  Stephen;  what  of  him? 

Step.  Oh,  I  have  such  a  mind  to  beat  him — 
where  is  he,  canst  thou  tell  ? 

Brai.  Faith,  he  is  not  of  that  mind :  he  is  gone, 
Master  Stephen. 

Step.  Gone !  which  way  ?  when  went  he  ?  how 
long  since .' 

Brai.  He  is  rid  hence;  he  took  horse  at  the 
street-door. 

Step.  And  I  stayed  in  the  fields!  Whoreson, 
scanderbag,  rogue !  Oh  that  I  had  but  a  horse 
to  fetch  him  back  again  ! 

Brai.  Why,  you  may  have  my  master's  gelding, 
to  save  your  longing,  sir. 

Step.  But  I  have  no  boots,  that's  the  spite  on't. 

Brai.  Why,  a  fine  wisp  of  hay,  roU'd  hard. 
Master  Stephen. 

Step.  No,  faith,  it's  no  boot  to  follow  him  now. 
Let  him  e'en  go  and  hang.  Prithee,  help  to  truss 
me  a  little.     He  does  so  vex  me — 

Brai.  You'll  be  worse  vexed  when  you  are 
trussed.  Master  Stephen.  Best  keep  unbraced, 
and  walk  yourself  till  you  be  cold ;  your  choler 
may  founder  you  else. 

Step.  By  my  faith,  and  so  I  will,  now  thou  tell'st 
me  on't.    How  dost  thou  like  my  leg,  Brainworm  ? 

Brai.  A  very  good  leg.  Master  Stephen;  but 
the  woollen  stocking  does  not  commend  it  so  well. 

Step,  Foh !  the  stockings  be  good  enough,  now 
summer  is  coming  on,  for  the  dust.  I'll  have  a  pair 
of  silk  against  winter,  that  I  go  to  dwell  in  the 
town.  I  think  my  leg  would  show  in  a  silk 
hose — 

Brai.  Believe  me.  Master  Stephen,  rarely  well. 

Step.  In  sadness,^  I  think  it  would.  I  have  a 
reasonable  good  leg. 

Brai.  You  have  an  excellent  good  leg.  Master 
Stephen ;  but  I  cannot  stay  to  praise  it  longer 
now,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  [Exit. 

Step.  Another  time  will  serye,  Brainworm. 
Gramercy  for  this. 

E.  Know.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Step.  'Slid,  I  hope  he  laughs  not  at  me ;  an  he 
do— 

E.  Know.  Here  was  a  letter  indeed,  to  be  inter- 
cepted by  a  man's  father,  and  do  him  good  with 
him !  He  cannot  but  think  most  virtuously,  both 
of  me  and  the  sender,  sure,  that  make  the  care- 
ful costermonger  of  him  in  our  familiar  epistles. 
Well,  if  he  read  this  with  patience,  I'll  bo  gelt, 
and  trolls  ballads  for  Master  John  Trundle  yon- 
der the  rest  of  my  mortality.     It  is  true,  and 


1  scanderlag  —  properly  Jslcander-heg,  'the  Prince 
Alexander,'  the  name  given  by  the  Turks  to  George 
Castiiota,  the  brave  patriot  chief  of  Albania  in  the  fif- 
teenth century. 

-  sadness — seriousness. 

3  troll  or  trowl — means  to  push  about  the  glass  or 
song  ;  here  it  probably  means  to  write  ballads,  as 
Trundle  was  a  printer. 


likely,  my  father  may  have  as  much  patience  as 
another  man,  for  he  takes  much  physic ;  and  oft 
taking  physic  makes  a  man  very  patient.  But 
would  your  packet.  Master  Wellbred,  had  arrived 
at  him  in  such  a  minute  of  his  patience !  then  wo 
had  known  the  end  of  it,  which  now  is  doubtful, 
and  threatens — [sees  Master  Stephen.] — What, 
my  wise  cousin !  nay,  then  I'll  furnish  our  feast 
with  one  gull  more  toward  the  mess.  He  writes 
to  me  of  a  brace,  and  here's  one — that's  three :  oh, 
for  a  fourth.  Fortune,  if  ever  thou'lt  use  thine 
eyes,  I  entreat  thee — 

Step.  Oh,  now  I  see  who  ho  laughed  at:  he 
laughed  at  somebody  in  that  letter.  By  this 
good  light,  an  he  had  laughed  at  me — 

E.  Know.  How  now,  Cousin  Stephen,  melan- 
choly ? 

Step.  Yes,  a  little.  I  thought  you  had  laughed 
at  me,  cousin. 

E.  Know.  Why,  what  an  I  had,  coz  ?  What 
would  you  have  done  ? 

Step.  By  this  light,  I  would  have  told  mine 
uncle. 

E.  Know.  Nay,  if  you  would  have  told  your 
uncle,  I  did  laugh  at  you,  coz. 

Step.  Did  you,  indeed? 

E.  Krioio.  Yes,  indeed. 

Step.  Why  then — 

E.Know.  AVhatthen? 

Step.  I  am  satisfied ;  it  is  suflBcient. 

E.  Know.  Why,  be  so,  gentle  coz ;  and,  I  pray 
you,  lot  me  entreat  a  courtesy  of  you.  I  am  sent 
for  this  morning  by  a  friend  in  the  Old  Jewrj%  to 
come  to  him ;  it  is  but  crossing  over  the  fields  to 
Moorgate.  AVill  you  bear  me  company?  I  pro- 
test it  is  not  to  draw  you  into  bond,  or  any  plot 
against  the  state,  coz. 

Step.  Sir,  that's  all  one  an  it  were ;  you  shall 
command  me  twice  so  far  as  Moorgate,  to  do  you 
good  in  such  a  matter.  Do  you  think  I  would 
leave  you  ?     I  protest — 

E.  Know.  No,  no,  you  shall  not  protest,  coz. 

Step.  By  my  fackings,  but  I  will,  by  your 
leave : — I'll  protest  more  to  my  friend,  than  I'll 
speak  of  at  this  time. 

E.  Know.  You  speak  very  well,  coz. 

Step.  Nay,  not  so,  neither,  you  shall  pardon 
me :  but  I  speak  to  serve  my  turn. 

E.  Know.  Your  turn,  coz !  do  you  know  what 
you  say  ?  A  gentleman  of  your  sort,  parts,  car- 
riage, and  estimation,  to  talk  of  your  turn  in  this 
company,  and  to  me  alone,  like  a  tankard-bearer  * 
at  a  conduit!  fie!  A  wight  that,  hitherto,  his 
every  step  hath  left  the  stamp  of  a  great  foot 
behind  him,  as  every  word  the  savour  of  a  strong 
spirit,  and  he !  this  man !  so  graced,  gilded,  or,  to 
use  a  more  fit  metaphor,  so  tin-foiled  by  nature  as 
not  ten  housewives'  pewter,  again  a  good  time, 2 
shows  more  bright  to  the  world  than  he !  And 
he !  (as  I  said  last,  so  I  say  again,  and  still  shall 
say  it)  this  man !  to  conceal  such  real  ornaments 
as  these,  and  shadow  their  glory,  as  a  milliner's 
wife  does  her  wrought  stomacher  with  a  smoky 
lawn,  or  a  black  cyprus !  ^  Oh,  coz !  it  cannot  be 
answered ;  go  not  about  it.  Drake's  old  ship 
at  Deptford  may  sooner  circle  the  world  again. 
Come,  wrong  not  the  quality  of  your  desert,  with 
looking  downward,  coz ;  but  hold  up  your  head, 


1  tankard-iearer. — Before  the  new  river  was  brought 
to  London,  the  city  was  supplied  with  water  from  con- 
duits, from  which  it  was  fetched  by  a  particular  class  of 
men,  called  tankard-bearers,  of  which  Ooh  was  one,  and 
sold  to  the  citizens  at  so  much  a  turn.— Giffoed. 

2  again  a  good  time — against  some  festival,  such  as 
Christmas. — AVhalley. 

3  Cyprus— &  kind  of  thin,  transparent  crape,  originally 
manufactured  at  Cyprus. — Whallet. 


BEN  JONSON. 


213 


bo:  and  let  the  idea  of  what  you  are  be  pour- 
trayed  in  your  face,  that  men  may  read  in  your 
physnomy,  Hei^e  within  this  jilace  is  to  be  seen  the 
true,  rare,  and  accomplished  monster,  or  miracle  of 
nature,  which  is  all  one.  AVhat  think  you  of  this, 
coz  ? 

Step.  Why,  I  do  think  of  it :  and  I  will  be 
more  proud,  and  melancholy,  and  gentlemanlike, 
than  I  have  been,  I'll  insure  you. 

E.  Know.  Why,  that's  resolute.  Master  Stephen ! 
— Now,  if  I  can  but  hold  him  up  to  his  height,  as 
it  is  happily  begun,  it  will  do  well  for  a  suburb 
humour : '  we  may  hap  have  a  match  with  the 
city,  and  play  him  for  forty  pound. — Come,  coz. 

Step.  I'll  follow  you. 

E.  Know.  Follow  mo !  you  must  go  before. 

Step.  Nay,,  an  I  must,  1  will.  Pray  you  show 
me,  good  cousin.  [Exettnt. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 

The  Lane  bejbre  Cob's  House. 

Enter  Master  Mathew. 

Mai.  I  think  this  be  the  house.     What,  ho ! 

Enter  Cob. 

Coh.  Who's  there  ?  Oh,  Master  Mathew  !  give 
your  worship  good  mon-ow. 

Mat.  What,  Cob !  How  dost  thou,  good  Cob .' 
Dost  thou  inhabit  here.  Cob  ? 

Cob.  Ay,  sir,  I  and  my  lineage  have  kept  a 
poor  house  here,  in  our  days. 

Mat.  Thy  lineage,  Monsieur  Cob !  What  line- 
age, what  lineage  ? 

Cob.  Why,  sir,  an  ancient  lineage,  and  a 
princely.  Mine  ance'try  came  from  a  king's 
belly,  no  worse  man ;  and  yet  no  man  neither', 
by  your  worship's  leave,  I  did  lie  in  that,  but 
herring,  the  king  of  fish  (from  his  belly  I  pro- 
ceed), one  of  the  monarchs  of  the  world,  I  assure 
you.  The  first  red  herring  that  was  broiled  in 
Adam  and  Eve's  kitchen,  do  I  fetch  my  pedigree 
from,  by  the  harrot's^  book.  His  cob^  was  my 
great,  great,  mighty  gi'eat  grandfather. 

Mat.  Why  mighty,  why  mighty,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Cob.  Oh,  it  was  a  mighty  while  ago,  sir,  and  a 
mighty  great  cob. 

Mat.  How  knowest  thou  that  ? 

Cob.  How  know  I !  Why,  I  smell  his  ghost 
ever  and  anon. 

Mat.  Smell  a  ghost!  Oh,  ixnsavoury  jest !  and 
the  ghost  of  a  herring  cob  7 

Cob.  Ay,  sir.  With  favour  of  your  worship's 
nose.  Master  Mathew,  why  not  the  ghost  of  a 
herring  cob,  as  well  as  the  ghost  of  Easher 
Bacon  ? 

Mat.  Eoger  Bacon,  thou  woiild'st  say. 

Cob.  I  say  Easher  Bacon.  They  were  both 
broiled  on  the  coals;  and  a  man  may  smell 
broiled  meat,  I  hope !  You  are  a  scholar,  upsolve 
me  that  now. 

Mat.  Oh  raw  ignorance  ! — Cob,  canst  thou 
show  me  of  a  gentleman,  one  Captain  Bobadill, 
where  his  lodging  is  ? 

Cob.  Oh,  my  guest,  six,  you  mean. 

Mat.  Thy  guest !  alas,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 


1  a  suburb  hum»w — a  low  humour,  not  tinctui'ed  with 
urbanity.— Whalley. 

2  harroVs — herald's. 

3  cob  (Belg.  kop)—a,  head;  our  old  writers  used  the 
word  as  a  distinctive  mark  of  bullc  Probably  connected 
with  Lat.  caput. 


Coh.  Whj'  do  you  laugh,  sir  ?  Do  you  not  mean 
Captain  Bobadill  ? 

Mat.  Cob,  pray  thee  advise  thyself  well :  do 
not  wrong  the  gentleman,  and  thyself  too.  I 
dare  be  sworn,  he  scorns  thy  house.  He !  he 
lodge  in  such  a  base  obscure  place  as  thy  house ! 
Tut,  I  know  his  disposition  so  well,  he  would 
not  lie  in  thy  bed  if  thou'dst  give  it  him. 

Coh.  I  will  not  give  it  him  though,  sir.  Mass, 
I  thought  somewhat  was  in  it,  we,  could  not  get 
him  to  bed  all  night.  Well,  sir ;  though  he  lie 
not  on  my  bed,  he  lies  on  mj'  bench :  an't  please 
you  to  go  up,  sir,  you  shall  find  him  with  two 
cushions  under  his  head,  and  his  cloak  wrapt 
about  him,  as  though  he  had  neither  won  nor 
lost,  and  yet,  I  warrant,  he  ne'er  cast '  better  in 
his  life,  than  he  has  done  to-night. 

Ifat.  Why,  was  he  drunk  ? 

Coh.  Drunk,  sir!  you  hear  not  me  say  so:  per- 
haps he  swallowed  a  tavern-token,^  or  some  such 
device,  sir,  I  have  nothing  to  do  withal.  I  deal 
with  water  and  not  with  wine. — Give  me  my 
tankard  there,  ho! — God  be  wi'  you,  sir.  It's 
six  o'clock  :  I  should  have  carried  two  turns  by 
this.     What  ho  !  my  stopple  ;  come. 

Enter  Tib  loith  a  water-tanlcard. 

Mat.  Lie  in  a  water-bearer's  house  !  a  gentle- 
man of  his  havings !  ^  Well,  I'll  tell  him  my 
mind. 

Cob.  What,  Tib!  show  this  gentleman  up  to 
the  captain.  \_Exit  Tib  with  Master  Mathew.] 
Oh,  an  my  house  were  the  Brazen-head  now! 
faith  it  would  e'en  speak  3Ioe  fools  yet.  You 
should  have  some  now  would  take  this  Master 
Mathew  to  be  a  gentleman,  at  the  least.  His 
father's  an  honest  man,  a  worshipful  fishmonger, 
and  so  forth  ;  and  now  does  he  creep  and  wriggle 
into  acquaintance  with  all  the  brave  gallants 
about  the  town,  such  as  my  guest  is  (oh,  my 
guest  is  a  fine  man !),  and  they  flout  him  in- 
vincibly. He  useth  every  day  to  a  merchant's 
house  where  I  serve  water,  one  Master  Kitely's  in 
the  Old  Jewry ;  and  here's  the  jest,  he  is  in  love 
with  my  master's  sister.  Mistress  Bridget,  and 
calls  her  mistress;  and  there  he  will  sit  you  a 
whole  afternoon  sometimes,  reading  of  these  same 
abominable,  vile  (a  pox  on  'em !  I  cannot  abide 
them)  rascally  verses,  poetry,  poetry,  and  speak- 
ing of  interludes :  'twill  make  a  man  burst  to 
hear  him.  And  the  wenches,  they  do  so  jeer, 
and  ti-he  at  him. — Well,  should  they  do  so  much 
to  me,  I'd  forswear  them  all,  by  the  foot  of 
Pharaoh  !  There's  an  oath.  How  many  water- 
bearers  shall  j'ou  hear  swear  such  au  oath  'i  Oh, 
I  have  a  guest — he  teaches  me — he  does  swear 
the  legiblest  of  any  man  christened.  By  St. 
George!  the  foot  of  Pharaoh!  the  body  of  me! 
as  I  am  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier!  such  dainty 
oaths !  and  withal  he  does  take  this  same  filthy 
roguish  tobacco,  the  finest  and  cleanliest!  It 
would  do  a  man  good  to  see  the  fume  come 
forth  at's  tonnels.  —  Well,  he  owes  me  forty 
shillings,  my  wife  lent  him  out  of  her  purse,  by 
sixpence  at  a  time,  besides  his  lodging  :  I  would 
I  had  it!  I  shall  have  it,  he  says,  the  next  action. 
Helter  skelter,  hang  sorrow,  care '11  kill  a  cat,  up- 
tails  all,  and  a  louse  for  the  hangman.      ■    \_Exit. 


1  east — a  quibble  between  casting  dice  and  vomiting. 

— GiFFORD. 

-  sicallowed  a  tavern-token — a  cant  term  for  getting 
drunk.  Tokens  were  promissory  pieces  of  brass  or 
copper  which  tradesmen  were  sometimes  permitted  to 
coin  for  themselves. 

3  havings — possessions. 


214 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  IV. 
A  room  in  Cob's  House. 
BoBADiLL  discovered  lying  on  a  bench. 
Bob.  HostesSjNhostess ! 

Enter  Tib. 

Tib.  Wliat  say  you,  sir .'' 

Bob.  A  cup  of  thy  small  beer,  sweet  hostess. 

Tib.  Sir,  there's  a  gentleman  below  would  sx^eak 
with  you. 

Bob.  A  gentleman  !  'odso,  I  am  not  within. 

Tib.  My  husband  told  him  you  were,  sir. 

Bob.  What  a  plague  !— what  meant  he  ? 

Mat.  (below.)  Captain  Bobadill ! 

Bob.  Who's  there  ? — Take  away  the  bason, 
good  hostess. — Come  up,  sii-. 

Tib.  He  would  desire  you  come  up,  sir.  You 
come  into  a  cleanly  Louse,  here ! 

Enter  Mathew. 

Mat.  Save  you,  sir ;  save  you,  captain ! 

Bob.  Gentle  Master  Mathew !  Is  it  you,  sir  ? 
Please  you  to  sit  down. 

Mat.  Thank  you,  good  captain ;  you  may  see 
I  am  somewhat  audacious. 

Bob.  Not  so,  sir.  I  was  requested  to  supper 
last  night  by  a  sort '  of  gallants,  where  you  were 
wished  for,  and  drunk  to,  I  assure  you. 

Mat.  Vouchsafe  me  by  whom,  good  captain  ? 

Bob.  Marry,  by  young  Wellbred,  and  others. — 
Why,  hostess,  a  stool  here  for  this  gentleman. 

Mat.  No  haste,  sir,  'tis  very  Avell. 

Bob.  Body  o'  me  !  it  was  so  late  ere  we  parted 
last  night,  I  can  scai-ce  open  my  eyes  yet ;  I  was 
but  new  risen,  as  you  came.  How  passes  the  day 
abroad,  sir  ?  you  can  tell. 

Mat.  Eaith,  some  half  hour  to  seven.  Now, 
trust  me,  you  have  an  exceeding  fine  lodging 
here,  very  neat  and  private: 

Bob.  Ay,  sir:  sit  down,  I  pray  you.  Master 
Mathew,  in  any  case  possess  -  no  gentleman  of 
our  acquaintance  with  notice  of  my  lodging. 

Mat.  Who  7  I,  sir .?  no. 

Bob.  Not  that  I  need  to  care  who  know  it,  for 
the  cabin  is  convenient ;  but  in  regard  I  would 
not  be  too  popular,  and  generally  visited,  as  some 
are. 

Mat.  True,  captain,  I  conceive  you. 

Bob.  For,  do  you  see,  sir,  by  the  heart  of  valour 
in  me,  except  it  be  to  some  peculiar  and  choice 
spirits,  to  whom  I  am  extraordinarily  engaged,  as 
yourself,  or  so,  I  could  not  extend  thus  far. 

Mat.  0  Lord,  sir !  I  resolve  ^  so. 

Bob.  I  confess  I  love  a  cleanly  and  quiet  pri- 
vacy, above  all  the  tumult  and  roar  of  fortune. 
What  new  book  have  you  there?  What!  Go  by, 
Hieronymo  ?  * 

Mat.  Ay ;  did  you  ever  see  it  acted  ?  Is't  not 
well  penned  ? 

Bob.  Well  penned!  I  would  fain  see  all  the 
poets  of  these  times  pen  such  another  play  as 
that  was.  They'll  prate  and  swagger,  and  keep  a 
stir  of  art  and  devices,  when,  as  I  am  a  gentle- 
man, read  'em,  they  are  the  most  shallow,  pitiful, 
barren  fellows  that  live  upon  the  face  of  the  earth 
again. 

\While  Master  Mathew  reads,  Bobadill 
makes  himself  ready. 

Mat.  Indeed,  here  are  a  number  of  fine  speeches 
in  this  book.    0  eyes,  no  eyes,  but  fountains  fraught 


^  sort — lot,  company.  ^possess — inform. 

3  resolve — understand,  believe. 

*  Tlie  reference  is  to  the  drama.  The  Spanish  Tragedy. 


with  tears!  there's  a,  conceitl—foimfains  fraught 
with  tears  !  0  life,  no  life,  but  lively  form  of 
death!  another.  0  world,  no  world,  but  7nass  of 
public  wrongs!  a  third.  Co7ifus'd  and  Jill' d  with 
murder  and  misdeeds  !  a  fourth.  Oh,  the  muses ! 
Is't  not  excellent  ?  Is't  not  simply  the  best  that 
ever  you  heard,  captain  ?  Ha!  how  do  you  like 
it.? 

Bob.  'Tis  good. 

Mat.  To  thee,  the  purest  object  to  my  sense, 
The  most  refined  essence  heaven  covers. 

Send  I  these  lines,  wherein  I  do  commence 
The  happy  state  of  turtle-billing  levers. 

If  they  prove  rough,  unpolisKd,  harsh,  and  rude, 

Haste  made  the  waste:  thus  mildly  I  conclude. 

Bob.  Nay,  proceed,  proceed.     Where's  this  ? 

Mat.  This,  sir !  a  toy  of  mine  own,  in  my 
nonage ;  the  infancy  of  my  muses.  But  when 
will  you  come  and  see  my  study  ?  Good  faith,  I 
can  show  you  some  very  good  things  I  have  done 
of  late. — That  boot  becomes  your  leg  passing  well, 
cap>tain,  methinks. 

Bob.  So,  so ;  it's  the  fashion  gentlemen  now 
use. 

Mat.  Troth,  captain,  and  now  you  speak  of 
the  fashion,  Master  Wellbred's  elder  brother  and 
I  are  fallen  out  exceedingly.  This  other  day, 
I  happened  to  enter  into  some  discourse  of  a 
hanger,!  which  I  assure  you,  both  for  fashion 
and  workmanship,  was  most  peremptory  beau- 
tiful and  gentlemanlike :  yet  he  condemned,  and 
cried  it  down  for  the  most  pied  and  ridiculous 
that  ever  he  saw. 

Bob.  Sqiiire  Downright,  the  half-brother,  was't 
not? 

Mat.  Ay,  .sir,  he. 

Bob.  Hang  him,  rook!  He!  why  he  has  no 
more  judgment  than  a  malt-horse.  By  St.  George, 
I  wonder  you'd  lose  a  thought  upon  such  an 
animal  ;  the  most  peremptory  absurd  clown  of 
Christendom,  this  day,  he  is  holden.  I  protest 
to  you,  as  I  am  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier,  I  ne'er 
changed  words  with  his  like.  By  his  discourse, 
he  should  eat  nothing  but  hay :  he  was  born  for 
the  manger,  pannier,  or  pack-saddle.  He  has 
not  so  much  as  a  good  phrase  in  his  belly,  but 
all  old  iron,  and  rusty  proverbs:  a  good  com- 
modity for  some  smith  to  make  hobnails  of. 

Mat.  Ay,  and  he  thinks  to  carry  it  away  with 
his  manhood  still,  where  he  comes.  He  brags  he 
will  give  me  the  bastinado,  as  I  hear. 

Bob.  How !  he  the  bastinado !  How  came  he  by 
that  word,  ti'ow  ? 

Mat.  Nay,  indeed,  he  said  cudgel  me ;  I  termed 
it  so,  for  my  more  grace. 

Bob.  That  may  be ;  for  I  was  sure  it  was  none 
of  his  word.     But  when,  when  said  he  so  ? 

3fat.  Faith,  yesterday,  they  say;  a  young 
gallant,  a  friend  of  mine,  told  me  so. 

Bob.  By  the  foot  of  Pharaoh,  an  'twere  my 
case  now,  I  should  send  him  a  chartel  ^  presently. 
The  bastinado !  a  most  proper  and  sufficient 
dei^endence,'  warranted  by  the  great  Caranza. 
Come  hither,  you  shall  chartel  him.  I'll  show 
you  a  trick  or  two  you  shall  kill  him  with  at 
pleasure ;  the  first  stoccata,  if  you  will,  by  this 
air. 

Mat.  Indeed,  you  have  absolute  knowledge  in 
the  mystery,  I  have  heard,  sir. 

Bob.  Of  whom,  of  whom,  have  you  heard  it,  I 
beseech  you  ? 

Mat.  Troth,  I  have  heard  it  spoken  of  divers. 


1  hanger — the  part  of  a  sword-belt  to  wliich  tlie  weapon 
was  suspended. 

2  chartel — a  paper  containing  a  challenge. 

*  dependence — the  ground  or  cause  of  quan-el. 


BEN  JONSON. 


215 


that  you  have  veiy  rare,  and  vm-iu-one-breath- 
iitterable  skill,  sir. 

Boh.  By  heaven,  no,  not  I;  no  skill  in  the 
earth;  some  small  rudiments  in  the  science,  as 
to  know  my  time,  distance,  or  so.  I  have  pro- 
fessed it  more  for  noblemen  and  gentlemen's  use, 
than  mine  own  practice,  I  assure  you. — Hostess, 
accommodate  us  with  another  bed-staff  here 
quickly.  Lend  us  another  bed-staff — the  woman 
does  not  understand  the  words  of  action. — Look 
you,  sir :  exalt  not  your  point  above  the  state, 
at  any  hand,  and  let  your  poniard  maintain  your 
defence,  thus: — give  it  the  gentleman,  and  leave 
Tis.  [Exit  Tib.]  So,  sir.  Come  on.  Oh,  twine 
your  Dody  more  about,  that  you  may  fall  to  a 
more  sweet,  comely,  gentleman-like  guard;  so! 
indifferent.  Hollow  your  body  more,  sir,  thus. 
Now,  stand  fast  o'  your  left  leg,  note  yoiu-  dis- 
tance, keep  your  due  proportion  of  time — oh,  j^ou 
disorder  your  point  most  irregularly  ! 

Mat.  How  is  the  bearing  of  it  now,  sir  ? 

Boh.  Oh,  out  of  measure  ill :  a  well- experienced 
hand  would  pass  upon  you  at  pleasure. 

Mat.  How  mean  you,  sir,  pass  upon  me  ? 

Boh.  Why,  thus,  sir, — make  a  thrust  at  me — 
[Master  Mathew  pushes  at  Bobadill]  come  in 
ixpon  the  answer,  control  your  point,  and  make  a 
full  career  at  the  body.  The  best-practised  gal- 
lants of  the  time  name  it  the  passado ;  a  most 
desperate  thrust,  believe  it. 

Afat.  Well,  come,  sir. 

Bob.  Why,  you  do  not  manage  your  weapon 
■with  any  facility  or  grace  to  invite  me.  I  have 
no  spirit  to  play  with  you;  your  dearth  of  judg- 
ment renders  you  tedious. 

Mat.  But  one  venue,  sir. 

Bob.  Venue !  fie ;  most  gross  denomination  as 
ever  I  heard.  Oh,  the  stoccata,  while  you  live,  sir; 
note  that. — Come,  put  on  your  cloak,  and  we'll  go 
to  some  private  place  where  you  are  acquainted — 
some  tavern,  or  so — and  have  a  bit.  I'll  send  for 
one  of  these  fencers,  and  he  shall  breathe  you,  by 
my  direction ;  and  then  I  will  teach  you  your 
trick :  you  shall  kill  him  with  it  at  the  first,  if 
you  please.  AVhy,  I  will  learn  you,  by  the  true 
judgment  of  the  eye,  hand,  and  foot,  to  control 
any  enemy's  point  in  the  world.  Should  your 
adversary  confront  you  with  a  pistol,  'twere 
nothing,  by  this  hand !  you  should,  by  the  same 
rule,  control  his  bullet,  in  a  line,  except  it  were 
bail-shot,  and  spread.  What  money  have  you 
about  you,  Master  Mathew  ? 

Mat.  Faith,  I  have  not  jjast  a  two  shilling  or 
so. 

Bob.  'Tis  somewhat  vsdth  the  least :  but  come ; 
■we  will  have  a  bunch  of  radish  and  salt  to  taste 
ovii'  wine,  and  a  pipe  of  tobacco  to  close  the  orifice 
of  the  stomach ;  and  then  we'll  call  upon  young 
Wellbred:  perhaps  we  shall  meet  the  Corj'don 
his  brother  there,  and  put  him  to  the  question. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

The  Old  Jewry.    A  Hall  in  Kitely's  House. 
Enter  Kitely,  Cash,  and  Downright. 

Kit.  Thomas,  come  hither. 
There  lies  a  note  within  upon  my  desk ; 
Here  take  my  key  ;  it  is  no  matter  neither.  — 
Where  is  the  boy  ? 

Cash.  Within,  sir,  in  the  warehouse. 

Kit.  Let  him  tell  over  straight  that  Spanish 
gold, 
And  weigh  it,  "with  the  pieces  of  eight.    Do  you 


See  the  delivery  of  those  silver  stuffs 
To  Master  Lucar.     Tell  him,  if  he  will, 
He  shall  have  the  grograns  at  the  rate  I  told  him, 
And  I  will  meet  him  on  the  Exchange  anon. 
Cash.  Good,  sir.  [Exit. 

Kit.  Do  you  see  that  fellow,  brother  Down- 
right .' 

Dow.  Ay,  what  of  him  ? 
Kit.  He  is  a  jewel,  brother. 
I  took  him  of  a  child  up  at  my  door, 
And  christen'd  him,  gave  him  mine  own  name, 

Thomas ; 
Since  bred  him  at  the  Hospital  ;*  where  pro-ving 
A  toward  imp,  I  call'd  him  home,  and  taught  him 
So  much,  as  I  have  made  him  my  cashier. 
And  giv'n  him,  who  had  none,  a  surname.  Cash ; 
And  find  him  in  his  place  so  full  of  faith, 
That  I  durst  trust  my  life  into  his  hands. 

Dow.  So  would  not  I  in  any  bastard's,  brother. 
As  it  is  like  he  is,  although  I  knew 
Myself  his  father.     But  you  said  you  had  some- 
what 
To  teU  me,  gentle  brother;  what  is't,  what  is't? 

Kit.  Faith,  I  am  vei-y  loath  to  utter  it. 
As  fearing  it  may  hurt  your  patience ; 
But  that  I  know  your  judgment  is  of  strength. 
Against  the  nearness  of  affection — 

Doto.  What  need  this  circumstance  ?  Pray  you, 
be  direct. 

Kit.  I  will  not  say  how  much  I  do  asci-ibe 
Unto  your  friendship,  nor  in  what  rcs;ard 
I  hold  your  love  ;  but  let  my  past  behaviour, 
And  usage  of  your  sister,  both  confirm 
How  well  I  have  been  affected  to  your — 

Dow.  You  are  too  tedious ;  come  to  the  matter, 
the  matter. 

Kit.  Then,  without  further  cremony,  thus. 
My  brother  Wellbred,  sir,  I  know  not  how. 
Of  late  is  much  declined  in  what  he  was, 
And  greatl}'  alter'd  in  his  disposition. 
When  he  came  first  to  lodge  here  in  my  house, 
Ne'er  trust  me  if  I  were  not  proud  of  him. 
Methought  he  bare  himself  in  such  a  fashion. 
So  full  of  man,  and  sweetness  in  his  carriage ; 
And  what  was  chief,  it  show'd  not  borrow'd  in 

him. 
But  all  he  did  became  him  as  his  own. 
And  seem'd  as  perfect,  proper,  and  possest, 
As  breath  with  life,  or  colour  with  the  blood. 
But  now  his  course  is  so  irregular, 
So  loose,  affected,  and  deprived  of  grace, 
And  he  himself  withal  so  far  fallen  off 
From  that  first  place,  as  scarce  no  note  remains. 
To  tell  men's  judgments  where  he  lately  stood. 
He's  grown  a  stranger  to  all  due  respect. 
Forgetful  of  his  friends  ;  and  not  content 
To  stale ^  himself  in  all  societies. 
He  makes  my  house  here  common  as  a  mart, 
A  theatre,  a  public  receptacle 
For  giddy  humour  and  diseased  riot ; 
And  here,  as  in  a  tavern  or  a  stews. 
He  and  his  wild  associates  spend  their  hours, 
In  repetition  of  lascivious  jests ; 
Swear,  leap,  drink,  dance,  and  revel  night  by 

night, 
Control  my  servants ;  and,  indeed,  what  not  ? 

Dow.  'Sdeins,  I  know  not  what  I  should  say 
to  him  in  the  whole  world  !  He  values  me  at  a 
crack'd  three-farthings,^  for  aught  I  see.  It  will 
never  out  of  the  flesh  that's  bred  in  the  bone.     I 


1  ike  Hospital— Christ's  Hospital. 

2  stale  himself— make  him3elf  cheap  and  common. — 

GiFFORD. 

^  three-farthings. — The  three-farthing  pieces  in  Eliza- 
beth's reign  were  made  of  silver,  and  consequently  very 
thin,  and  easily  craclieij 


2l6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


have  told  him  enough,  one  would  think,  if  that 
would  serve ;  but  counsel  to  him  is  as  good  as 
a  shoulder  of  mutton  to  a  sick  horse.  Well,  he 
knows  what  to  trust  to,  for  George :  let  him 
spend,  and  spend,  and  domineer  till  his  heart 
ache  !  An  he  think  to  be  relieved  by  me,  when  he 
is  got  into  one  o'  your  city  pounds,  the  counters, 
he  has  the  wrong  sow  by  the  ear,  i'  faith,  and 
claps  his  dish  at  the  wrong  man's  door.  I'll  lay 
my  hand  on  my  halfpenny,  ere  I  part  with  it  to 
fetch  him  out,  I'll  assure  you. 

Kit.  Nay,  good  brother,  let  it  not  trouble  you 
thus. 

Dow.  'Sdeath !  he  mads  me ;  I  could  eat  mj' 
very  spur-leathers  for  anger !  But  why  are  you 
so  tame  ?  why  do  not  you  speak  to  him,  and  tell 
him  how  he  disquiets  your  house  .'' 

Kit.  Oh,  there  are  divers  reasons  to  dissuade  me. 
But,  would  yourself  vouchsafe  to  travail  in  it 
(Though  but  with  plain  and  easy  circumstance), 
It  would  both  come  much  better  to  his  sense, 
And  savour  less  of  stomach  or  of  passion. 
You  are  his  elder  bi-other,  and  that  title 
Both  gives  and  warrants  your  authority. 
Which,  by  your  presence  seconded,  must  breed 
A  kind  of  duty  in  him  and  regard  : 
Whereas,  if  I  should  intimate  the  least, 
It  would  but  add  contempt  to  his  neglect, 
Heap  worse  on  ill,  make  up  a  pile  of  hatred, 
That  in  the  rearing  would  come  tottering  down. 
And  in  the  ruin  bury  all  our  love. 
Nay,  more  than  this,  brother ;  if  I  should  speak. 
He  would  be  ready,  from  his  heat  of  humour, 
And  overflowing  of  the  vapour  in  him. 
To  blow  the  ears  of  his  familiars, 
With  the  false  breath  of  telling  what  disgraces 
And  low  disparagements  I  had  put  upon  him  : 
Whilst  they,  sir,  to  relieve  him  in  the  fable. 
Make  their  loose  comments  upon  every  word, 
Gesture,  or  look  I  use  ;  mock  me  all  over, 
From  my  flat  cap  unto  my  shining  shoes  ; 
And,  out  of  their  impetuous  rioting  phant'sies. 
Beget  some  slander  that  shall  dwell  with  me. 
And  what  would  that  be,  think  you  ?  marry,  this : 
They  would  give  out,  because  my  wife  is  fail", 
Myself  but  lately  married,  and  my  sister 
Here  sojourning  a  virgin  in  my  house. 
That  I  were  jealous  ! — nay,  as  sure  as  death, 
That  they   would   say ;    and  how   that  I   had 

quarrell'd 
My  brother  purposely,  thereby  to  find 
An  apt  pretext  to  banish  them  my  house. 

Dow.  Mass,  perhaps  so ;  they're  like  enough 
to  do  it. 

Kit.  Brother,  they  would  believe  it ;  so  should  I, 
Like  one  of  these  penurious  quack-salvers, 
But  set  the  bills  up  to  mine  own  disgrace, 
And  try  experiments  upon  myself  ; 
Lend  scorn  and  envy  opportunity 
To  stab  my  reputation  and  good  name — 

Enter  Master  Matiiew  stvwjgVmg  with 

BOBADILL. 

Mat.  I  will  speak  to  him. 

Bob.  Speak  to  him!  away!  By  the  foot  of 
Pharaoh,  you  shall  not;  you  shall  not  do  him 
that  gi-ace. — The  time  of  day  to  you,  gentleman 
o'  the  house.     Is  Master  Wellbred  stirring  ? 

Doiu.  How  then  ?  what  should  he  do  ? 

Bob.  Gentleman  of  the  house,  it  is  to  you  :  is 
he  within,  sir? 

Kit.  He  came  not  to  his  lodging  to-night,  sir, 
I  assure  you. 

Dow.  Why,  do  you  hear  ?  you ! 

Bob.  The  gentleman  citizen  hath  satisfied  me  ; 
I'll  talk  to  no  scavenger.     \_Exewit  Bob  and  Mat. 

Dow.  How!  scavenger!    Stay,  sir,  stay ! 


Kit.  Nay,  brother  Downright. 

Dow.  'Heart !  stand  you  away,  an  you  love  me. 

Kit.  You  shall  not  follow  him  now,  I  pray 
you,  brother ;  good  faith,  you  shall  not ;  I  will 
overrule  you. 

Dow.  Ha  !  scavenger !  Well,  go  to,  I  say  little ; 
but,  by  this  good  day  (God  forgive  me  I  should 
swear),  if  I  put  it  up  so,  say  I  am  the  rankest 
cow  that  ever  pist.  'Sdeins,  an  I  swallow  this, 
I'll  ne'er  draw  my  sword  in  the  sight  of  Fleet- 
street  again  while  I  live  ;  I'll  sit  in  a  barn  with 
madge-howlet,  and  catch  mice  first.  Scavenger  ! 
heart ! — and  I'll  go  near  to  fill  that  huge  tum- 
brel-slop of  yours  with  somewhat,  an  I  have 
good  luck.  Your  Garagantua  breech  cannot  carry 
it  away  so. 

Kit.  Oh,  do  not  fret  yourself  thus  ;  never 
think  on't. 

Dow.  These  are  my  brother's  consorts,  these  ! 
these  are  his  camerades,  his  walking  mates  !  he's 
a  gallant,  a  cavaliero  too,  right  hangman  cut ! 
Let  me  not  live,  an'  I  could  not  find  in  my  heart 
to  swinge  the  whole  gang  of  'em,  one  after  an- 
other, and  begin  with  him  first.  I  am  grieved 
it  should  be  said  he  is  my  brother,  and  take  these 
coui'ses.  Well,  as  he  brews,  so  shall  he  drink, 
for  George,  again.  Yet  he  shall  hear  on't,  and 
that  tightly  too,  an  I  live,  i'  faith. 

Kit.  But,  brother,  let  your  reprehension,  then, 
Kun  in  an  easy  current,  not  o'er  high. 
Carried  with  rashness,  or  devouring  choler ; 
But  rather  iise  the  soft  persuading  way, 
Whose    powers    will   work    more    gently,   and 

comijose 
The  imperfect  thoughts  you  labour  to  reclaim ; 
More  winning,  than  enforcing  the  consent. 

Dow.  Ay,  ay,  let  me  alone  for  that,  I  warrant 
you. 

Kit.  How  now !  [Bell  rings.'\ — Oh,  the  bell  rings 
to  breakfast.  Brother,  I  pray  you  go  in,  and 
bear  my  wife  company  till  I  come  ;  I'll  but  give 
order  for  some  despatch  of  business  to  my  ser- 
vants. [Exit  Downright. 

Enter  Cob,  with  his  tanhard. 

Kit.  What,  Cob !  our  maids  will  have  you  by 
the  back,  i'  faith,  for  coming  so  late  this  morning. 

Cob.  Perhaps  so,  sir.  [Exit. 

Kit.  Well ;  yet  my  troubled  spirit's  somewhat 
eased. 
Though  not  reposed  in  that  security 
As  I  could  wish  ;  but  I  must  be  content, 
Howe'er  I  set  a  face  on't  to  the  world. 
Would  I  had  lost  this  finger  at  a  venture. 
So  Wellbred  had  ne'er  lodged  within  my  house. 
When  mutual  appetite  doth  meet  to  treat. 
And  spirits  of  one  kind  and  quality 
Come  once  to  parley  in  the  pride  of  blood, 
It  is  no  slow  conspiracy  that  follows. 
My  presence  shall  be  as  an  iron  bar, 
'Twixt  the  conspiring  motions  of  desire  ; 
Yea,  every  look  or  glance  mine  eye  ejects. 
Shall  check  occasion,  as  one  doth  his  slave, 
When  he  forgets  the  limits  of  prescription. 

Enter  Dame  Kitely  and  Bridget. 

Dame  K.  Sister  Bridget,  pray  you  fetch  down 

the  rose-water  above  in  the  closet. 

[Exit  Bridget. 

— Sweetheart,  will  you  come  in  to  breakfast  ? 
Kit.  An  she  have  overheard  me  now  ! — 
Dame  K.  I  pray  thee,  good  muss,'  we  stay  for 

you. 


1  muss — mouse,  at  this  time  a  familiar  term  of  en- 
dearment between  married  people.— Whalley. 


BEN  JONSON. 


217 


Kit.  By  heaven,  I  would  not  for  a  thousand 
angels. 

Dame  K.  What  ail  you,  sweetheart  ?  are  you 
not  well  ?     Speak,  good  muss. 

Kit.  Troth,  my  head  aches  extremely  on  a 
sudden. 

Dame  K.  [putting  her  hand  to  his  Jorehead.] 
Oh,  the  Lord ! 

Kit.  How  now  !  what  ? 

Dame  K.  Alas,  how  it  burns  !  Muss,  keep  you 
warm  ;  good  truth  it  is  this  new  disease,  there's 
a  number  are  troubled  withal.  For  love's  sake, 
sweetheart,  come  in  out  of  the  air. 

Kit.   How  simple  and    how  subtle    are    her 
answers ! 
A  new  disease,  and  many  troubled  with  it  ? 
Why,  true  ;  she  heard  me,  all  the  world  to  no- 
thing. 

Dame  K.  I  pray  thee,  good  sweetheart,  come 
in ;  the  air  will  do  you  harm,  in  troth. 

Kit.  The  air!  She  has  me  in  the  wind. — Sweet- 
heart, I'll  come  to  you  presently ;  'twill  away,  I 
hope. 

Dame  K.  Pray  heaven  it  do.  [^Exit. 

Kit.  A  new  disease  !     I  know  not,  new  or  old, 
But  it  may  well  be  call'd  poor  mortal's  plague  ; 
For,  like  a  pestilence,  it  doth  infect 
The  houses  of  the  brain.    First  it  begins 
Solely  to  work  upon  the  phantasy, 
Filling  her  seat  with  such  pestiferous  air. 
As  soon  corrupts  the  judgment ;  and  from  thence 
Sends  like  contagion  to  the  memory  : 
Still  each  to  other  giving  the  infection, 
Which  as  a  subtle  vapour  spreads  itself 
Confusedly  through  every  sensive  part. 
Till  not  a  thought  or  motion  in  the  mind 
Be  free  from  the  black  poison  of  stispect. 
Ah !  but  what  misery  is  it  to  know  this  ? 
Or,  knowing  it,  to  want  the  mind's  erection 
In  such  extremes  ?    Well,  I  will  once  more  strive, 
In  spite  of  this  black  cloud,  myself  to  be. 
And  shake  the  fever  off  that  thus  shakes  me. 

[Exit. 

ACT  II.- SCENE  II. 

MOORFIELDS. 

Enter  Brainwoem,  disguised  like  a  maimed 
Soldier. 

Brain.  'Slid,  I  cannot  choose  but  laugh  to  see 
myself  translated  thus,  from  a  poor  creature  to  a 
creator  ;  for  now  must  I  create  an  intolerable  sort 
of  lies,  or  my  present  profession  loses  the  grace  : 
and  yet  the  lie,  to  a  man  of  my  coat,  is  as  ominous 
a  fruit  as  the  fico.^  Oh  sir,  it  holds  for  good 
polity  ever,  to  have  that  outwardly  in  vilest  esti- 
mation, that  inwardly  is  most  dear  to  us :  so  much 
for  my  borrowed  shape.  Well,  the  troth  is,  my 
old  master  intends  to  follow  my  young  master, 
dry-foot,2  over  Moorfields  to  London,  this  morn- 
ing; now,  I  knowing  of  this  hunting-match,  or 
rather  conspiracy,  and  to  insinuate  with  my  young 
master  (for  so  must  we  that  are  blue  waiters,3  and 
men  of  hope  and  service  do,  or  perhaps  we  may 
wear  motley  at  the  year's  end,  and  who  wears 
motley,  you  know),  have  got  me  afore  in  this 
disguise,  determining  here  to  lie  in  ambuscade, 
and  intercept  him  in  the  midway.     If  I  can  but 


1  ^co— the  poisoned  fig  of  Spain  and  Italy,  which  was 
ominous,  or  deadly. 

2  dry-foot — a  term  of  the  chase,  meaning,  by  the  scent 
of  the  foot. 

3  blue  waiters.     Servants  were   so   called,  because 
usually  dressed  in  blu& 


get  his  cloak,  his  purse,  his  hat,  nay,  anything  to 
cut  him  off,  that  is,  to  stay  his  journey,  Veni,  vidi, 
vici,  I  may  say  with  Captain  Csesar,  I  am  made 
for  ever,  i'  faith.  Well,  now  must  I  practise  to 
get  the  true  garb  of  one  of  these  lance-knights,* 
my  arm  here,  and  my —  Odso!  my  young  master, 
and  his  cousin.  Master  Stephen,  as  I  am  true 
counterfeit  man  of  war,  and  no  soldier ! 

Enter  E.  Knowell  and  Stephen. 

E.  Know.  So,  sir !  and  how  then,  coz  ? 

Step.  'Sfoot!  I  have  lost  my  purse,  I  think. 

E.  Know.  How  !  lost  your  purse  ?  Where  ? 
When  had  you  it  ? 

Step.  I  cannot  tell ;  stay. 

Brai.  'Slid,  I  am  afeai'd  they  will  know  me: 
would  I  could  get  by  them! 

E.  Know.  What,  have  you  it  ? 

Step,  No;  I  think  I  was  bewitched,  I — 

[  Cries. 

E.  Know.  Nay,  do  not  weep  the  loss ;  hang  it, 
let  it  go. 

Step.  Oh,  it's  here.  No,  an  it  had  been  lost,  I 
had  not  cared,  but  for  a  jet  ring  Mistress  Mary 
sent  me. 

E.  Know.  A  jet  ring  !  Oh,  the  poesie,  the 
poesie  ? 

Step.  Fine,  'i  faith. — 

Though  Fancy  sleep, 
My  love  is  deep. 

Meaning,  that  though  I  did  not  fancy  her,  yet 
she  loved  me  dearly. 

E.  Knoio.  Most  excellent ! 

Step.  And  then  I  sent  her  another,  and  my 
poesie  was — 

The  deeper  the  sweeter, 
I'll  be  judg'd  by  St.  Peter. 

E.  Know.  How,  by  St.  Peter  ?  I  do  not  con- 
ceive that. 

Step.  Marry.  St.  Peter  to  make  up  the  metre. 

E.  Know.  Well,  there  the  saint  was  your  good 
patron,  he  help'd  you  at  your  need  ;  thank  him, 
thank  him. 

Brai.  I  cannot  take  leave  on  'em  so ;  I  will 
venture,  come  what  will.  [Comes  foncard.'] — 
Gentlemen,  please  you  change  a  few  crowns  for 
a  very  excellent  good  blade  here  ?  I  am  a  pour 
gentleman,  a  soldier  ;  one  that,  in  the  better  state 
of  my  fortunes,  scorned  so  mean  a  refuge ;  but 
now  it  is  the  humour  of  necessity  to  have  it  so. 
You  seem  to  be  gentlemen  well  affected  to  martial 
men,  else  I  should  rather  die  with  silence,  than 
live  with  shame.  However,  vouchsafe  to  remem- 
ber it  is  my  want  speaks,  not  myself ;  this  con- 
dition agrees  not  with  my  spirit — 

E.  Knoiv.  Where  hast  thou  served  ? 

Brai.  May  it  please  you,  sir,  in  all  the  late  wars 
of  Bohemia,  Hungary,  Dalmatia,  Poland,  where 
not,  sir  ?  I  have  been  a  poor  servitor  by  sea  and 
land  any  time  this  fourteen  years,  and  followed 
the  fortunes  of  the  best  commanders  in  Christen- 
dom. I  was  twice  shot  at  the  taking  of  Aleppo, 
once  at  the  relief  of  Vienna  ;  I  have  been  at 
Marseilles,  Naples,  and  the  Adriatic  gulf,  a  gentle- 
man-slave in  the  galleys  thrice,  where  I  was 
most  dangerously  shot  in  the  head,  through  both 
the  thighs;  and  yet,  beiug  thus  maimed,  I  am 
void  of  maintenance,  nothing  left  me  but  my 
scars,  the  noted  marks  of  my  resolution. 

Step.  How  will  you  sell  this  rapier,  friend  ? 

Brai.    Generous  sir,   I  refer  it  to  yoiu-  own 


1  tance-lcni(jhts—Q.oramovi  soldiers;  a  Flemish  term. — 

GiFFORD. 


2l8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


judgment;  you  are  a  gentleman,  give  me  what 
you  please. 

Step.  True,  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  know  that, 
friend ;  but  what  though !  I  pray  you  say,  what 
would  you  ask  ? 

Brai.  I  assure  you,  the  blade  may  become  the 
side  or  thigh  of  the  best  prince  in  Em-ope. 

E.  Know.  Ay,  with  a  velvet  scabbard,  I  think. 

Step.  Nay,  an't  be  mine,  it  shall  have  a  velvet 
scabbard,  coz,  that's  flat ;  I'd  not  wear  it  as  it  is, 
an  you  would  give  me  an  angel. 

Brai.  At  your  worship's  pleasure,  sir :  nay,  'tis 
a  most  pure  Toledo. 

StejJ.  I  had  rather  it  were  a  Spaniard.  But  tell 
me,  what  shall  I  give  you  for  it  ?  An  it  had  a 
silver  hilt — 

E.  Know.  Come,  come,  you  shall  not  buy  it. 
Hold,  there's  a  shilling,  fellow;  take  thy  rapier. 

Step.  Why,  but  I  will  buy  it  now,  because  you 
say  so ;  and  there's  another  shilling,  fellow  ;  I 
scorn  to  be  outbidden.  What,  shall  I  walk  with 
a  cudgel,  like  Higginbottom,  and  may  have  a 
rapier  for  money ! 

E.  Know.  You  may  buy  one  in  the  city. 

Step).  Tut !  I'll  buy  this  i'  the  field,  so  I  will. 
I  have  a  mind  to't,  because  'tis  a  field  rapier. 
Tell  me  your  lowest  price. 

E.  Know.  You  shall  not  buy  it,  I  say. 

Step.  By  this  money,  but  I  will,  though  I  give 
more  than  'tis  worth. 

E.  Knoiu.  Come  away,  you  are  a  fool. 

Step.  Friend,  I  am  a  fool,  that's  granted ;  but 
I'll  have  it,  for  that  word's  sake,  rollow  me  for 
your  money. 

Brai.  At  your  service,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III. 

Another  part  o/'Mooefields. 

Enter  Knowelu 

KnoK.  I  cannot  lose  the  thought  yet  of  this 
letter 
Sent  to  my  son ;  nor  leave  t'  admire  the  change 
Of  manners,  and  the  breeding  of  our  youth 
Within  the  kingdom,  since  myself  was  one. — 
When  I  was  young,  he  lived  not  in  the  stews 
Durst  have  conceived  a  scorn,  and  utter'd  it 
On  a  grey  head ;  age  was  authority 
Against  a  buffoon,  and  a  man  had  then 
A  certain  reverence  paid  unto  his  years, 
That  had  none  due  unto  his  life  :  so  much 
The  sanctity  of  some  prevail'd  for  others. 
But  now  we  all  are  fallen ;  youth,  from  their  fear, 
And  age,  fi'om  that  which  bred  it,  good  example. 
Nay,   would  oui'selves  were  not  the  first,  even 

parents. 
That  did  destroy  the  hopes  in  our  own  children ; 
Or  they  not  learn'd  our  vices  in  their  cradles, 
And  suck'd  in  our  ill  customs  with  their  milk ; 
Ere  all  their  teeth  be  born,  or  they  can  speak, 
We  make  their  palates  cunning ;  the  first  words 
We  form  their  tongues  with  are  licentious  jests. 
But  this  is  in  the  infancy,  the  days 
Of  the  long  coat ;  when  it  puts  on  the  breeches. 
It  will  put  off  all  this.     Ay,  it  is  like, 
When  it  is  gone  into  the  bone  already ! 
No,  no ;  this  dye  goes  deeper  than  the  coat, 
Or  shirt,  or  skin  ;  it  stains  into  the  liver 
And  heart  in  some. 

This  is  one  path  :  but  there  are  millions  more, 
In  which  we  spoil  our  own,  with  leading  them. 
Well,  I  thank  heaven  I  never  yet  was  he 
That  travell'd  with  my  sou  before  sixteen. 
To  show  him  the  Venetian  courtezans, 
Nor  read  the  gi-ammar  of  cheating  I  had  made, 


To  my  sharp  boy  at  twelve;  repeating  still 
The  rule,  Get  money ;  still,  get  money,  hoy; 
No  matter  by  ichat  means ;  money  loill  do 
More,  hoy,  than  my  lord's  letter.     Neither  have  I 
Drest  snails  or  mushrooms  curiously  before  him, 
Perfumed  my  sauces,  and  taught  him  to  make 

them; 
Preceding  still,  with  my  grey  gluttony. 
At  all  the  ord'naries,  aud  only  fear'd 
His  palate  should  degenerate,  not  his  manners. 
These  are  the  trade  of  fathers  now;  however. 
My  son,  I  hope,  hath  met  within  my  threshold 
None  of  these  household  precedents,  which  are 

strong. 
And  swift  to  rape  youth  to  their  precipice. 
But  let  the  house  at  home  be  ne'er  so  clean ' 
Swept,  or  kept  sweet  from  filth,  nay  dust  and 

cobwebs. 
If  he  will  live  abroad  with  his  companions. 
In  dung  and  laystalls,'  it  is  worth  a  fear ; 
Nor  is  the  danger  of  conversing  less 
Than  all  that  I  have  mention'd  of  example. 

Enter  Brainworm,  disguised  as  bejpre. 

Brai.  My  master !  nay,  faith,  have  at.  you  ;  I 
am  flesh'd  now,  I  have  sped  so  well,  [aside.'] 
Worshipful  sir,  I  beseech  you,  respect  the  estate 
of  a  poor  soldier ;  I  am  ashamed  of  this  base 
course  of  life — God's  my  comfort — but  extremity 
provokes  me  to't :  what  remedy  ? 

Know.  I  have  not  for  you,  now. 

Brai.  By  the  faith  I  bear  unto  truth,  gentle- 
man, it  is  no  ordinary  custom  in  me,  but  only  to 
preserve  manhood.  I  protest  to  you,  a  man  I 
have  been  :  a  man  I  may  be,  by  your  sweet 
bounty. 

Knoio.  Pray  thee,  good  friend,  be  satisfied. 

Brai.  Good  sir,  by  that  hand,  you  may  do  the 
part  of  a  kind  gentleman,  in  lending  a  poor 
soldier  the  price  of  two  cans  of  beer,  a  matter  of 
small  value  ;  the  King  of  heaven  shall  pay  you, 
and  I  shall  rest  thankful.     Sweet  worship — 

Know.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  importunate — 

Brai.  Oh,  tender  sir !  need  will  have  its  course : 
I  was  not  made  to  this  vile  use.  Well,  the  edge 
of  the  enemy  could  not  have  abated  me  so  much : 
it's  hard  when  a  man  hath  served  in  his  prince's 
cause,  and  be  thi;s  [weeps].  Honourable  worship, 
let  me  derive  a  small  piece  of  silver  from  you,  it 
shall  not  be  given  in  the  course  of  time."  By  this 
good  ground,  I  was  fain  to  pawn  my  rapier  last 
night  for  a  poor  supper ;  I  had  suck'd  the  hilts 
long  before,  I  am  a  pagan  else.     Sweet  honour — 

Know.   Believe  me,   I  am  taken  with  some 
wonder, 
To  think  a  fellow  of  thy  outward  presence 
Should  in  the  frame  and  fashion  of  his  mind 
Be  so  degenerate,  and  sordid-base. 
Art  thou  a  man  ?  and  sham'st  thou  not  to  beg, 
To  practise  such  a  servile  kind  of  life .' 
Why,  were  thy  education  ne'er  so  mean, 
Having  thy  limbs,  a  thousand  fairer  courses 
Offer  themselves  to  thy  election. 
Either  the  wars  might  still  supply  thy  wants. 
Or  service  of  some  virtuous  gentleman, 
Or  honest  labour ;  nay,  what  can  I  name. 
But  would  become  thee  better  than  to  beg  ? 
But  men  of  thy  condition  feed  on  sloth. 
As  doth  the  beetle  on  the  dung  she  bi-eeds  in ; 
Not  caring  how  the  metal  of  your  minds 
Is  eaten  with  the  rust  of  idleness. 


•  laystalh — dunghills,  or  receptacles  for  filth. 

2  it  shall  not  he  given,  &c.  The  meaning  is,  that  in  the 
course  of  time  he  should  receive  some  recompense  or 
other  for  his  gift.— WHALLEr. 


BEN  yONSON. 


219 


Now,  afore  me,  whate'er  be  be,  that  should 
Eelieve  a  person  of  thy  quality, 
While  thou  insist'st  in  this  loose  desperate  course, 
I  would  esteem  the  sin  not  thine,  but  his. 

Brat.  Faith,  su-,  I  would  gladly  find  some  other 
coiirse,  if  so — 

Know.  Ay, 
You'd  gladly  find  it,  but  you  will  not  seek  it. 

Brai.  Alas,  sir,  where  should  a  man  seek  .'  In 
the  wars,  there's  no  ascent  by  desert  in  these 

days ;  but and  for  service,  would  it  were  as 

soon  purchased  as  wished  for !     The  air's  my 
comfort. — [^Slghs.'] — I  know  what  I  would  say. 

Know.  What's  thy  name  ? 

Brai.  Please  you,  Fitz-Sword,  sir. 

Know.  Fitz-Sword ! 
Say  that  a  man  should  entertain  thee  now, 
Wouldst  thou  bo  honest,  humble,  just,  and  tme  ? 

Brai.  Sii',  by  the  place  and  honour  of  a  sol- 
dier— 

Know.  Nay,  nay,  I  like  not  these  affected  oaths ; 
Speak  plainly,  man,  what  think'st  thou  of  my 
words  ? 

Brai.  Nothing',  sir,  but  wish  my  fortunes  were 
as  happy  as  my  service  should  be  honest. 

Know.  Well,  follow  me  ;  I'll  prove  thee,  if  thy 
deeds 
Will  carry  a  proportion  to  thy  words.  [Exit. 

Brai.  Yes,  sir,  straight ;  I'll  but  garter  my  hose. 
Oh  that  my  belly  were  hoop'd  now,  for  I  am  ready 
to  bui'st  with  laughing  !  never  was  bottle  or  bag- 
pipe fuller'.  'Slid,  was  there  ever  seen  a  fox  in 
years  to  betray  himself  thus !  Now  shall  I  be 
possessed  of  all  his  counsels ;  and,  by  that  conduit, 
my  young  master.  Well,  he  is  resolved  to  prove 
my  honesty  ;  faith,  and  I'm  resolved  to  prove  his 
patience.  Oh,  I  shall  abuse  him  intolerably ! 
This  small  piece  of  service  will  bring  him  clean 
out  of  love  with  the  soldier  for  ever.  He  will 
never  come  within  the  sign  of  it,  the  sight  of  a 
cassock  or  a  musket-rest '  again.  He  will  bate 
the  musters  at  Mile-end  for  it  to  his  dying  day. 
It's  no  matter ;  let  the  world  think  me  a  bad 
counterfeit,  2  if  I  cannot  give  him  the  slip  at  an 
instant.  Why,  this  is  better  than  to  have  stayed 
his  journey.  Well,  I'll  follow  him.  Oh,  how  I 
long  to  be  employed !  [_Exit. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

The  Old  Jewry.    A  Room  in  the  Windmill 
Tavern. 

Enter  Master  Mathew,  Wellbred,  and 

BOBADILL. 

Mat.  Yes,  faith,  sir,  we  were  at  your  lodging 
to  seek  you  too. 

Wei.  Oh,  I  came  not  there  to-night. 

Bob.  Your  brother  delivered  us  as  much. 

Wei.  Who,  my  brother  Downright  ? 

Boh.  He.  Mr.  Wellbred,  I  know  not  in  what 
kind  you  hold  me ;  but  let  me  say  to  you  this  : 
as  sure  as  honour,  I  esteem  it  so  much  out  of  the 
sunshine  of  reputation  to  throw  the  least  beam 
of  regard  upon  such  a — 

Wei.  Sir,  I  must  hear  no  ill  words  of  my 
brother. 

Bob.  I  protest  to  you,  as  I  have  a  thing  to  be 


1  a  cassocli  or  musket-rest.  A  cassock  is  a  soldier's 
loose  outward  coat.  A  rest  was  an  article  of  ash  or 
other  tough  wood,  made  to  fijein  the  ground,  and  used 
to  rest  the  heavy  musket  of  those  days  on. 

'^  counterfeit  and  slip  were  synonymous,  and  hoth  used 
indifferently  for  a  piece  of  false  money.— Giffokd. 


saved  about  me,  I  never  saw  any  gentleman-like 
part — 

Wei.  Good  captain,  faces  about  1  to  some  other 
discourse. 

Bob.  With  your  leave,  sir,  an  there  were  no 
more  men  living  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  I 
should  not  fancy  him,  by  St.  Geoi-ge  ! 

3Iat.  Troth,  nor  I ;  he  is  of  a  rustical  cut,  I 
know  not  how :  he  doth  not  carry  himself  like 
a  gentleman  of  fashion. 

Wei.  Oh,  Master  Mathew,  that's  a  grace  pecu- 
liar but  to  a  few,  quos  xquus  amavit  Jujiiier.'^ 

Mat.  I  understand  you,  sir. 

Wei.  No  question  you  do, — or  you  do  not,  sir. 

Enter  E.  Knowell  and  Master  Stephen. 

Ned  Knowell !  by  my  soul,  welcome  !  How  dost 
thou,  sweet  spirit,  my  genius  ?  'Slid,  I  shall  love 
Apollo  and  the  mad  Thespian  girls  the  better, 
while  I  live,  for  this,  my  dear  Fury ;  now  I  see 
there's  some  love  in  thee.  Sirrah,  these  be  the 
two  I  writ  to  thee  of:  nay,  what  a  drowsy 
humour  is  this  now  !  why  dost  thou  not  speak  ? 

E.  Know.  Oh,  you  are  a  fine  gallant ;  you  sent 
me  a  rare  letter. 

Wei.  Why,  was't  not  rare  ? 

E.  Know.  Yes,  I'll  be  sworn,  I  was  ne'er  guilty 
of  reading  the  like ;  match  it  in  all  Pliny,  or 
Symmachus's  epistles,  and  I'll  have  my  judgment 
burn'd  in  the  ear  for  a  rogue  :  make  much  of  thy 
vein,  for  it  is  inimitable.  But  I  marie'  what 
camel  it  was  that  had  the  carriage  of  it ;  for, 
doubtless,  he  was  no  ordinary  beast  that  brought 
it. 

Wei.  Why? 

E.  Know.  Why,  say'st  thou  !  Why,  dost  thou 
think  that  any  reasonable  creature,  especially  in 
the  morning,  the  sober  time  of  the  day  too,  could 
have  mistaken  my  father  for  me  ? 

Wei.  'Slid,  you  jest,  I  hope. 

E.  Know.  Indeed,  the  best  use  we  can  turn  it 
to  is  to  make  a  jest  on't  now ;  but  I'll  assure  you 
my  father  had  the  fuU  view  of  yoiu-  flourishing 
stj'le  some  hour  before  I  saw  it. 

Wei.  What  a  dull  slave  was  this !  But,  sirrah, 
what  said  he  to  it,  i'  faith  ? 

E.  Know.  Nay,  I  Imow  not  what  he  said ;  but 
I  have  a  shrewd  guess  what  he  thought. 

Wei.  What,  what  ? 

E.  Know.  Marry,  that  thou  art  some  strange, 
dissolute  young  fellow,  and  I — a  grain  or  two 
better,  for  keeping  thee  company. 

Wei.  Tut !  that  thought  is  like  the  moon  in 
her  last  quarter;  'twill  change  shortly.  But, 
sirrah,  I  pray  thee  be  acquainted  with  my  two 
hang-by's  here ;  thou  wilt  take  exceeding  plea- 
sure in  them  if  thou  hear'st  'em  once  go;  my 
wind-instruments ;  I'll  wind  them  up —  But 
what  strange  piece  of  silence  is  this,  the  sign 
of  the  Dumb  Man  ? 

E.  Know.  Oh,  sir,  a  kinsman  of  mine,  one  that 
may  make  your  music  the  fuller,  an  he  please ; 
he  has  his  humour,  sir. 

Wei.  Oh,  what  is't,  what  is't? 

E.  Know.  Nay,  I'll  neither  do  your  judgment 
nor  his  folly  that  wrong,  as  to  prepare  your  ap- 
prehension. I'll  leave  him  to  the  mercy  of  your 
search  ;  if  you  can  take  him,  so  ! 

Wei.  WeU,  Captain  Bobadill,  Master  Mathew, 
pray  you  know  this  gentleman  here ;  he  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  one  that  will  deserve  your 
affection.  —  I    know    not    your    name,    sir    \to 


^  faces  about — i.e.  right  about  face. 
2  '  whom  impartial  Jove  loves.' 
'  marie — marvel. 


220 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Stephen],  but  I  shall  be  glad  of  any  occasion 
to  render  me  more  familiar  to  you. 

Step.  My  name  is  Master  Stephen,  sir ;  I  am 
this  gentleman's  own  cousin,  sir;  his  father  is 
mine  uncle,  sir.  I  am  somewhat  melancholy; 
but  you  shall  command  me,  sir,  in  whatsoever  is 
incident  to  a  gentleman. 

Boh.  Sir,  I  must  tell  you  this,  I  am  no  general 
man  ;  but  for  Master  Wellbred's  sake  (you  may 
embrace  it  at  what  height  of  favour  you  please) 
I  do  communicate  with  you,  and  conceive  you 
to  be  a  gentleman  of  some  parts;  I  love  few 
words. 

E.  Know.  And  I  fewer,  sir;  I  have  scarce 
enough  to  thank  you. 

Mat.  But  are  you  indeed,  sir,  so  given  to  it  ? 
Step.  Ay,  truly,  sir,  I  am  mightily  given  to 
melancholy. 

Mat.  Oh,  it's  your  only  iine  humour,  sir;  your 
true  melancholy  breeds  your  perfect  fine  wit,  sir. 
I  am  melancholy  myself  divers  times,  sir,  and 
then  do  I  no  more  but  take  pen  and  paper  pre- 
sently, and  overflow  you  half  a  score  or  a  dozen 
of  sonnets  at  a  sitting. 

E.  Kno-jj.  Sure  he  utters  them  then  by  the 
gross.  \_Aside. 

Step.  Truly,  sir,  and  I  love  such  things  out  of 
measure. 

E.  Know.  V  faith,  better  than  in  measure,  I'll 
undertake. 

Mat.  Why,  I  pray  you,  sir,  make  US6  of  my 
study  ;  it's  at  your  service. 

Step.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  I  shall  be  bold,  I  war- 
rant you.  Have  you  a  stool  there  to  be  melan- 
choly upon  ? 

Mat.  That  I  have,  sir ;  and  some  papers  there 
of  mine  own  doing,  at  idle  hours,  that  you'll  say 
there's  some  sparks  of  wit  in  'em  when  you  see 
them. 

Wei.  Would  the  sparks  would  kindle  once, 
and  become  a  fire  amongst  them  !  I  might  see 
self-love  burnt  for  her  heresy.  [^Aside. 

Step.  Cousin,  is  it  well?     Am  I  melancholy 
enough  ? 
E.  Know.  Oh,  ay  ;  excellent. 
Wei.  Captain  Bobadill,  why  muse  you  so  ? 
E.  Know.  He  is  melancholy  too. 
Bob.  Faith,   sir,    I   was   thinking   of  a  most 
honourable  piece  of  service  was  performed  to- 
morrow, being  St.  Mark's  day,  shall  be  some  ten 
years  now. 

E.  Know.  In  what  place,  captain  ? 
Bob.  Why,  at  the  beleaguering  of  Strigonium,i 
where,  in  less  than  two  hours,  seven  hundred 
resolute  gentlemen,  as  any  were  in  Europe,  lost 
their  lives  upon  the  breach.  I'll  tell  you,  gentle- 
men, it  was  the  first,  but  the  best  leaguer  that 
ever  I  beheld  with  these  eyes,  except  the  taking 
in  of 2 — what  do  you  call  it?  last  year,  by  the 
Genowaj's ;  but  that,  of  all  other,  was  the  most 
fatal  and  dangerous  exploit  that  ever  I  was  ranged 
in,  since  I  first  bore  arms  before  the  face  of  the 
enemy,  as  I  am  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier ! 

Step.  So !  I  had  as  lief  as  an  angel  I  could 
gwear  as  well  as  that  gentleman. 

E.  Know.  Then  you  were  a  servitor  at  both,  it 
seems ;  at  Strigonium,  and  what  do  you  call't  ? 

Bob.  0  Lord,  sir !  By  St.  George,  I  was  the 
first  man  that  entered  the  breach  ;  and  had  I  not 
effected  it  with  resolution,  I  had  been  slain  if  I 
had  had  a  million  of  lives. 


1  Strigonium — Graan,  in  Hungary,  which  was  retaken 
from  the  Turks  in  1597,  after  having  been  in  their  pos- 
session nearly  lialf  a  century. — Whallet. 

2  taking  in  of.    To  take  in  is  to  capture,  subdue. — 

GiFFOKD. 


E.  Know.  'Twas  pity  you  had  not  ten  ;  a  cat's 
and  your  own,  i'faith.     But  was  it  possible  ? 
Mat.  Pray  you  mark  this  discourse,  sir. 

Step.  So  I  do. 

Bob.  I  assure  you,  upon  my  reputation,  'tis 
true,  and  yourself  shall  confess. 

E.  Know.  You  must  bring  me  to  the  rack  first. 

[^Aside. 

Bob.  Observe  me  judicially,  sweet  sir.  They 
had  planted  me  three  demi-culverins  just  in  tho 
mouth  of  the  breach ;  now,  sir,  as  we  were  to 
give  on,  their  master-gunner  fa  man  of  no  mean 
skill  and  mark,  you  must  think)  confronts  me 
with  his  linstock,'  ready  to  give  fire;  I,  spying 
his  intendment,  discharged  my  petronel  in  his 
bosom,  and,  with  these  single  arms,  my  poor 
rapier  ran  violently  upon  the  Moors  that  guarded 
the  ordnance,  and  put  'em  pell-mell  to  the 
sword. 

Wei.  To  the  sword !     To  the  rapier,  captain. 

E.  Know.  Oh,  it  was  a  good  figure  observed, 
sir :  but  did  you  do  all  this,  captain,  without 
hurting  your  blade  ? 

Boh.  Without  any  impeach  o'  the  earth :  you 
shall  perceive,  sir.  [^Shows  his  rapiei:]  It  is  the 
most  fortunate  weapon  that  ever  rid  on  poor 
gentleman's  thigh.  Shall  I  tell  you,  sir?  You 
talk  of  Morglay,  Excalibur,  Duriudana,^  or  so ; 
tut !  I  lend  no  credit  to  that  is  fabled  of  'em : 
I  know  the  virtue  of  mine  own,  and  therefore 
I  dare  the  boldlier  maintain  it. 

Step.  I  marie  whether  it  be  a  Toledo  or  no. 

Bob.  A  most  perfect  Toledo,  I  assure  you,  sir. 

Step.  I  have  a  countryman  of  his  here. 

Mat.  Pray  you,  let's  see,  sir ;  yes,  faith,  it  is. 

Bob.  This  a  Toledo  !     Pish  ! 

Step.  Why  do  you  pish,  captain  ? 

Bob.  A  Fleming,  by  heaven !  I'll  buy  them 
for  a  guilder  apiece,  an  I  would  have  a  thousand 
of  them. 

E.  Know.  How  say  you,  cousin  ?  I  told  you 
thus  much. 

Wei.  Where  bought  you  it,  Master  Stephen  ? 

Step.  Of  a  scurvy  rogue  soldier:  a  hundred  of 
lice  go  with  him  !     He  swore  it  was  a  Toledo. 

Bob.  A  poor  provant^  rapier,  no  better. 

Mat.  Mass,  1  think  it  be  indeed,  now  I  look 
on't  better. 

E.  Know.  Nay,  the  longer  you  look  on't,  the 
worse.     Put  it  up,  put  it  up. 

Step.  Well,  I  will  put  it  up ;  but  by — I  have 
forgot  the  captain's  oath ;  I  thought  to  have 
sworn  by  it — an  e'er  I  meet  him — 

Wei.  Oh,  it  is  past  help  now,  sir ;  you  must 
have  patience. 

Step.  Whoreson,  coney-catching  ♦  rascal !  I 
could  eat  the  very  hilts  for  anger. 

E.  Know.  A  sign  of  good  digestion  ;  you  have 
an  ostrich  stomach,  cousin. 

Step.  A  stomach  !  Would  I  had  him  here,  you 
should  see  an  I  had  a  stomach. 

Wei.  It's  better  as  it  is. — Come,  gentlemen, 
shall  we  go  ? 


'  linUocJc,  or  Untstock,  was  a  stock  or  handle  to  hold 
the  lint  or  matcli  with  which  the  gun  was  fired. 

2  Morglay,  &c.  These  blades  make  a  figure  in  ro- 
mance: Morglay -was  the  sword  of  Beris  of  Southampton; 
Durindana  of  Orlando;  and  Excalibur  of  the  renowned 
King  Arthur. — Whallet. 

3  provant — means  properly  provender,  ammunition. 
As  applied  to  a  sword,  it  meant  such  as  was  supplied  to 
the  common  soldiers,  and  therefore  of  common  quality. 

■»  coney-catching — coney-catcher,  a  name  given  to  de- 
ceivers, by  a  metaphor  taken  from  them  that  rob  warrens 
and  coney  grounds,  using  all  means,  sleights,  and  cun- 
ning to  deceive  them. — Minshew. 


BEN  JONSON. 


221 


Enter  Beainworm,  disguised  as  hefore. 

E.  Know.  A  miracle,  cousin ;  look  here,  look 
here ! 

Step.  Ob — od's  lid!  By  your  leave,  do  you 
know  me,  sir  ? 

Brai.  Ay,  sir,  I  know  you  by  sight. 

Step.  You  sold  me  a  rapier,  did  you  not  ? 

Brai.  Yes,  marry  did  I,  su-. 

Step.  You  said  it  was  a  Toledo,  ha? 

Brai.  True,  I  did  so. 

Step.  But  it  is  none. 

Brai.  No,  sir,  I  confess  it ;  it  is  none. 

Step.  Do  you  confess  it .'  Gentlemen,  bear 
witness,  he  has  confessed  it : — Od's  will,  an  you 
had  not  confessed  it — 

E.  Know.  Oh,  cousin,  forbear,  forbear ! 

Step.  Nay,  I  have  done,  cousin. 

Wei.  Why,  you  have  done  like  a  gentleman. 
He  has  confessed  it :  what  would  you  more  .' 

Step.  Yet,  by  his  leave,  he  is  a  rascal,  under 
his  favour,  do  you  see. 

E.  Knoio.  Ay,  by  his  leave,  he  is,  and  under 
favour :  a  pretty  piece  of  civility  !  Sirrah,  how 
dost  thou  like  him  ? 

Wei.  Oh,  it's  a  most  precious  fool,  make  much 
on  him.  I  can  compare  him  to  nothing  more 
happily  than  a  drum;  for  every  one  may  play 
upon  him. 

E.  Know.  No,  no,  a  child's  whistle  were  far 
the  fitter. 

Brai.  Sir,  shsill  I  entreat  a  word  with  you  ? 

E.  Know.  With  me,  sir.'  You  have  not  an- 
other Toledo  to  sell,  have  you  ? 

Brai.  You  are  conceited,'  sir.  Your  name  is 
Master  Knowell,  as  I  take  it ,' 

E.  Know.  You  are  in  the  right.  You  mean  not 
to  proceed  in  the  catechism,  do  you  ? 

Brai.  No,  sir  ;  I  am  none  of  that  coat. 

E.  Know.  Of  as  bare  a  coat  though.  Well, 
say,  sir. 

Brai.  [taking  E.  Know,  aside."]  Faith,  sir,  I 
am  but  servant  to  the  drum  extraordinary,  and 
indeed,  this  smoky  varnish  being  washed  off,  and 
three  or  four  patches  removed,  I  appear  your 
worship's  in  reversion,  after  the  decease  of  your 
good  father, — Brainworm. 

E.  Knoiu.  Brainworm !  'Slight,  what  breath  of 
a  conjurer  hath  blown  thee  hither  in  this  shape  ? 

Brai.  The  breath  of  your  letter,  sir,  this  morn- 
ing ;  the  same  that  blew  you  to  the  Windmill,  and 
your  father  after  you. 

E.  Knoto.  My  father ! 

Brai.  Nay,  never  start,  'tis  true;  he  has  fol- 
lowed you  over  the  fields  by  the  foot,  as  you 
would  do  a  hare  in  the  snow. 

E,  Know.  Sirrah  Wellbred,  what  shall  we  do, 
sirrah  ?     My  father  is  come  over  after  me. 

Wei.  Thy  father  1     Where  is  he  ? 

Brai.  At  Justice  Clement's  house  in  Coleman- 
street,  where  he  but  stays  my  return,  and  then — 

Wei.  Who's  this.'     Brainworm? 

Brai.  The  same,  sir. 

Wei.  Why,  how,  in  the  name  of  wit,  com'st 
thou  transmuted  thus  ? 

Brai.  Faith,  a  device,  a  device;  nay,  for  the 
love  of  reason,  gentlemen,  and  avoiding  the  dan- 
ger, stand  not  here ;  withdraw,  and  I'll  tell  you  all. 

Wei.  But  art  thou  sure  he  will  stay  thy  return  ? 

Brai.  Do  I  live,  sir  ?     What  a  question  is  that  ? 

Wcl.  We'll  prorogue  his  expectation,  then,  a 
little  :  Brainworm,  thou  shalt  go  with  us. — Come 
on,  gentlemen.  —  Nay,  I  pray  thee,  sweet  Ned, 
droop  not ;  'heart,  an  our  wits  be  so  wretchedly 


'  concciVeti— disposed  to  use  conceits  or  jests;  witty. 


dull,  that  one  old  plodding  brain  can  outstrip  us 
all,  would  we  were  e'en  pressed  to  make  porters 
of,  and  serve  out  the  remnant  of  our  days  in 
Thames-street,  or  at  the  Custom-house  quay,  in 
a  civil  war  against  the  carmen  ! 
Brai.  Amen,  amen,  amen,  say  I.  [_Exeu7it. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 

The  Old  Jewry.    Kitely's  Wareliouse. 

Enter  Kitely  and  Cash. 

Kit.  What  says  he,  Thomas  ?     Did  you  speak 
with  him  ? 

Cash.  He  will  expect  you,  sir,  within  this  half 
houi\ 

Kit.  Has  he  the  money  ready,  can  you  tell  ? 

Cash.  Yes,  sir,  the  money  was  brought  in  last 
night. 

Kit.  Oh,  that  is  well :  fetch  mo  my  cloak,  my 
cloak! —  [Exit  Cash. 

Stay,  let  me  see,  an  hour  to  go  and  come ; 
Ay,  that  will  be  the  least ;  and  then  'twill  be 
An  hour  before  I  can  despatch  with  him. 
Or  very  near  ;  well,  I  will  say  two  hours ! 
Two  hours !  ha !  things  never  dreamt  of  yet, 
May  be  contrived,  ay,  and  effected  too. 
In  two  hours'  absence :  well,  I  will  not  go. 
Two  hours!     No,  fleering  Opportunity, 
I  will  not  give  your  subtlety  that  scope. 
Who  will  not  judge  him  worthy  to  be  robb'd, 
That  sets  his  doors  wide  open  to  a  thief. 
And  shows  the  felon  where  his  treasure  lies  ? 
Again,  what  earthy  spirit  but  will  attempt 
To  taste  the  fruit  of  beauty's  golden  tree. 
When  leaden  sleep  seals  up  the  dragon's  eyes  ? 
I  will  not  go.     Business,  go  hy  for  once. 
The  dangers  are  too  many :  and  then  the  dressing 
Is  a  most  main  attractive  !     Our  great  heads 
Within  the  city  never  were  in  safety,  |_'era. 

Since  our  wives  wore  these  little  caps:'  I'll  change 
I'll  change  'em  straight  in  mine. 

Re-enter  Cash  loith  a  cloak. 

Carry  in  my  cloak  again.    Yet  stay.    Yet  do,  too : 
I  will  defer  going,  on  all  occasions. 

Cash.  Sir,  Snare,  your  scrivener,  will  be  there 
with  the  bonds. 

Kit.  That's  true :  fool  on  me  !  I  had  clean  for- 
I  must  go.     What's  a  clock  ?  [got  it ; 

Cash.  Exchange-time,  sir.^ 

Kit.   'Heart,  then  will  Wellbred  presently  be 
here  too. 
With  one  or  other  of  his  loose  consorts. 
I  am  a  knave,  if  I  know  what  to  say. 
What  course  to  take,  or  which  way  to  resolve  ! 
My  brain,  methinks,  is  like  an  hour-glass. 
Wherein  my  imaginations  run  like  sands. 
Filling  up  time  ;  but  then  are  turn'd  and  turn'd, 
So  that  I  know  not  what  to  stay  upon, 
And  less  to  put  in  act. — It  shall  be  so. 
Nay  I  dare  build  upon  his  secrecy, 
He  knows  not  to  deceive  me. — Thomas ! 

Cash.  Sir. 

Kit.  Yet  now  I  have  bethought  me  too,  I  will 
Thomas,  is  Cob  within  ?  [not. — 

Cash.  I  think  he  be,  sir.  [him. 

Kit.  But  he'll  prate  too,  there  is  no  speech  of 
No,  there  were  no  man  on  the  earth  to  Thomas, 
If  I  durst  trust  him ;  there  is  all  the  doubt. 


1  litlh  caps.    Velvet  caps  of  a  diminutive  size  were 
worn  at  this  time  by  citizens'  wives  and  daugliters. — 

GiFFORD. 

2  Tlie  mercliants  then  commenced  business  on  'Change 
at  ten  o'clock. 


) 


222 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


But  should  he  have  a  chink  in  him,  I  were  gone. 
Lost  in  my  fame  for  ever,  talk  for  th'  Exchange  ! 
The  manner  he  hath  stood  with,  till  this  present, 
Doth  promise  no  such  change :    what  should  I 

fear  then  ? 
Well,  come  what  will,  I'll  tempt  my  fortune  once. 
Thomas — you  may  deceive  me,  but  I  hope — 
Your  love  to  me  is  more — 

Cash.  Sir,  if  a  servant's 
Duty,  with  faith,  may  be  call'd  love,  you  are 
More  than  in  hope  you  are  possess'd  of  it. 

Kit.  I  thank  you  heartily,  Thomas:  give  me 
your  hand: 
With  all  my  heart,  good  Thomas.  I  have,  Thomas, 
A  secret  to  impart  unto  you ;  but. 
When  once  you  have  it,  I  must  seal  your  lips  up^ 
So  far,  I  tell  you,  Thomas. 

Cash.  Sir,  for  that — 

Kit.  Nay,  hear  me  out.    Think  I  esteem  you, 
Thomas, 
When  I  will  let  yon  in  thus  to  my  private. 
It  is  a  thing  sits  nearer  to  my  crest 
Than  thou  art  'ware  of,  Thomas ;  if  thou  should'st 
Keveal  it,  but — 

Cash.  How,  I  reveal  it  ? 

Kit.  Nay, 
I  do  not  think  thou  would'st ;  but  if  thou  should'st, 
'Twere  a  great  weakness. 

Cash.  A  great  treachery: 
Give  it  no  other  name. 

Kit.  Thou  wilt  not  do't  then  ? 

Cash.  Sir,  if  I  do,  mankind  disclaim  me  ever! 

Kit.  He  will  not  swear,  he  has  some  reservation. 
Some  concealed  purpose,  and  close  meaning  sure  ; 
Else,  being  urg'd  so  much,  how  should  he  choose. 
But  lend  an  oath  to  all  this  protestation  ? 
He's  no  precisian,  that  I'm  certain  of. 
Nor  rigid  Roman  Catholic :  he'll  play 
At  fayles  and  tick-tack ;'  I  have  heard  him  swear. 
What  should  I  think  of  it .'  urge  him  again, 
And  by  some  other  way :  I  will  do  so. — 
Well,  Thomas,  thou  hast  sworn  not  to  disclose : — 
Yes,  you  did  swear  ? 

Cash.  Not  yet,  sir,  but  I  will, 
Please  you — 

Kit.  No,  Thomas,  I  dare  take  thy  word. 
But,  if  thou  wilt  swear,  do  as  thou  think'st  good ; 
I  am  resolv'd^  without  it :  at  thy  pleasure. 

Cash.  By  my  soul's  safety  then,  sir,  I  protest. 
My  tongue  shall  ne'er  take  knowledge  of  a  word 
Deliver'd  me  in  nature  of  your  trust. 

Kit.  It  is  too  much ;  these  ceremonies  need  not: 
I  know  thy  faith  to  be  as  firm  as  rock. 
Thomas,  come  hither  near ;  we  cannot  be 
Too  private  in  this  business.     So  it  is, 
— Now  he  has  sworn,  I  dare  the  saflier  ventm-e. 

[Aside. 
I  have  of  late,  by  divers  observations — 
But  whether  his  oath  can  bind  him,  yea  or  no. 
Being  not  taken  lawfully .'  ha !  say  you  ? 
I  will  ask  counsel  ere  I  do  proceed  : —        [Aside. 
Thomas,  it  will  be  now  too  long  to  stay, 
I'll  spy  some  fitter  time  soon,  or  to-morrow. 

Cash.  Sir,  at  your  pleasure. 

Kit.  I  will  think : — and,  Thomas, 
I  pray  you  search  the  books  'gainst  my  return, 
For  the  receipts  'twist  me  and  Traps. 

Cash.  I  will,  sir. 

Kit.  And  hear  you,  if  your  mistress's  brother, 
Wellbred, 
Chance  to  bring  hither  any  gentleman 
Ere  I  come  back,  let  one  straight  bring  me  word. 


>  fayhs  and  tici-tack—yfsve  both  complicated  kinds  of 
bacigiimmon. 
2  resolv'd — convinced. 


Cash.  Very  well,  sir. 

Kit.  To  the  Exchange,  do  you  hear  ? 
Or  here  in  Coleman-street,  to  Justice  Clement's. 
Forget  it  not,  nor  be  out  of  the  way. 

Cash.  I  will  not,  sir. 

Kit.  I  pray  you  have  a  care  on't. 
Or,  whether  he  come  or  no,  if  any  other. 
Stranger  or  else ;  fail  not  to  send  me  word. 

Cash.  I  shall  not,  sir. 

Kit.  Be  it  your  special  business 
Now  to  remember  it. 

Cash.  Sir,  I  warrant  you. 

Kit.  But,  Thomas,  this  is  not  the  secret,  Thomas, 
I  told  you  of. 

Cash.  No,  sir ;  I  do  suppose  it. 

Kit.  Believe  me,  it  is  not. 

Cash.  Sir,  I  do  believe  you.  [Thomas, 

Kit.  By  heaven,  it  is  not,  that's  enough:  but 
I  would  not  you  should  utter  it,  do  you  see. 
To  any  creatui-e  living  ;  yet  I  care  not. 
Well,  I  must  hence.  Thomas,  conceive  thus  much, 
It  was  a  trial  of  you,  when  I  meant 
So  deep  a  secret  to  you,  I  mean  not  this, 
But  that  I  have  to  tell  you ;  this  is  nothing,  this. 
But,  Thomas,  keep  this  from  my  wife,  I  charge 

you, 
Lock'd  up  in  silence,  midnight,  bm-ied  here. — 
No  greater  hell  than  to  be  slave  to  fear.       [Exit. 

Cash.  LoclSd  up  in  silence,  inidnight,  buried  here  ! 
Whence  should  this  flood  of  passion,  trow,  take 

head?  ha! 
Best  dream  no  longer  of  this  running  humour, 
For  fear  I  sink ;  the  violence  of  the  stream 
Already  hath  transported  me  so  far. 
That  I  can  feel  no  ground  at  all :  but  soft — 
Oh,  'tis  our  water-bearer:   somewhat  has  crost 
Mm  now. 

Enter  Cob  hastily. 

Cob.  Fasting-daj's !  what  tell  you  me  of  fasting- 
days  ?  'Slid,  would  they  were  all  on  a  light  fire 
for  me  !  They  say  the  whole  world  shall  be  con- 
sumed with  fire  one  day ;  but  would  I  had  these 
Ember- weeks  and  villanous  Fridays  burnt  in  the 
meantime,  and  then — 

Cash.  Why,  how  now.  Cob !  What  moves  thee 
to  this  choler,  ha  ? 

Cob.  Collar,  Master  Thomas !  I  scorn  your 
collar,  I,  sir  :  I  am  none  o'  your  cart-horse,  though 
I  carry  and  draw  water.  An  you  offer  to  ride  me 
with  your  collar  or  halter  either,  I  mayhap  show 
you  a  jade's  trick,  sir. 

Cash.  Oh,  you'll  slip  your  head  out  of  the 
collar  ?  Why,  goodman  Cob,  you  mistake  me. 

Cob.  Nay,  I  have  my  rheum,  and  I  can  be 
angry  as  well  as  another,  sir.    ■ 

Cash.  Thy  rheum,  Cob  !  Thy  humour,  thy 
humour — thou  mistak'st. 

Cob.  Humom- !  mack,  I  think  it  be  so  indeed ! 
What  is  that  humour  ?''■  some  rare  thing,  I  warrant. 

Cash.  Marry,  I'U  tell  thee,  Cob  :  it  is  a  gentle- 
man-like monster,  bred  in  the  special  gallantry  of 
our  time,  by  affectation,  and  fed  by  foUy. 

Cob.  How !  must  it  be  fed  ? 

Cash.  Oh  ay,  humour  is  nothing  if  it  be  not 
fed :  didst  thou,  never  hear  that  ?  It's  a  common 
phrase,  Jeed  my  humour. 

Cob.  I'll  none  on  it.  Humour,  avaunt !  I  know 
you  not ;  begone !  Let  who  will  make  hun^^y 
meals  for  your  monstership,  it  shall  not  be  I. 
Feed  you,  quoth  he !  'slid,  I  have  much  a/do  to 
feed  mj'self ;    especially  on  these  lean  rascally 


'  Immotir.— Every  oclciity  which  a  man  affe^cted  was 
called  his,  humour, — a  word  that  seems  to  have  ''been  first 
used  in  this  sense  about  the  age  of  Jonson. — Wr'iAXLET. 


BEN  JONSON. 


days  too ;  an't  bad  been  any  other  day  but  a 
fasting-day— a  plague  on  them  all  for  me.  By 
this  light,  one  might  have  done  the  common- 
wealth good  service  and  have  drowned  them 
all  in  the  flood,  two  or  three  hundred  thousand 
years  ago.  Oh,  I  do  stomach  them  hugely.  I 
have  a  maw  now,  an  'twere  for  Sir  Bevis  his 
horse,  against  them. 

Ca^h.  I  pray  thee,  good  Cob,  what  makes  thee 
so  Gilt  of  love  with  fasting-days  ? 

Coh.  Marry,  that  which  will  make  any  man  out 
of  love  with  'em,  I  think  ;  their  bad  conditious,  an 
you  will  needs  know.  First,  they  are  of  a  Flemish 
breed,  I  am  sure  on't,  for  they  raven  up  more 
butter  than  all  the  days  of  the  week  beside ;  next, 
they  stink  of  fish  and  leek-porridge  miserably; 
thii-dly,  they'll  keep  a  man  devoutly  hungry  all 
day,  and  at  night  send  him  supperless  to  bed. 

Cash.  Indeed  these  are  faults,  Cob. 

Coh.  Nay,  an  this  were  all,  'twere  something ; 
but  they  are  the  only  known  enemies  to  my  gene- 
ration. A  fasting-day  no  sooner  comes,  but  my 
lineage  goes  to  wrack.  Poor  cobs !  they  smoke  for 
it,  they  are  made  mai'tyrs  o'  the  gridiron,  they 
melt  in  passion :  and  your  maids,  too,  know  this, 
and  yet  would  have  me  turn  Hannibal,  and  eat 
my  own  flesh  and  blood.  My  princely  coz  \^j}ulls 
out  a  red  herring],  fear  nothing^  I  have  not  the 
heart  to  devour  you,  an  I  might  be  made  as  rich  as 
King  Cophetua.  Oh  that  I  had  room  for  my  tears, 
I  could  weep  salt-water  enough  now  to  preserve 
the  lives  of  ten  thousand  thousand  of  my  kin! 
But  I  may  curse  none  but  these  filthy  almanacks ; 
for  an't  were  not  for  them,  these  days  of  persecu- 
tion would  never  be  known.  I'll  be  hang'd  an 
some  fishmonger's  son  do  not  make  of  'em,  and 
puts  in  more  fasting-days  than  he  should  do,  be- 
cause he  would  utter  his  father's  dried  stock-fish 
and  stinking  conger. 

Cash.  'Slight,  peace !  thou'lt  be  beaten  like  a 
stock-fish  else.     Here's  Master  Mathew. 

Enter  Wellbeed,  E.  Knowell,  Beainwoem, 
Mathew,  Bobadill,  and  Stephen. 

Now  must  I  look  out  for  a  messenger  to  my 
master.  \_Exit  with  Cob. 

Wei.  Beshrew  me,  but  it  was  an  absolute  good 
jest,  and  exceedingly  well  carried ! 

E.  Know.  Ay,  and  our  ignorance  maintained  it 
as  well,  did  it  not  ? 

Wei.  Yes,  faith ;  but  was  it  possible  thou 
should'st  not  know  him  ?  I  forgive  Master 
Stephen,  for  he  is  stupidity  itself. 

E.  Knoio.  'Fore  God,  not  I,  an  I  might  have 
been  joiu'd  patten i  with  one  of  the  seven  wise 
masters  for  knowing  him.  He  had  so  writhen 
himself  into  the  habit  of  one  of  your  poor  infantry, 
your  decayed,  ruinous,  worm-eaten  gentlemen  of 
the  round; 2  such  as  have  vowed  to  sit  on  the 
skirts  of  the  city,  let  your  provost  and  his  half- 
dozen  of  halberdiers  do  what  they  can ;  and  have 
translated  begging  out  of  the  old  hackney-pace 
to  a  fine  easy  amble,  and  made  it  run  as  smooth 
off  the  tongue  as  a  shove-groat  shilling.^  Into 
the  likeness  of  one  of  these  reformados''  had  he 
moulded  himself  so  perfectly,  observing  every 
trick  of  their  action,  as,  varying  the   accent. 


1  'patten — ^pat  (?). 

*  gentlemen  of  the  round — were  soldiers  of  inferior 
rank,  tut  above  the  common  man ;  it  was  their  duty  to 
visit  the  sentinels,  watches,  and  advanced  cuards,  and 
ft'om  this  ofBce  tliey  derived  their  name. — Whallet. 

2  a  shove-groat  shilling. — Edward  Sixth's  shillings  were 
generally  made  use  of  in  the  play  of  shovel-hoard  or 
shove-groat. — Gifford. 

*  reformados — broken  or  dishauded  soldiers. 


swearing  with  an  emphasis,  indeed,  all  with  so 
special  and  exquisite  a  grace,  that,  hadst  thou 
seen  him,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn  he  might 
have  been  serjeant-major,  if  not  lieutenant-colonel 
to  the  regiment. 

Wei.  Why,  Braiuworm,  who  would  have 
thought  thou  hadst  been  such  an  artificer  ? 

E.  Know.  An  artificer!  an  architect.  Except 
a  man  had  studied  begging  all  his  lifetime,  and 
been  a  weaver  of  language  from  his  infancy  for 
the  clothing  of  it,  I  never  saw  his  rival. 

Wei.  Where  got'st  thou  this  coat,  I  marie  ? 

Brai.  Of  a  Hounsditch  man,  sir,  one  of  the 
devil's  near  kinsmen,  a  brokei'. 

Wei.  That  cannot  be,  if  the  proverb  hold ;  for 
A  craj'ly  Icnave  needs  no  broker. 

Brai.  True,  sir ;  but  I  did  need  a  hroJcer,  ergo — 

Wei.  Well  put  off : — no  crafty  knave.,  you'll  say. 

E.  Know.  Tut,  he  has  more  of  these  shifts. 

Brai.  And  yet,  whore  I  have  one  the  broker 
has  ten,  sir. 

Ee-enter  Cash. 

Cash.  Francis !  Martin !  ne'er  a  one  to  be 
found  now  .■'     What  a  spite's  this ! 

Wei.  How  now,  Thomas?  Is  my  brother 
Kitely  within  ? 

Cash.  No,  sir,  my  master  went  forth  e'en  now ; 
but  Master  Downright  is  within. — Cob!  what. 
Cob !     Is  he  gone  too  ? 

Wei.  Whither  went  your  master,  Thomas; 
canst  thou  tell  ? 

Cash.  I  know  not:  to  Justice  Clement's,  I 
think,  sir.— Cob!  [Exit. 

E.  Knoiv.  Justice  Clement!  what's  he? 

Wei.  Why,  dost  thou  not  know  him  ?  He  is  a 
city-magistrate,  a  justice  here,  an  excellent  good 
lawyer,  and  a  great  scholar ;  but  the  only  mad, 
merry  old  fellow  in  Europe.  I  showed  him  you 
the  other  day. 

E.  Know.  Oh,  is  that  he?  I  remember  him 
now.  Good  faith,  and  he  is  a  vei-y  strange  pre- 
sence, methinks ;  it  shows  as  if  he  stood  out  of 
the  rank  from  other  men :  I  have  heard  many  of 
his  jests  in  the  University.  They  say  he  will 
commit  a  man  for  taking  the  wall  of  his  horse. 

Wei.  Ay,  or  wearing  his  cloak  on  one  shoulder, 
or  serving  of  God;  anything,  indeed,  if  it  come 
in  the  way  of  his  humour. 

Re-enter  Cash. 

Cash.  Gasper !  Martin !  Cob !  'Heart,  where 
should  they  be,  trow  ? 

Boh.  Master  Kitely's  man,  pray  thee,  vouchsafe 
us  the  lighting  of  this  match. 

Cash.  Fire  on  your  match !  no  time  but  now  to 
vouchsafe  ? — Francis !     Cob !  [Exit. 

Boh.  Body  o'  me !  here's  the  remainder  of  seven 
pound  since  yesterday  was  seven-night.  'Tis 
your  right  Trinidado ; '  did  you  never  take  any, 
Master  Stephen  ? 

Step.  No,  tridy,  sir;  biit  I'll  learn  to  take  it 
now,  since  you  commend  it  so. 

Bob.  Sir,  believe  me,  upon  my  relation  for 
what  I  tell  you,  the  world  shall  uot.reprove.  I 
have  been  in  the  Indies,  where  this. herb  grows, 
where  neither  myself,  nor  a  dozen  gentlemen 
more  of  my  knowledge,  have  received  the  taste 
of  any  other  nutriment  in  the  wprld,  for  the  space 
of  one-and-tweuty  weeks,  but  the  fume  of  this 
simple  only :  therefore,  it  cannot  be,  but  'tis  most 
divine.  Further,  take  it  in  the  nature,  in  the 
true  kind ;   so,  it  makes  an  antidote,  that,  had 


1  Trinidado.— lobvicco  from  Trinidad  ^as  at  this  time 
much  in  request. — Whallet. 


224 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


you  taken  the  most  deadly  poisonous  plant  in  all 
Italy,  it  should  expel  it,  and  clarify  you,  with  as 
much  ease  as  I  speak.  And  for  your  green 
wound, — your  Balsamum  and  your  St.  John's 
■wort,  are  all  mere  gulleries  and  trash  to  it, 
especially  your  Trinidado:  your  Nicotian^  is 
good  too.  I  could  say  what  I  know  of  the  virtue 
of  it,  for  the  expulsion  of  rheums,  raw  humours, 
crudities,  obstructions,  with  a  thousand  of  this 
kind ;  but  I  profess  myself  no  quacksalver.  Only 
thus  much;  by  Hercules,  I  do  hold  it,  and  will 
affirm  it  before  any  prince  in  Europe,  to  be  the 
most  sovereign  and  precious  weed  that  ever  the 
earth  tendered  to  the  use  of  man. 

E.  Know.  This  speech  would  have  done  de- 
cently in  a  tobacco-traders  mouth. 

Re-enter  Cash  with  Cob. 

Cash.  At  Justice  Clement's  he  is,  in  the  middle 
of  Coleman-street. 

Coh.  Oh,  oh ! 

Bob.  Where's  the  match  I  gave  thee,  Master 
Kitelj^'s  man .' 

Cash.  Would  his  match  and  he,  and  pipe  and 
all,  were  at  Saucto  Domingo !     I  had  forgot  it. 

\_Exit. 

Coh.  Ods  me,  I  marie  what  pleasure  or  felicity 
they  have  in  taking  this  roguish  tobacco.  It's 
good  for  nothing  but  to  choke  a  man,  and  fill  him 
full  of  smoke  and  ember.  There  were  four  died 
out  of  one  house  last  week  with  taking  of  it,  and 
two  more  the  bell  went  for  yesternight;  one  of 
them,  they  say,  will  never  scape  it :  he  voided  a 
bushel  of  soot  yesterday  upward  and  downward. 
By  the  stocks,  an  there  were  no  wiser  men  than 
I,  I'd  have  it  present  whipping,  man  or  woman, 
that  should  but  deal  with  a  tobacco-pipe  :  why,_  it 
will  stifle  them  all  in  the  end,  as  many  as  use  it; 
it's  little  better  than  ratsbane  or  rosaker.- 

[BoBADiLL  beats  him. 

All.  Oh,  good  captain,  hold,  hold  ! 

Bob.  You  base  cullion,  you ! 

Re-enter  Cash. 

Cash.  Sir,  here's  your  match.  —  Come,  thou 
must  needs  be  talking  too,  thou'rt  well  enough 
served. 

Cob.  Nay,  he  will  not  meddle  with  his  match, 
I  warrant  you.  Well,  it  shall  be  a  dear  beating, 
an  I  live. 

Bob.  Do  you  prate,  do  you  murmur  ? 

E.  Know.  Nay,  good  captain,  will  you  regard 
the  humour  of  a  fool  ?     Away,  knave. 

Wei.  Thomas,  get  him  away. 

l^Exit  (/ASH  with  Cob. 

Bob.  A  whoreson  filthy  slave,  a  dung-worm, 
an  excrement !  Body  o'  Csesar,  but  that  I  scorn 
to  let  forth  so  mean  a  spirit,  I'd  have  stabb'd  him 
to  the  earth. 

Wei.  Marry,  the  law  forbid,  sir ! 

Bob.  By  Pharaoh's  foot,  I  would  have  done  it. 

Step.  Oh,  he  swears  most  admirably  !  By 
Pharaoh's  foot !  Body  o'  Csesar !— I  shall  never 
do  it,  sure.  Upon  mine  honour,  and  by  St. 
George  ! — No,  I  have  not  the  right  grace. 

Mat.  Master  Stephen,  will  you  any  ?  By  this 
air,  the  most  divine  tobacco  that  ever  I  drunk.^ 

Step.  None,  I  thank  you,  sir.     Oh,  this  gentle- 


>  Nicotian.  Some  particular  kind  of  totacco  is  meant 
lay  this  term,  which  is  now  used  as  a  general  appellation 
of  the  weed. 

2  ratsbane  and  rosaker.  These,  I  believe,  are  pretty- 
nearly  the  same  things;  preparations  of  corrosive  sub- 
limate.— GiFFORD. 

3dr«ni  — then  a  common  affected  expression  for 
smoked. 


man  does  it  rarely  too :  but  nothing  like  the  other. 
By  this  air !  \^practises  at  the  post.~\  As  I  am  a 
gentleman !     By —  [^Exeunt  Bob.  and  Mat. 

Brat.  Ipointing  to  Master  Stephen.]  Master, 
glance,  glance !     Master  Wellbred  ! 

Step.  As  I  have  somewhat  to  be  saved,  I  pro- 
test— 

Wei.  You  are  a  fool ;  it  needs  no  affidavit. 

E.  Knoio.  Cousin,  will  you  any  tobacco  ? 

Step.  I,  sir !     Upon  my  reputation — 

E.  Know.  How  now,  cousin ! 

Step.  I  protest,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  but  no 
soldier,  indeed— 

Wei.  No,  Master  Stephen!  As  I  remember, 
your  name  is  entered  in  the  artillery-garden. 

Step.  Ay,  sir,  that's  true.  Cousin,  may  I 
swear,  as  I  am  a  soldier,  by  that  ? 

E.  Know.  Oh  yes,  that  you  may ;  it  is  all  you 
have  for  your  money. 

Step.  Then,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  a  soldier, 
it  is  'divine  tobacco  !' 

Wei.  But  soft,  Where's  Master  Mathe w  ?    Gone  ? 

Brai.  No,  sir ;  they  went  in  here. 

Wei.  Oh,  let's  follow  them.  Master  Mathew  is 
gone  to  salute  his  mistress  in  verse ;  we  shall 
have  the  happiness  to  hear  some  of  his  poetry 
now;  he  never  comes  unfurnished. — Brainworm! 

Step.  Brainworm!  Where.'  Is  this  Brain- 
worm? 

E.  Know.  Ay,  cousin ;  no  words  of  it,  upon 
your  gentility. 

Step.  Not  I,  body  of  me!  By  this  air!  St. 
George !  and  the  foot  of  Pharaoh ! 

Wei.  Bare !  Your  cousin's  discourse  is  simply 
drawn  out  with  oaths. 

E.  Know.  'Tis  larded  with  them;  a  kind  of 
French  dressing,  if  you  love  it.  [^Exeunt. 


ACT  III.-SCENE  III. 

CoLEMAN-STREET.    A  Rooni  in  Justice 

Clement's  House. 

Enter  Kitely  and  Cob. 

Kit.  Ha!  how  many  are  there,  say'st  thou? 

Cob.   Marry,  sir,  your  brother,  Master  Well- 
bred — 

Kit.    Tut,  beside  him.     What  strangers  are 
there,  man  ? 

Cob.  Strangers?  let  me  see:  one,  two;  mass,  I 
known  not  well,  there  are  so  many. 

Kit.  How !  so  many  ? 

Coh.  Ay,  there's  some  five  or  six  of  them  at  the 
most. 

Kit.  A  swarm,  a  swarm ! 
Spite  of  the  devil,  how  they  sting  my  head 
With  forked  stings,  thus  wide  and  large  ! — But, 

.  Cob, 
How  long  hast  thou  been  coming  hither,  Cob? 

Cob.  A  little  while,  sir. 

Kit.  Didst  thou  come  running? 

Cob.  No,  sir. 

Kit.  Nay,  then  I  am  familiar  with  thy  haste. 
Bane  to  my  fortunes !  what  meant  I  to  marry  ? 
I,  that  before  was  rank'd  in  such  content, 
My  mind  at  rest,  too,  in  so  soft  a  peace, 
Being  free  master  of  mine  own  free  thoughts. 
And  now  become  a  slave  ?     What !  never  sigh ; 
Be  of  good  cheer,  man ;  for  thou  art  a  cuckold  : 
'Tis  done,  'tis  done!    Nay,  when  such  flowing 

store. 
Plenty  itself,  falls  into  my  wife's  lap. 
The  cornucopise  will  be  mine,  I  know.^ 
But,  Cob, 

What  entertainment  had  they  ?     I  am  sure 
My  sister  and  my  wife  would  bid  them  welcome , 
ha? 


BEN  JONSON. 


225 


Cob.  Like  enough,  sir ;  yet  I  heard  not  a  word 
Kit.  No ;  [of  it. 

Their  lips  were  seal'd  with  kisses,  and  the  voice, 
Drown'd  in  a  flood  of  joy  at  their  ai-rival, 
Had  lost  her  motion,  state,  and  faculty. — 
Cob, 

Which  of  them  was  it  that  first  kissed  my  wife, 
My  sister,  I  should  say  ? — My  wife,  alas  ! 
I  fear  not  her.     Ha !  who  was  it,  say'st  thou  ? 
Col.  By  my  troth,  sir,  will  you  have  the  truth 

of  it? 

Kit.  Oh  ay,  good  Cob,  I  pray  thee  heartily. 

Cob.  Then  I  am  a  vagaboud,   and  fitter  for 

Bridewell  than  your  worshij)'s  company,  if  I  saw 

anybody  to  be  kiss'd,   unless  they  would  have 

kiss'd  the  post  in  the  middle  of  the  warehouse ; 

for  there  I  left  them  all  at  their  tobacco,  with 

a  pox ! 

Kit.  How !  were  they  not  gone  in,  then,  ere 

Cob.  Oh  no,  sir.  [thou  cam'st.' 

Kit.  Spite  of  the  devil !    What  do  I  stay  bei'e 

then.' 

Cob,  follow  me.  \Exit. 

Cob.  Nay,  soft  and  fair ;  I  have  eggs  on  the 

spit  ;i  I  cannot  go  yet,  sir. — Now  am  1,  for  some 

five  and  fifty  reasons,  hammei-ing,  hammering, 

revenge  ;  oh  for  three  or  four  gallons  of  vinegar, 

to  sharpen  my  wits !     Eevenge,  vinegar  revenge, 

vinegar  and  mustard  revenge  !     Nay,  an  he  had 

not  lien  in  my  house,  'twould  never  have  grieved 

me  ;  but  being  my  guest,  one  that,  I'll  be  sworn, 

my  wife  has  lent  him  her  smock  off  her  back, 

while  his  own  shirt  has  been  at  washing  ;  pawn'd 

her  neckerchers  for  clean  bands  for  him ;    sold 

almost  all  my  platters  to  buy  hirn  tobacco ;  and 

he  to  turn  monster  of  ingratitude,  and  strike  his 

lawful  host !     Well,  I  hope  to  raise  up  a  host  of 

fury  for't.    Here  comes  Justice  Clement. 

Enter  Justice  Clement,  Knowell,  and  Formal. 

Clem.  What's  Master  Kitely  gone,  Roger  ? 

Form.  Ay,  sir. 

Clem.  'Heart  o'  me !  what  made  him  leave  us 
so  abruptly  ? — How  now,  sirrah  !  What  make 
you  here .'     What  would  you  have,  ha  ? 

Cob.  An't  like  your  worship,  I  am  come  to 
crave  the  peace  of  your  worship. 

Clem.  Of  me,  knave !  peace  of  me,  knave !  Did 
1  ever  hurt  thee,  or  threaten  thee,  or  wrong 
thee,  ha .' 

Cob.  No,  sir;  but  your  worship's  warrant  for 
one  that  has  wroug'd  me,  sir.  His  arms  are  at 
too  much  liberty ;  1  would  fain  have  them  bound 
to  a  treaty  of  peace,  an  my  credit  could  compass 
it  with  your  worship.  A  gentleman  and  a  soldier, 
he  says  he  is,  of  the  city  here. 

Clem.  A  soldier  of  the  city !  What  call  you 
liim  ? 

Cob.  Captain  Bobadill. 

Clem.  Bobadill !  and  why  did  he  bob  and  beat 
you,  sirrah  ?  How  began  the  quarrel  betwixt 
you,  ha  ?     Speak  truly,  knave,  I  advise  you. 

Cob.  Marry,  indeed,  an't  please  your  worship, 
only  because  I  spake  against  their  vagrant  to- 
bacco, as  I  came  by  them  when  they  were  taking 
on't ;  for  nothing  else. 

Clem.  Ha !  you  speak  against  tobacco  ?  For- 
mal, his  name. 

Form.  What's  your  name,  sirrah  ? 

Cob.  Oliver,  sir ;  Oliver  Cob,  sir. 

Clem.  Tell  Oliver  Cob  he  shall  go  to  the  jail. 
Formal. 


1  /  have  eggs  on  the  tpit — a  proverbial  expression, 
meaning  that  he  had  affairs  on  hand  which  required 
his  constant  attention. 


Form.  Oliver  Cob,  my  master,  Justice  Clement, 
says  you  shall  go  to  the  jail. 

Clem.  What !  a  threadbare  rascal,  a  beggar, 
a  slave  that  never  drunk  out  of  better  than  piss- 
pot  metal  in  his  life!  and  he  to,  deprave  and 
abuse  the  virtue  of  an  herb  so  generally  received 
in  the  courts  of  princes,  the  chambers  of  nobles, 
the  bowers  of  sweet  ladies,  the  cabins  of  soldiers! 
Eoger,  away  with  him!  Od's  precious — I  say, 
goto. 

Cob.  Dear  Master  Justice,  let  me  bo  beaten 
again,  I  have  deserved  it;  but  not  the  prison, 
I  beseech  you. 

Knoxo.  Alas,  poor  Oliver ! 

Clem.  Eoger,  make  him  a  warrant !  He  shall 
not  go ;  I  but  fear'  the  knave. 

Form.  Do  not  stink,  sweet  Oliver,  you  shall  not 
go  ;  my  master  will  give  you  a  warrant. 

Cob.  Oh,  the  Lord  maintain  his  worship,  his 
worthy  worship. 

Clem.  Awaj',  despatch  him.  [ExeuntYou^i.  and 
Gob.] — How  now,  Master  Knowell !  in  dumps,  in 
dumps !  Come,  this  becomes  not. 

Know.  Sir,  would  I  could  not  feel  my  cares. 

Clem.  Your  cares  are  nothing :  the)'  are  like 
my  cap,  soon  put  on  and  as  soon  put  off.  What ! 
your  son  is  old  enough  to  govern  himself ;  let 
him  run  his  course ;  it's  the  only  way  to  make 
him  a  sfcaid  man.  If  he  were  an  unthrift,  a  ruf- 
fian, a  drunkard,  or  a  licentious  liver,  then  you 
had  reason,  you  had  reason  to  take  care  ;  but, 
being  none  of  these,  mirth's  my  witness,  an  I 
had  twice  so  many  cares  as  you  have,  I'd  drown 
them  all  in  a  cup  of  sack.  Come,  come,  let's  try 
it :  I  muse  your  parcel  of  a  soldier  returns  not  all 
this  while.  [^Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  Kitely's  House. 

Enter  Downright  and  Dame  Kitely. 

Boxon.  Well,  sister,  I  tell  you  true ;  and  you'll 
find  it  so  in  the  end. 

Dame  K.  Alas,  brother,  what  would  you  have 
me  to  do  ?  I  cannot  help  it ;  j^ou  see  my  brother 
brings  them  in  here  ;  they  are  his  friends. 

Dovni.  His  friends!  his  fiends.  'Slud!  they  do 
nothing  but  haimt  him  up  and  down  like  a  sort 
of  unlucky  sjDirits,  and  tempt  him  to  all  manner 
of  villany  that  can  be  thought  of.  Well,  by  this 
light,  a  little  thing  would  make  me  play  the  devil 
with  some  of  them.  An  'twere  not  more  for  your 
husband's  sake  than  anything  else,  I'd  make  the 
house  too  hot  for  the  best  on  'em ;  they  should  say, 
and  swear,  hell  were  broken  loose,  ere  they  went 
hence.  But,  by  God's  will,  'tis  nobody's  fault 
but  yours ;  for  an  you  had  done  as  you  might 
have  done,  they  should  have  been  parboiled,  and 
baked  too,  every  mother's  son,  ere  they  should 
have  come  in,  e'er  a  one  of  them. 

JDame  K.  God's  my  life !  did  you  ever  hear  the 
like  ?  What  a  strange  man  is  this !  Could  1  keep 
out  all  them,  think  you?  I  should  put  myself 
against  half  a  dozen  men,  should  I  ?  Good  faith, 
you'd  mad  the  patient'st  body  in  the  world,  to 
hear  you  talk  so,  without  any  sense  or  reason. 

Enter  Mistress  Bridget,  Master  Mathew,  and 
Bobadill;  followed  at  a  distance  by  Well- 
bred,   E.   Knowell,   Stephen,   and  Beain- 
worm. 
Brid.  Servant,2  in  troth  you  are  too  prodigal 


'  /«ar— frighten. 


2  Servant— loy^T. 


226 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Of  your  wit's  treasvire  thus  to  pour  it  forth. 
Upon  so  mean  a  subject  as  my  worth. 

Mat.  You  say  well,  mistress,  and  I  mean  as 
well. 

Dozen.  Hoy-day,  here  is  stuff ! 

Wei.  Oh,  now  stand  close ;  pray  heaven  she 
can  get  him  to  read!  He  should  do  it  of  his  own 
natural  impudency. 

Brid.  Servant,  what  is  this  same,  I  pray  you  ? 

Hat.  Marry,  an  elegy,  an  elegy,  an  odd  toy — 

Down.  To  mock  an  ape  withal !  Oh,  I  could 
sew  up  his  mouth,  now. 

Dame  K.  Sister,  I  pray  you  let's  hear  it. 

Down.  Are  you  rhyme-given  too  ? 

Mat.  Mistress,  I'll  read  it,  if  you  please. 

Brid.  Pray  you  r"!,  seiwaut. 

Down.  Oh,  here's  ao  foppery!  Death!  I  can 
endui-e  the  stocks  brtter.  [Exit. 

E.  Know.  What  ails  thy  brother  ?  Can  he  not 
hold  his  water  at  reading  of  a  ballad  ? 

Wei.  Oh  no ;  a  rhyme  to  him  is  worse  than 
cheese,  or  a  bagpipe.  But  mark;  you  lose  the 
protestation. 

Mat.  Faith,  I  did  it  in  a  humour :  I  know  not 
how  it  is  ;  but  please  you  come  near,  sir.  This 
gentleman  has  judgment,  he  knows  howto  censure 
of  a —    Pray  you,  sir,  you  can  judge  ? 

Step.  Not  I,  sir ;  upon  my  reputation,  and  by 
the  foot  of  Pharaoh ! 

Wei.  Oh,  chide  your  cousin  for  swearing. 

E.  Knoio.  Not  I,  so  long  as  he  does  not  for- 
swear himself. 

Bob.  Master  Mathew,  you  abuse  the  expecta- 
tion of  your  dear  mistress,  and  her  fair  sister: 
fie !  while  you  live  avoid  this  prolixity. 

Mat.  I  shall,  sir;  well,  incipere  dulce.^ 

E.  Know.  How !  insipere  dulce  !  a  sweet  thing 
to  be  a  fool,  indeed  ! 

Wei.  What,  do  you  take  incipiere  in  that  sense .' 

E.  Know.  You  do  not,  you !  This  was  your 
villany,  to  gull  him  with,  a  motte.2 

Wei.  Oh,  the  benchers'^  phrase:  pauca  verba, 
pauca  verba  ! 

Mat.  Rare  creature,  let  me  speah  tvitliout  offence, 
Would  God  my  rude  words  had  the  influence 
To  rule  thy  tlwucjhts,  as  thy  fair  lools  do  mine, 
Then  should'st  thou  be  his  prisoner,  who  is  thine. 

E.  Know.  This  is  in  Hero  and  Leander. 

Wei.  Oh  ay  :  peace,  we  shall  have  more  of  this. 

Mat.  Be  not  unkind  and  fair ;  misshapen  stuff 
Is  of  behaviour  boisterous  and  rough. 
Wei.  How  like  you  that,  sir  ? 

[Master  Stepi(en  shakes  Ms  head. 

E.  Know.  'Slight,  he  shakes  his  head  like  a 
bottle,  to  feel  an  there  be  any  brain  in  it. 

Mat.  Hut  observe  the  catastrophe,  now : 
And  I  in  duty  will  exceed  all  other, 
As  you  in  beauty  do  excel  Lovers  mother. 

E.  Knoio.  Well,  I'll  have  him  free  of  the  wit- 
brokers,  for  he  utters  nothing  but  stolen  remnants. 
Wei.  Oh,  forgive  it  him. 

E.  Know.  A  filching  rogue,  hang  him  !  —  and 
from  the  dead !  it's  worse  than  sacrilege. 

Wellbeed,  E.  KNO^VELL,  and  Master  Stephen 
come  forward. 

Wei.  Sister,  what  have  you  here — verses  ?  Pray 
you,  let's  see  ;  who  made  these  verses  ?  They  are 
excellent  good. 

Mat.  Oh,  Master  WeUbred,  'tis  your  disposition 


1  'it  is  sweet  to  begin.' 

-  mottc — motto. 

'^  benchers  were  sots  who  spent  their  time,  sleeping 
and  waking,  upon  aleliouse  benches.  The  phrase  pauca 
verba,  '  few  words,'  is  given  to  them  in  many  of  our  old 
plays.— GiFFORD. 


to  say  so,  sir.  They  were  good  in  the  morning ; 
I  made  them  ex  tempore  this  morning. 

Wei.  How !  ex  tempore  ? 

Mat.  Ay,  would  I  might  be  hanged  else ;  ask 
Captain  Bobadill ;  he  saw  me  write  them  at  the 
—  pox  on  it ! — the  Star,  yonder.  * 

Brai.  Can  he  find  in  his  heart  to  curse  the 
stars  so? 

E.  Know.  Faith,  his  are  even  with  him ;  they 
have  curst  him  enough  already. 

Step.  Cousin,  how  do  you  like  this  gentleman's 
verses  ? 

E.  Knoio.  Oh,  admirable !  the  best  that  ever  I 
heard,  coz. 

Step.  Body  o'  Csesar,  they  are  admirable !  the 
best  that  I  ever  heard,  as  I  am  a  soldier ! 

Re-enter  Downright. 

Down.  I  am  vext,  I  can  hold  ne'er  a  bone  of 
me  still.  Heart,  I  think  they  mean  to  build  and 
breed  here. 

Wei.  Sister,  you  have  a  simple  servant  here, 
that  crowns  your  beauty  with  such  encomiums 
and  devices ;  you  may  see  what  it  is  to  be  the 
mistress  of  a  wit,  that  can  make  your  perfections 
so  transparent,  that  every  blear  eye  may  look 
through  them,  and  see  him  drowned  over  head 
and  ears  in  the  deep  well  of  desire.  Sister  Kitely, 
I  marvel  you  get  you  not  a  servant  that  can  j 
rhyme,  and  do  tricks  too.  | 

Down.  Oh,  monster !  impudence  itself !  tricks !    j 

Dame  K.  Tricks,  brother!  what  tricks! 

Brid.  Nay,  speak,  I  pray  you  ;  what  tricks  ? 

Dame  K.  Ay,  never  spare  anybody  here  ;  but 
say,  what  ti-icks. 

Brid.  Passion  of  my  heart,  do  tricks  ! 

Wei.  'Slight,  here's  a  trick  vied  and  revied !  i 
Why,  you  monkeys,  you,  what  a  caterwauling 
do  you  keep !  Has  he  not  given  you  rhymes,  and 
verses,  and  tricks  ? 

Down.  Oh,  the  fiend ! 

Wei.  Nay,  you  lamp  of  virginity,  that  take  it 
in  snuff  so,  come,  and  cherish  this  tame  poetical 
f  my  in  your  servant ;  you'll  be  begg'd  else  shortly 
for  a  coucealment.2  Qq  to,  reward  his  muse.  You 
cannot  give  him  less  than  a  shilling  in  conscience, 
for  the  book  he  had  it  out  of  cost  him  a  teston  * 
at  least.  How  now,  gallants  !  Master  Mathew  ! 
Captain  !  what !  all  sons  of  silence,  no  spirit  ? 

Down.  Come,  you  might  practise  your  ruffian 
tricks  somewhere  else,  and  not  here,  I  wuss ;  ^ 
this  is  no  tavern  nor  drinking-school,  to  vent 
your  exploits  in. 

Wei.  How  now  ;  whose  cow  has  calved  ? 

Down.  Marry,  that  has  mine,  sir.     Nay,  boy, 
never  look  askance  at  me  for  the  matter ;  I'll  tell 
j^ou  of  it,  I,  sir ;  you  and  your  companions  mend 
yourselves  when  I  have  done. 
Wei.  .My  companions ! 

Down.  Yes,  sh-,  your  companions,  so  I  say ;  I 
am  not  afraid  of  you,  nor  them  neither;  your 
hang-byes  here.    You  must  have  yom-  poets  and 


1  vied  and  rerieci— terms  used  at  card-games.  To  vie 
was  to  put  down  a  certain  sum  upon  a  hand  at  cards ; 
to  revie  was  to  cover  it  with  a  larger  sum,  by  which  the 
challenged  became  the  challenger,  and  was  to  be  revied 
in  turn  by  a  proportionate  increase  of  stake. — Giffokd. 

2  you'll  be  begg'd,  &c.— alluding  to  the  practice,  in 
Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  of  begging  lands  which  had 
formerly  been  appropriated  to  religious  purposes,  and 
were  privUy  retained  by  certain  private  persons,  cor- 
porations, or  churches,  and  hence  called  concealments. 

— GiPFORD. 

3  teston,  or  tester  (Fr.  tite,  head,  so  called  from  a  head 
on  it),  was  a  coin  of  about  the  value  of  a  shilling  or 
eighteenpencc. 

*  wuss— a,  vulgarism  for  wis — know. 


BEN  JONSON. 


227 


your  potlings,  your  soldados  and  foolados  to  fol- 
low you  up  and  down  tlie  city ;  and  here  they 
must  come  to  domineer  and  swagger.  Sirrah, 
you  ballad-singer,  and  slops «  your  fellow  there, 
get  you  out,  get  you  home,  or,  by  this  steel,  I'll 
cut  off  your  ears,  and  that  presently  ! 

Wei.  'Slight,  stay,  let's  see  what  he  dare  do ; 
cut  off  his  ears  I  cut  a  whetstone.  You  are  an 
ass,  do  you  see :  touch  any  man  here,  and  bj' 
this  hand  I'll  run  my  rapier  to  the  hilts  in  you  ! 

Down.  Yea,  that  would  I  fain  see,  boy. 

^  [They  all  draw. 

Dame  K.  0  Jesu!  murder!  Thomas!  Gasper! 

Brid.  Help,  help !  Thomas ! 

Enter  Cash  and  some  of  the  house  to  part  them. 

E.  Know.  Gentlemen,  forbear,  I  pray  you. 

Boh.  "Well,  sirrah,  you  Holofernes  ;  by  my 
hand,  I  will  pink  your  flesh  full  of  holes  with 
my  rapier  for  this ;  I  will,  by  this  good  heaven  ! 
Nay,  let  him  come,  let  him  come,  gentlemen  ;  by 
the  body  of  St.  George,  I'll  not  kill  him. 

[Offer  to  fight  again,  and  areparted. 

Cash.  Hold,  hold,  good  gentlemen. 

Down.  You  whoreson,  bragging  coystril !  ^ 

Enter  Kitely. 

Kit.  Why,  how  now !  what's  the  matter,  what's 
the  stir  here  ? 
Whence  sjprings  the  quarrel  ?    Thomas  !  where 

is  he? 
Put  up  your  weapons,  and  put  off  this  rage  : 
My  wife  and  sister,  they  are  cause  of  this. 
What,  Thomas !  where  is  this  knave  ? 

Cash.  Here,  sir. 

Wei.  Come,  let's  go  :  this  is  one  of  my  brother's 
ancient  humoixrs,  this. 

Step.  I  am  glad  nobody  was  hm-t  by  his  an- 
cient humour. 

[Exeunt  Wel.,  Step.,  E.  Know.,  Bob, 
and  Bkai. 

Kit.  Why,  how  now,  brother,  who  enforced 
this  brawl  ? 

Dmon.  A  sort  of  lewd  rake-hells,  that  care 
neither  for  God  nor  the  devil.  And  they  must 
come  here  to  read  ballads,  and  roguery,  and 
trash  !  I'll  mar  the  knot  of  'em  ere  I  sleep,  per- 
haps ;  especially  Bob  there,  he  that's  all  manner 
of  shapes  ;  and  songs  and  sonnets,  his  fellow. 

Brid.  Brother,  indeed  you  are  too  violent, 
Too  sudden  in  your  humour  ;  and  you  know 
My  brother  Wellbred's  temper  will  not  bear 
Any  reproof,  chiefly  in  such  a  presence. 
Where  evei-y  slight  disgrace  he  should  receive 
Might  wound  him  in  opinion  and  respect. 

Down.  Eespect !  what,  talk  you  of  respect 
among  such  as  have  no  spark  of  manhood,  nor 
good  manners?  'Sdeins,  I  am  ashamed  to  hear 
you  !--respect !  [Exit. 

Brid.  Yes,  there  was  one  a  civil  gentleman, 
And  very  worthily  demean'd  himself. 

Kit.  Oh,  that  was  some  love  of  yours,  sister. 

Brid.  A  love  of  mine  !    I  would  it  were  no 
worse,  brother ; 
You'd  pay  my  portion  sooner  than  you  think  for. 

Dame  K.  Indeed  he  seem'd  to  be  a  gentleman 
of  an  exceeding  fair  disposition,  and  of  very  ex- 
cellent good  parts. 

[Exeunt  Dame  Kitely  and  Bridget. 

1  slops— the  large  loose  breeches  fashionable  during 
Elizabeth's  reign. 

2  coystril— -pxoh.  from  old  Fr.  coustillier,  an  esquire's 
groom;  although  Gitford  tliinks  it  is  the  same  as  kesiril, 
a  degenerate  hawlj,  often  used  as  a  term  of  contempt ; 
hei-e  it  means  a  mean,  dastardly  trick. 


Kit.  Her  love,  by  heaven  !  my  wife's  minion. 
Fair  disposition  !  excellent  good  parts  ! 
Death !  these  phrases  are  intolerable. 
Good  parts !  how  should  she  know  his  parts  ? 
His  parts !    Well,  well,  well,  well,  well,  well ; 
It  is  too  plain,  too  clear. — Thomas,  come  hither. 
What !  ai-e  they  gone  ? 

Cash.  Ay,  sir,  they  went  in. 
Mjf  mistress,  and  your  sister — 

Kit.  Are  any  of  the  gallants  within  ? 

Cash.  No,  sir,  thej'  are  all  gone. 

Kit.  Art  thou  sure  of  it  ? 

Cash.  I  can  assure  you,  sir. 

Kit.  What  gentleman  was  that  they  praised 
so,  Thomas? 

Cash.  One,  they  call  him  Master  Knowell,  a 
handsome  young  gentleman,  sir. 

Kit.  Ay,  I  thought  so ;  my  mind  gave  me  as 
much. 
I'll  die,  but  they  have  hid  him  in  the  house 
Somewhere ;   I'll  go  and  search ;    go  with  me, 

Thomas. 
Be  true  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  find  me  a  master. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 

The  Lane  before  Cob's  House. 

Enter  Cob. 

Col.  [InocTcs  at  the  door.l  What,  Tib !  Tib,  I 
say!_ 

Tib.  [ivithin.]  How  now !  what  cuckold  is  that 
knocks  so  hard  ? 

Enter  Tib.  ' 

Oh,  husband  !  is  it  you  ?     What's  the  news  ? 

Cob.  AVhen  was  Bobadill  here,  your  captain  ? 
That  rogue,  that  foist,'  that  fencing  Bui-gullion  ? 
I'll  tickle  him,  i'faith. 

Tib.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  trow  ? 

Cob.  Oh,  he  has  basted  me  rarely,  sumptuously ! 
but  I  have  it  here  in  black  and  w'hite — [pulls  out 
the  warrant'] — for  his  black  and  blue,  shall  pay 
him.  Oh,  the  justice,  the  honestest  old  brave 
Trojan  in  London ;  I  do  honour  the  very  flea  of 
his  dog.  A  plague  on  him,  though,  he  put  me 
once  in  a  villanous  filthy  fear.  Marry,  it  va- 
nished away  like  the  smoke  of  tobacco ;  but  I 
was  smoked  soundly  first.  I  thank  the  devil, 
and  his  good  angel,  my  guest.  Well,  wife,  or 
Tib,  which  you  will,  get  you  in,  and  lock  the 
door.  I  charge  you  let  nobody  in  to  you,  wife — 
nobody  in  to  you :  those  are  my  words :  not 
Captain  Bob  himself,  nor  the  fiend  in  his  like- 
ness. You  are  a  woman,  you  have  flesh  and 
blood  enough  in  you  to  be  tempted;  therefore 
keep  the  door  shut  iipon  all  comers. 

Tib.  I  warrant  you  there  shall  nobody  enter 
here  without  my  consent. 

Cob.  Nor  with  your  consent,  sweet  Tib ;  and 
so  I  leave  you. 

Tib.  It's  more  than  you  know,  whether  you 
leave  me  so. 

Cob.  How? 

Tib.  Whj',  sweet. 

Cob.  Tut,  sweet  or  sour,  thou  art  a  flower. 
Keep  close  thy  door,  I  ask  no  more.         [Exeunt. 


1 /o«;_sharper.  Burgullion  is  supposed  to  mean  a 
bully  or  braggadocio,  and  is  conjectui'ed  to  be  a  term 
of  contempt  invented  upon  the  overthrow  of  the  Bastard 
of  Burgundy  in  a  contest  with  Anthony  "WoodviUe,  in 
Smithfield,  1467.— Naees. 


228 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  the  Windmill  Taveim. 

Enter  E.  Knowell,  Wellbred,  Stephen,  and 

Brainworm  disguised  as  before. 

E.  Know.  Well,  Brainworm,  perform  tliis  busi- 
ness happily,  and  thou  makest  a  purchase  of  my 
love  for  ever. 

Wei.  I'faith,  now  let  thy  spirits  use  their  best 
faculties ;  but,  at  any  hand,  remember  the  mes- 
sage to  my  brother,  for  there's  no  other  means 
to  start  him. 

Brai,  I  warrant  you,  sir;  fear  nothing.  I 
have  a  nimble  soul  has  waked  all  forces  of  my 
phantasy  by  this  time,  and  put  them  iu  true  mo- 
tion. What  you  have  possessed  *  me  withal,  I'll 
discharge  it  amply,  sir  ;  make  it  no  question. 

\^Exit. 

Wei.  Forth,  and  prosper,  Brainworm.  Faith, 
Ned,  how  dost  thou  approve  of  my  abilities  iu 
this  device  ? 

E.  Know.  Troth,  well,  howsoever ;  but  it  will 
come  excellent  if  it  take. 

Wei.  Take,  man !  why,  it  cannot  choose  but 
take,  if  the  circumstances  miscarry  not.  But, 
tell  me  ingenuously,  dost  thou  affect  my  sister 
Bridget  as  thou  pretend'st  ? 

E.  Know.  Friend,  am  I  worth  belief  ? 

Wei.  Come,  do  not  protest.  In  faith,  she  is  a 
maid  of  good  ornament,  and  much  modesty ; 
and,  except  I  conceived  very  worthily  of  her, 
thou  should'st  not  have  her. 

E.  Knoio.  Nay,  that,  I  am  afraid,  will  be  a 
question  yet,  whether  I  shall  have  her  or  no. 

Wei.  'Slid,  thou  shalt  have  her ;  by  this  light 
thou  shalt. 

E.  Know.  Nay,  do  not  swear. 

Wei.  By  this  hand  thou  shalt  have  her;  I'll 
go  fetch  her  presently.  'Point  but  where  to 
meet,  and,  as  I  am  an  honest  man,  I'll  bring  her. 

E.  Know.  Hold,  hold,  be  teriipei-ate. 

Wei.  Why,  by  — ,  what  shall  I  swear  by  ?  thou 
shalt  have  her,  as  I  am — 

E.  Knoio.  Prithee,  be  at  peace,  I  am  satisfied ; 
and  do  believe  thou  wilt  omit  no  offered  occasion 
to  make  my  desires  complete. 

Wei.  Thou  shalt  see  and  know  I  will  not. 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 
The  Old  Jewry. 
Enter  Formal  and  Knowell. 
Form,  Was  your  man  a  soldier,  sir  ? 
Know.  Ay,  a  knave, 
I  took  him  begging  o'  the  way,  this  morning. 
As  I  came  over  Moorfields. 

Enter  Brainworm,  disguised  as  be/ore. 

Oh,  here  he  is ! — You've  made  fair  speed,  believe 

me : 
Where,  in  the  name  of  sloth,  could  you  be  thus  ? 

Brai.  Marry,  peace  be  my  comfort,  Avhere  I 
thought  I  should  have  had  little  comfort  of  your 
worship's  service. 

Know.  How  so  ? 

Brai.  Oh,  sir,  your  coming  to  the  city,  your 
entertainment  of  me,  and  your  sending  me  to 
watch, — indeed,  all  the  circumstances  either  of 
your  charge,  or  my  employment,  are  as  open  to 
your  son  as  to  yourself. 


>  possessed  me— informed  me  of. 


Know.  How  should  that  be,  unless  that  villain 
Brainworm 
Have  told  him  of  the  letter,  and  discover'd 
All  that  I  strictly  charg'd  him  to  conceal  ? 
'Tis  so. 

Brai.  1  am  partly  o'  the  faith  'tis  so,  indeed. 

Know.  But,  how  should  he  know  thee  to  be 
my  man .' 

Brai.  Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  tell,  unless  it  be  by 
the  black  art.     Is  not  your  son  a  scholar,  sir  ? 

Knoio.  Yes ;  but  I  hope  his  soul  is  not  allied 
Unto  such  hellish  practice.     If  it  were, 
I  had  just  cause  to  weep  my  part  in  him, 
And  curse  the  time  of  his  creation. 
But  where  didst  thou  find  them,  Fitz-Sword? 

Brai.  You  should  rather  ask  where  they  found 
me,  sir ;  for,  I'll  be  sworn,  I  was  going  along  in 
the  street,  thinking  nothing,  when,  of  a  sudden, 
a  voice  calls,  Mr.  KnowelVs  man!  another  cries, 
Soldier  !  and  thus  half  a  dozen  of  them,  till  they 
had  call'd  me  within  a  house,  where  I  no  sooner 
came,  but  they  seem'd  men,'  and  out  flew  all 
their  rapiers  at  my  bosom,  with  some  three  or 
four  score  oaths  to  accompany  them;  and  all  to 
tell  me  I  was  but  a  dead  man,  if  I  did  not  con- 
fess whei-e  you  were,  and  how  I  was  employed, 
and  about  what;  which,  when  they  could  not 
get  out  of  me  (as,  I  protest,  they  must  have  dis- 
sected and  made  an  anatomy  of  me  first,  and  so 
I  told  them),  they  lock'd  me  up  into  a  room  in 
the  top  of  a  high  house,  whence  by  great  miracle 
(having  a  light  heart)  I  slid  down  by  a  bottom 
of  packthread  into  the  street,  and  so  'scaped. 
But,  sir,  thus  much  I  can  assure  you,  for  I  heard 
it  while  I  was  lock'd  up,  there  were  a  great  many 
rich  merchants  and  brave  citizens'  wives  with 
them  at  a  feast ;  and  your  son.  Master  Edward, 
withdrew  with  one  of  them,  and  has  'pointed  to 
meet  her  anon  at  one  Cob's  house,  a  water-bearer 
that  dwells  by  the  Wall.  Now,  there  your  wor- 
ship shall  be  sure  to  take  him,  for  there  he  preys, 
and  fail  he  will  not. 

Know.  Nor  will  I  fail  to  break  his  match,  I 
doubt  not. 
Go  thou  along  with  Justice  Clement's  man. 
And  stay  there  for  me.  At  one  Cob's  house, 
say'st  thou  ? 
Brai.  Ay,  sir,  there  you  shall  have  him.  [Exit 
Know.]  Yes — invisible !  Much  wench  or  much 
son !  ^  'Slight,  when  he  has  stayed  thei'e  three  or 
four  hours,  travailing  with  the  expectation  of 
wonders,  and  at  length  be  deliver'd  of  air!  Oh 
the  sport  that  I  should  then  take  to  look  on  him, 
if  I  durst!  But  now  I  mean  to  appear  no  more 
afore  him  in  this  shape :  I  have  another  trick  to 
act  yet.  Oh  that  I  were  so  happy  as  to  light  on 
a  nupson'  now  of  this  justice's  novice! — Sir,  I 
make  you  stay  somewhat  long. 

Form.  Not  a  whit,  sir.    Pray  you  what  do  you 
mean,  sir? 
Bred.  I  was  putting  up  some  papers. 
Form.  You  have  been  lately  in  the  wars,  sir,  it 
seems. 

Brai.  Marry  have  I,  sir,  to  my  loss,  and  expense 
of  all,  almost. 


'  men  seems  here  to  be  contrasted  with  voice. — 
Whalley. 

'^  Yes—iiivisihle!  &c. — 7/ir!s;6?e  seems  to  be  a  humorous 
addition  to  Brainworm's  speech,  after  liis  master  was 
out  of  heaniig — 'tliere  you  shall  have  him — yes,  in- 
visible! '  i.e.  not  at  all.  Much!  is  an  ironical  expression 
for  Utile  or  none,  in  which  sense  it  occurs  frequently  in 
our  old  dramatists. — Gifford. 

3  to  light  on  a  niipson — i.e.  Oh  that  I  might  happily 
find  tills  justice's  maa  to  be  a  nupson!  i.e.  an  oat,  a 
simpleton. 


BEN  JONSON. 


229 


Form.  Troth,  sir,  I  would  be  glad  to  bestow 
a  pottle  of  wine  on  you,  if  it  please  you  to  accept 
it— 

Brai.  Oh,  sir — 

Form.  But  to  hear  the  manner  of  your  services, 
and  your  devices  in  the  wars ;  they  say  they  be 
very  strange,  and  not  like  those  a  man  reads  in 
the  Roman  histories,  or  sees  at  Mile-eud.i 

Brai.  No,  I  assure  you,  sir ;  why,  at  any  time 
when  it  please  you,  I  shall  be  ready  to  discourse 
to  you  all  I  know; — and  more  too  somewhat. 

\_Aside. 

Form.  No  better  time  than  now,  sir ;  we'll  go 
to  the  Windmill :  there  we  shall  have  a  cup  of 
neat  grist,^  we  call  it.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  me 
request  you  to  the  Windmill. 

Brai.  I'll  follow  you,  sir; — and  make  grist  of 
you,  if  I  have  good  luck.  [^Aside.']  [_Exeutit. 


ACT   IV.— SCENE  V. 

MOORFIELDS. 

Eater  Mathew,  E.  Knowell,  Bobadill,  and 
Stephen. 

Mat.  Sir,  did  your  eyes  ever  taste  the  like  clown 
of  him  where  we  were  to-day,  Mr.  Wellbred's 
half-bi'other  ?  I  think  the  whole  earth  cannot 
shew  his  parallel,  by  this  daylight. 

E.  Know.  We  were  now  speaking  of  him : 
Captain  Bobadill  tells  me  he  is  fallen  foul  of  you 
too. 

Mat.  Oh  ay,  sir,  he  threatened  me  with  the 
bastinado. 

Bob.  Ay,  but  I  think  I  taught  you  pi-evention 
this  morning  for  that.  You  shall  kill  him  beyond 
question,  if  you  be  so  generously  minded. 

Mat.  Indeed,  it  is  a  most  excellent  trick. 

[Fences- 
Bob.  Oh,  you  do  not  give  spirit  enough  to  your 
motion,  you  are  too  tardy,  too  heavy !     Oh,  it 
must  be  done  like  lightning,  hay  !  ^ 

[Practises  at  a iwst  loith  his  cudgel. 

Mat.  Rare,  captain. 

Bob.  Tut !  'tis  nothing,  an't  be  not  done  in  a 
— punto. 

£.  Know.  Captain,  did  you  ever  prove  yourself 
upon  any  of  our  masters  of  defence  here .' 

3fat.  Oh,  good  sir!  yes,  I  hope  he  has. 

Bob.  I  will  tell  you,  sir.  Upon  my  first  coming 
to  the  city,  after  my  long  travel  for  knowledge, 
in  that  mystery  only,  there  came  three  or  four  of 
them  to  me,  at  a  gentleman's  house,  where  it  was 
my  chance  to  be  resident  at  that  time,  to  inti-eat 
my  presence  at  their  schools :  and  withal  so  much 
importuned  me,  that  I  protest  to  you,  as  I  am  a 
gentleman,  I  was  ashamed  of  their  rude  de- 
meanour out  of  all  measure.  Well,  I  told  them 
that  to  come  to  a  iDublic  school,  they  should 
pardon  me,  it  was  opposite,  in  diameter,  to  my 
humour;  but,  if  so  be  they  would  give  their 
attendance  at  my  lodging,  I  pi-otested  to  do  them 
what  right  or  favour  I  could,  as  I  was  a  gentle- 
man, and  so  forth. 

F.  Know.  So,  sir!  then  you  tried  their  skill  ? 
Bob.    Alas,   soon   tried ;    you   shall   hear,   sir. 

Within  two  or  three  days  after,  they  came ;  and, 
by  honesty,  fair  sir,  believe  me,  I  graced  them 
exceedingly,  showed  them  some  two  or  three 
tricks  of  prevention  have  purchased  them  since  a 


1  MiU-end  was  the  usual  training  ground  of  the  city. 
-grist — apparently  some  kind  of  drinli;  grist  in  the 

next  sentence  of  course  means  meal. 

2  hay — i.e.  a  hit. — Gifford. 


credit  to  admiration :  they  cannot  deny  this ;  and 
yet  now  they  hate  me,  and  why  ?  because  I  am 
excellent;  and  for  no  other  vile  reason  on  the 
earth. 

E.  Know.  This  is  strange  and  barbarous  as 
ever  I  heard. 

Bob.  Nay,  for  a  more  instance  of  their  pre- 
posterous natures,  but  note,  sir.  They  have 
assaulted  me  some  three,  four,  five,  six  of  them 
together,  as  I  have  walked  alone  in  divers  skirts 
i'  the  town,  as  Turnbull,  Whitechapel,  Shore- 
ditch,  which  were  then  my  quarters  ;  and  since, 
upon  the  Exchange,  at  my  lodging,  and  at  my 
ordinary:  where  I  have  driven  them  afore  me 
the  whole  length  of  a  street,  in  the  open  view  of 
all  our  gallants,  pitying  to  hurt  them,  believe  me. 
Yet  all  this  lenity  will  not  overcome  their  spleen  ; 
they  will  be  doing  with  the  pismire,  raising  a 
hill  a  man  may  spurn  abroad  with  his  foot  at 
pleasure.  By  myself,  I  could  have  slain  them 
all,  but  I  delight  not  in  murder.  I  am  loath  to 
bear  any  other  than  this  bastinado  for  them  :  yet 
I  hold  it  good  polity  not  to  go  disarmed,  for 
though  I  be  skilful,  I  may  be  oppressed  with 
multitudes. 

E.  Knoio.  Ay,  believe  me,  may  you,  sir:  and  in 
my  conceit,  our  whole  nation  should  sustain  the 
less  by  it,  if  it  were  so. 

Bob.  Alas,  no!  What's  a  peculiar^  man  to  a 
nation? — not  seen. 

E.  Know.  Oh,  but  your  skill,  sir. 

Bob.  Indeed,  that  might  be  some  loss ;  but  who 
respects  it  ?  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  by  the  way  of 
private,  and  under  seal :  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
live  here  obscure,  and  to  myself  ;  but  were  I 
known  to  her  majesty  and  the  lords — observe  me 
— I  would  undertake,  upon  this  poor  head  and 
life,  for  the  public  benefit  of  the  state,  not  only 
to  spare  the  entire  lives  of  her  subjects  in  general, 
but  to  save  the  one-half,  nay,  three-parts  of  her 
yearly  charge  in  holding  war,  and  against  what 
enemy  soever.  And  how  would  I  do  it,  think 
you? 

E.  Know.  Nay,  I  know  not,  nor  can  I  conceive. 

Bob.  Why,  thus,  sir.  I  would  select  nineteen 
more,  to  myself,  throughout  the  land ;  gentlemen 
they  should  be  of  good  spirit,  strong  and  able 
constitution ;  I  would  choose  them  by  an  instinct, 
a  character  that  I  have  :  and  I  would  teach  these 
nineteen  the  special  rules,  as  your  punto,  your 
reverso,  your  stoccata,  your  imbroccato,  your 
passada,  your  montanto  ;2  till  they  could  all  play 
very  near,  or  altogether  as  well  as  myself.  This 
done,  say  the  enemy  were  forty  thousand  strong, 
we  twenty  would  come  into  the  field  the  tenth  of 
March,  or  thereabouts ;  and  we  would  challenge 
twenty  of  the  enemy ;  they  could  not  in  their 
honour  refuse  us.  Well,  we  would  kill  them ; 
challenge  twenty  more,  kill  them,  twenty  more, 
kill  them  ;  twenty  more,  kill  them  too ;  and  thus 
would  we  kill  every  man  his  twenty  a  day,  that's 
twenty  score ;  twenty  score,  that's  two  hundred ; ' 
two  hundred  a  day,  five  days  a  thousand ;  forty 
thousand ;  forty  times  five,  five  times  forty,  two 
hundred  days  kills  them  all  up  by  computation. 
And  this  will  I  venture  my  poor  gentleman-like 
carcase  to  perform,  provided  there  be  no  ti'eason 
practised  upon  us,  by  fair  and  discreet  manhood  ; 
that  is,  civilly  by  the  sword. 

E.  Knoiv.  Why,  are  you  so  sure  of  your  hand, 
captain,  at  all  times  ? 


1  peculiar — particular,  single; 

-  Tliese  are  all  fencing  terms,  which  it  is  unnecessary 
to  explain  here. 

'  two  hundred. — Gifford  thinks  this  en'or  is  probably 
intended. 


230 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Bob.  Tut!  never  miss  thrust,  upon  my  repu- 
tation with  you. 

E.  Know.  I  -would  not  stand  in  Downright's 
state  then,  an  you  meet  him,  for  the  -wealth  of 
any  one  street  in  London. 

Boh.  Why,  sir,  you  mistake  me:  if  he  -were 
here  now,  by  this  -welkin  I  -would  not  draw  my 
-weapon  on  him.  Let  this  gentleman  do  his 
mind:  but  I  -will  bastinado  him,  by  the  bright 
sun,  -where-ver  I  meet  him. 

Mat.  Faith,  and  I'll  have  a  fling  at  him,  at  my 
distance. 

E.  Know.  Ods  so,  look -where  he  is!  yonder  he 
goes.  [Downright  crosses  the  stafje. 

Down.  What  peevish  luck  have  I,  I  cannot 
meet  -with  these  bragging  rascals? 

Boi.  It  is  not  he,  is  it  ? 

E.  Know.  Yes,  faith,  it  is  he. 

Mat.  I'll  be  hang'd,  then,  if  that  -were  he. 

E.  Know.  Sir,  keep  your  hanging  good  for  some 
greater  matter,  for  I  assure  you  that  were  he. 

Step.  Upon  my  reputation  it  -was  he. 

Bob.  Had  I  thought  it  had  been  he,  he  must 
not  have  gone  so :  but  I  can  hardly  be  induced 
to  believe  it  was  he  yet. 

E.  Know.  That  I  think,  sir. 

Re-enter  Downright. 

But  see,  he  is  come  again. 

Doion.  Oh,  Pharaoh's  foot,  have  I  found  yoTi  ? 
Come,  dra-w  to  your  tools ;  dra-w,  gipsy,  or  I'll 
thrash  you. 

Boh.  Gentleman  of  valour,  I  do  believe  in  thee ; 
hear  me — 

Down.  Dra-w  your  weapon,  then. 

Bob.  TalP  man,  I  never  thought  on  it  till  now 
— Body  of  me,  I  had  a  warrant  of  the  peace 
served  on  me,  even  now  as  I  came  along,  by  a 
water-bearer ;  this  gentleman  sa-w  it,  Master 
Mathew. 

Down.  'Sdeath  !  you  will  not  draw,  then  ? 
\Disarms  and  heats  him.    Mathew  runs  away. 

Bob.  Hold,  hold  I  under  thy  favour  forbear ! 

Down.  Prate  again,  as  you  like  this,  you  whore- 
son foist,  you!  You'll  control  the  point,*  you! 
Your  consort  is  gone;  had  he  stayed  he  had  shared 
with  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

Bob.  Well,  gentlemen,  bear  witness,  1  was 
bound  to  the  peace,  by  this  good  day. 

E.  Know.  No,  faith,  it's  an  ill  day,  captain, 
never  reckon  it  other :  but,  say  you  were  bound 
to  the  peace,  the  laAV  allows  you  to  defend  youi-- 
self ;  that  will  prove  but  a  poor  excuse. 

Boh.  I  cannot  tell,'  sir;  I  desire  good  construc- 
tion in  fair  sort.  I  never  sustain'd  the  like  dis- 
grace, by  heaven!  Sure  I  was  struck  with  a 
planet  thence,  for  I  had  no  power  to  touch  my 
weapon. 

E.  Know.  Ay,  like  enough ;  I  have  heard  of 
many  that  have  been  beaten  under  a  planet :  go, 
get  you  to  a  surgeon.  'Slid !  an  these  be  your 
tricks,  your  passadoes,  and  your  montantoes,  I'll 
none  of  them.  [Exit  Bobadill.]  Oh,  manners  ! 
that  this  age  should  bring  forth  such  creatures  ! 
that  nature  should  be  at  leisure  to  make  them ! 
Come,  coz. 

Step.  Mass,  I'll  have  this  cloak. 

E.  Know.  'Od's  will,  'tis  Downright's. 

Step.  Nay,  it's  mine  now,  another  might  have 
ta'en  it  up  as  well  as  I :  I'll  wear  it,  so  I  will. 


1  Tall  was  frequently  used  by  our  old  writers  in  the 
sense  of  bold  oi-  courageous. 

2  To  control  the  point  js  to  bear  or  beat  it  down.— 

GiFPOEU. 

3  /  cannot  tell — I  know  not  what  to  say  about  it.— 

GiFFORD. 


E.  Know.  How  an  he  see  it  ?  He'll  challenge 
it,  assure  yourself. 

Step.  Ay,  but  he  shall  not  have  it :  I'll  say  I 
bought  it. 

E.  Know.  Take  heed  you  buy  it  not  too  dear, 
coz.  [Exeunt. 

ACT   IV.— SCENE  VL 
A  Room  in  Kitely's  House. 

Enter  Kitely,  Wellbred,  Dajie  Kitelt,  and 
Bridget. 

Kit.  Now,  trust  me,  brother,  you  were  much 
to  blame, 
T'inceuse  his  anger,  and  disturb  the  peace 
Of  my  poor  house,  where  there  are  sentinels, 
That  every  minute  watch  to  give  alarms 
Of  civil  war,  without  adjection' 
Of  your  assistance  or  occasion. 

Wei.  No  harm  done,  brother,  I  warrant  you. 
Since  there  is  no  harm  done,  anger  costs  a  man 
nothing ;  and  a  tall  man  is  never  his  own  man 
till  he  be  angry.  To  keep  his  valour  in  obscm-ity, 
is  to  keep  himself,  as  it  wei-e,  in  a  cloak-bag. 
What's  a  musician,  unless  he  play?  What's  a 
tall  man,  unless  he  fight?  For,  indeed,  all  this 
my  wise  brother  stands  upon  absolutely ;  and 
that  made  me  fall  in  with  him  so  resolutely. 

Dame  K.  Ay,  but  what  harm  might  have  come 
of  it,  brother  ? 

Wei.  Might,  sister  ?  So  might  the  good  warm 
clothes  your  husband  wears  be  poisoned,  for  any 
tiling  he  knows;  or  the  wholesome  wine  he  drank, 
even  now  at  the  table. 

Kit.   Now,   God  forbid!     Oh  me!  now  I  re- 
member 
My  wife  drank  to  me  last,  and  changed  the  cup. 
And  bade  we  wear  this  cursed  suit  to-day. 
See,  if  Heaven  suffer  murder  undiscover'd  ! 
I  feel  me  ill ;  give  me  some  mithridate,* 
Some  mithridate  and  oil,  good  sister,  fetch  me ; 
Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart !     I  burn,  I  burn  ! 
If  you  will  save  my  life,  go  fetch  it  me. 

Wei.  Oh  strange  humour!  my  very  breath  has 
poison'd  him. 

Brid.  Good  brother,  be  content,  what  do  you 
mean? 
The  strength  of  these  extreme  conceits  -will  kill 
you. 

Dame  K.   Beshrew  your  heart-blood,  brother 
Wellbred,  now. 
For  putting  such  a  toy  into  his  head ! 

Wei.  Is  a  fit  simile  a  toy  ?  will  he  be  poison'd 
with  a  simile  ?  Brother  Kitely,  what  a  strange 
and  idle  imagination  is  this!  For  shame,  be 
wiser.     0'  my  soul  there's  no  such  matter. 

Kit.  Am  I  not  sick?  how  am  I  then  not 
poison'd  ?  Am  I  not  poison'd  ?  how  am  I  then 
so  sick  ? 

Dame  K.  If  you  be  sick,  your  o-wn  thoughts 
make  you  sick. 

Wei.  His  jealousy  is  the  poison  he  has  taken. 

Enter  Brainworm,  disguised  in  Forjial's  clothes. 

Brai.  Master  Kitely,  my  master.  Justice  Cle- 
ment, salutes  you ;  and  desires  to  speak  with  you 
with  all  possible  speed. 

Kit.  No  time  but  now,  when  I  think  I  am  sick, 
very  sick  !  Well,  I  will  wait  upon  his  worship. 
— Thomas  !  Cob !  I  must  seek  them  out,  and 
set  them  sentinels  till  I  return.  Thomas !  Cob  ! 
Thomas.  [Exit 


1  abjection — addition. 

-  mithridate— an  antidote  against  poison,  called  alao 
confection  of  Damocratus. 


BEN  JONSON. 


2^1 


Wd.  This  is  perfectly  rare,  JBraiuworm  \takes 
him  aside]  •  but  how  got'st  thou  this  apparel  of 
the  justice's  mau  ? 

£rai.  Marry,  sir,  my  proper  fine  penman  would 
needs  bestow  the  grist  on  me,  at  the  Windmill,  to 
hear  some  martial  discourse  ;,  where  I  so  mar- 
shall'd  him,  that  I  made  him  drunk  with  admi- 
ration: and,  because  too  much  heat  was  the  cause 
of  his  distemper,  I  stript  him  stark  naked  as  he 
lay  long  asleep,  and  borrowed  his  suit  to  deliver 
this  counterfeit  message  in,  leaving  a  rusty 
armour,  and  an  old  brown  bill  to  watch -him  till 
my  return  ;  which  shall  be,  when  I  have  pawu'd 
his  apparel,  and  spent  the  better  part  o'  the  money, 
pei-haps. 

Wei.  "Well,  thou  art  a  successful,  merry  knave. 
Brain  worm  :  his  absence  will  be  a  good  subject 
for  more  mirth.  I  pray  thee  return  to  thy  young 
master,  and  will  hiui  to  meet  me  and  my  sister 
Bridget  at  the  Tower  instantly ;  for,  here,  tell 
him,  the  house  is  so  stored  with  jealousy,  there 
is  no  room  for  love  to  stand  upright  in.  Wo 
must  get  our  fortunes  committed  to  some  larger 
prison,  say ;  and  than  the  Tower  i  I  know  no 
better  air,  nor  where  the  liberty  of  the  house  may 
do  us  more  present  service.     Away. 

l_Exit  Beai. 

Ee-enter  Kitely,  talking  aside  to  Cash. 

Kit.  Come  hither,  Thomas.     Now  my  secret's 
ripe, 
And  thou  shaft  have  it:  lay  to  both  mine  ears. 
Hark  what  I  say  to  thee.     I  must  go  forth, 

Thomas ; 
Be  careful  of  thy  promise,  keep  good  watch, 
Note  every  gallant,  and  observe  him  well. 
That  enters  in  my  absence  to  thy  mistress  : 
If  she  would  show  him  rooms,  the  jest  is  stale, 
Follow  them,  Thomas,  or  else  hang  on  liim. 
And  let  him  not  go  after  ;  mark  their  looks  ; 
Note  if  she  offer  but  to  see  his  baud. 
Or  any  other  amorous  toy  about  him ; 
But  praise  his  leg,  or  foot ;  or  if  she  say 
The  day  is  hot,  and  bid  him  feel  her  hand, 
How  hot  it  is  ;  oh,  that's  a  monstrous  thing  ! 
Note  me  all  this,  good  Thomas  ;  mark  their  sighs. 
And  if  they  do  but  whisper,  break  'em  off : 
I'll  bear  thee  out  in  it.     Wilt  thou  do  this  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  true,  my  Thomas  ? 

Cash.  As  truth's  self,  sir. 

Kit.  Why,  I  believe  thee.   Where  is  Cob,  now? 
Cob !  \_Exit. 

Dame  K.  He's  ever  calling  for  Cob.  I  wonder 
how  he  employs  Cob  so. 

Wei.  Indeed,  sister,  to  ask  how  he  employs' 
Cob,  is  a  necessary  question  for  j-ou  that  are  his 
wife,  and  a  thing  not  very  easy  for  you  to  be 
satisfied  in ;  but  this  I'll  assure  you.  Cob's  wife 
is  an  excellent  bawd,  sister,  and  oftentimes  your 
husband  haunts  her  house ;  marry,  to  what  end  ? 
I  cannot  altogether  accuse  him ;  imagine  you 
what  you  think  convenient :  but  I  have  known 
fair  hides  have  foul  hearts  ere  now,  sister. 

Dame  K.  Never  said  you  truer  than  that, 
brother,  so  much  I  can  tell  you  for  your  learn- 
ing. Thomas,  fetch  your  cloak  and  go  with  me. 
[^Exit  Cash.]  I'll  after  him  presently :  I  would 
to  fortune  I  could  take  him  there,  i'faith,  I'd  re- 
turn him  his  own,  I  warrant  hun !  [Exit. 

Wei.  So,  let  'em  go ;  this  may  make  sport 
anon.  Now,  my  fair  sister-in-law,  that  you 
knew  but  how  happy  a  thing  it  were  to  be  fair 
and  beautiful. 


1  the   Touoer.    As  the  Tower  was  extra-parochial,   it 
probably  afforded  some  facility  to  private  marriages. 

— GiFFOKD. 


Brid.  That  touches  not  me,  brother. 

Wei.  That's  true;  that's  even  the  fault  of  it; 
for,  indeed,  beauty  stands  a  woman  in  no  stead, 
unless  it  procure  her  touching. — But,  sister, 
whether  it  touch  you  or  no,  it  touches  your 
beauties ;  and  I  am  sure  they  will  abide  the 
touch ;  an  they  do  not,  a  plague  of  all  ceruse,' 
says  I !  and  it  touches  me  too  in  part,  though 
not  in  the —  Well,  there's  a  dear  and  respected 
friend  of  mine,  sister,  stands  very  strongly  and 
worthily  affected  toward  you,  and  hath  vowed 
to  inflame  whole  bonfires  of  zeal  at  his  heart,  in 
honour  of  your  perfections.  I  have  already  en- 
gaged my  promise  to  bring  you  where  you  shall 
hear  him  confirm  much  more.  Ned  Knowell  is 
the  man,  sister :  there's  no.  exception  against  the 
party.  You  are  ripe  for  a  husband ;  and  a 
minute's  loss  to  such  an  occasion  is  a  great  tres- 
pass in  a  wise  beauty.  What  say  you,  sister  ? 
On  my  soul  he  loves  you;  will  you  give  him  the 
meeting .' 

Brid.  Faith  I  had  very  little  confidence  in  mine 
own  constancy,  brother,  if  I  durst  not  meet  a 
man  :  but  this  motion  of  yours  savours  of  an  old 
knight  adventurer's  servant  a  little  too  mjich, 
methinks. 

Wei.  What's  that,  sister  ? 

Brid.  Marry,  of  the  squire. 

Wei.  No  matter  if  it  did,  I  would  be  such  an 
one  for  my  friend.  But  see,  who  is  return'd  to 
hinder  us! 

Re-enter  Kitely. 

Kit.  What  villany  is  this  ?  call'd  out  on  a  false 
message ! 
This  was  some  plot;  I  was  not  sent  for. — Bridget, 
Where  is  your  sister  ? 
Brid.  I  think  she  be  gone  forth,  sir. 
Kit.  How !  is  my  wife  gone  forth  ?     Whither, 

for  God's  sake  .■" 
Brid.  She's  gone  abi'oad  with  Thomas. 
Kit.  Abroad  with  Thomas!    Oh,  that  villain 
dors  me :  ^ 
He  hath  discovered  all  unto  my  wife. 
Beast  that  I  was,  to  trust  him ! — Whither,  I  pray 
Went  she .'  [you, 

Brid.  I  know  not,  sir. 
Wei.  I'll  tell  your  brother, 
Whither  I  suspect  she's  gone. 
Kit.  Whither,  good  brother  ? 
Wei.  To  Cob's  house,  I  believe :  but,  keep  my 

counsel. 
Kit.  I  will,  I  wiU.     To  Cob's  house  !  doth  she 
haunt  Cob's  ?  [Exit. 

Wei.  Come,  he  is  once  more  gone, 
Sister,  let's  lose  no  time  ;  the  affair  is  worth  it. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  VII. 

A  Street. 

Enter  Mathew  and  Bobadill. 

Mat.  I  wonder,  captain,  what  they  will  say  of 
my  going  away,  ha  ? 

Bob.  Why,  what  should  they  say,  but  as  of  a 
discreet  gentleman;  quicli,  wary,  respectful  of 
nature's  fair  lineaments  .'  and  that's  all. 

Mat.  Why  so !  but  what  can  they  say  of  your 
beating  ? 

Boh.  A  rudo  part,  a  touch  with  soft  wood,  a 


1  ceruse — a  wash  for  the  face  and  neck. 

2  dors — befools.     See  note  1,  p.  1S6,  col.  2.    Butz  and 
hum  were  used  in  the  same  sense  last  century. 


232 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


kind  of  gross  battery  used,  laid  on  strongly, 
borne  most  patiently  ;  and  that's  all. 

Mat.  Ay,  but  would  any  man  Lave  offered  it 
in  Venice,  as  you  say  ? 

Boh.  Tut !  I  assure  you,  no.  You  shall  have 
there  your  nobilis,  your  gentilezza,  come  iu 
bravely  upon  your  reverse,  stand  you  close, 
stand  you  firm,  stand  you  fair,  save  your  retri- 
cato  with  his  left  leg,  come  to  the  asaulto  with 
the  right,  thrust  with  brave  steel,  defy  your  base 
wood!  But  wherefore  do  I  awake  this  remem- 
brance? I  was  fascinated,  by  Jupiter, — fasci- 
nated ;  but  I  will  be  unwitch'd,  and  revenged 
by  law. 

Mat.  Do  you  hear  ?  is  it  not  best  to  get  a  war- 
rant, and  have  him  arrested  and  brought  before 
Justice  Clement.'' 

Bob.  It  were  not  amiss  ;  would  we  had  it ! 

Enter  Bkainwokm  disguised  as  Fokmal. 

Mat.  Why,  here  comes  his  man ;  let's  speak  to 
him. 

Boh.  Agreed,  do  you  speak. 

Mat.  Save  you,  sir  ! 

Brai,  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Mat.  Sir,  there  is  one  Downright  hath  abused 
this  gentleman  and  myself,  and  we  detei-mine  to 
make  our  amends  by  law.  Now,  if  you  would  do 
us  the  favour  to  procure  a  warrant,  to  bring  him 
afore  your  master,  you  shall  be  well  considered, 
I  assure  you,  sir. 

Brai.  yir,  you  know  my  service  is  my  living ; 
such  favours  as  these  gotten  of  my  master  is  his 
only  preferment,  and  therefore  you  must  con- 
sider me  as  I  may  make  benefit  of  my  place. 

Mat.  How  is  that,  sir  ? 

Brai.  Faith,  sir,  the  thing  is  extraordinary, 
and  the  gentleman  may  be  of  great  account ;  j'et, 
be  he  what  he  will,  if  you  will  lay  me  down  a 
brace  of  angels  iu  my  hand  you  shall  have  it, 
otherwise  not. 

Mat.  How  shall  we  do,  captain .'  He  asks  a 
brace  of  angels;  you  have  no  money? 

Boh.  Not  a  cross, '  by  fortune. 

Mat.  Nor  I,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  but  twopence 
left  of  my  two  shillings  in  the  morning  for  wine 
and  radish :  let's  find  him  some  pawn. 

Boh.  Pawn !  we  have  none  to  the  value  of  his 
demand. 

Mat.  Oh,  yes;  I'll  pawn  this  jewel  in  my  ear, 
and  you  may  pawn  your  silk  stockings,  and  pull 
up  your  boot-s,  they  will  ne'er  be  missed :  it  must 
be  done  now. 

Boh.  Well,  an  there  be  no  remedy,  I'll  step 
aside  and  pull  them  off.  [  Withdraws. 

Mat.  Do  you  hear,  sir?  we  have  no  store  of 
money  at  this  time,  but  you  shall  have  good 
pawns;  look  you,  sir,  this  jewel,  and  that  gentle- 
man's silk  stockings  ;  because  we  would  have  it 
despatch'd  ere  we  went  to  our  chambers. 

Brai.  I  am  content,  sir;  I  will  get  you  the 
warrant  presently.  What's  his  name,  say  you  ? 
Downright? 

Mat.  Ay,  ay,  George  Downright. 

Brai.  What  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mat.  A  tall  big  man,  sir;  he  goes  in  a  cloak 
most  commonly  of  silk-russet,  laid  about  with 
russet  lace. 

Brai.  'Tis  very  good,  sir. 

Mat.  Here,  sir,  here's  my  jewel. 

Bob.  \_returning.^  And  here  are  my  stockings. 


'  cross.  The  ancient  penny,  according  to  Stow,  had 
a  crest  stamped  on  it,  so  tliat  it  miglit  easily  be  broken 
in  the  midst,  or  in  tlie  four  quarters.  Hence  it  became 
a  common  plirase  when  a  person  had  no  money  about 
him,  to  say  he  had  not  a  single  cross GirronD. 


Brai.  Well,  gentlemen,  I'll  procure  you  this 
warrant  presently ;  but  who  will  you  have  to 
serve  it  ? 

Mat.  That's  true,  captain ;  that  must  be  con- 
sidered. 

Bob.  Body  o'  me,  I  know  not ;  'tis  service  of 
danger. 

Brai.  Why,  you  were  best  get  one  o'  the  varlets 
of  thecitj','  a  Serjeant.  I'll  appoint  you  one,  if 
you  please. 

3Iat.  Will  you,  sir?  why,  we  can  wish  no 
better. 

Bob.  We'll  leave  it  to  you,  sir. 

l^Exeunt  Bob.  and  Mat. 

Brai.  This  is  rare !  Now  will  I  go  pawn  this 
cloak  of  the  justice's  man's  at  the  broker's  for  a 
varlet's  suit,  and  be  the  varlet  myself;  and  get 
either  more  pawns,  or  more  money  of  Downright 
for  the  arrest.  \_Exit. 


,  ACT  IV.— SCENE  VIII. 

The  Lane  before  Cob's  House. 

Enter  Knowell. 

Know.  Oh,  here  it  is ;  I  am  glad  I  have  found 
it  now. — 
Ho  !  who  is  within  here  ? 

Tib.  [luithin.']  I  am  within,  sir;   what's  your 
pleasure  ? 

Know.  To  know  who  is  within  beside  yourself. 

Tib.  Why,  sir,  you  are  no  constable,  I  hope  ? 

Know.   Oh,   fear  you  the  constable  ?    then  I 
doubt  not 
You  have  some  guests  within  deserve  that  fear : 
I'll  fetch  him  straight. 

Enter  Tib. 

Tib.  0'  God's  name,  sir ! 

Know.   Go  to.     Come,  tell  me,  is  not  young 

Knowell  here  ? 
Tib.  Young  Knowell !  I  know  none  such,  sir, 
o'  mine  honesty. 

Know.  Your  honesty,  dame !  it  flies  too  lightly 
from  you. 
There  is  no  way  but  fetch  the  constable. 

Tib.  The  constable !  the  man  is  mad,  I  think. 
l_Exit,  and  clajis  to  the  door. 

Enter  Dame  Kitely  and  Cash. 

Cash.  Ho  !  who  keeps  house  here  ? 
Know.  Oh,  this  is  the  female  copesmate^  of  my 
son: 
Now  shall  I  meet  him  straight. 
Dame  K.  Knock,  Thomas,  hard. 
Cash.  Ho,  goodwife! 

Ke-eniei'  Tib. 

Tib.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ? 
JDame  K.  Why,  woman,  grieves  it  you  to  ope 

your  door  ? 
Belike  you  get  something  to  keep  it  shut. 
Tib.  What  mean  these  questions,  pray  ye  ? 
Dame  K.  So  strange  you  make  it !  is  not  my 

husband  here  ? 
Know.  Her  husband  ? 

Dame  K.  My  tried  husband.  Master  Kitely  ? 
Tib.  I  hope  he  needs  not  to  be  tried  here. 
Dame  K.  No,  dame,  he  does  it  not  for  need, 

but  pleasure. 


•  varlets  of  the  city — bailiffs  or  Serjeants  at  mace. — 

GiFFOKD. 

2  copesmate — companion ;  cope  is  the  same  as  the  cope 
in  copesman,  the  old  word  for  chapman,  and  means  to 
exchange. 


BEN  yONSON. 


23; 


Tib.  Neither  for  need  nor  pleasure  is  lie  here. 
Know.  This  is  but  a  device  to  baulk  me  withal : 

Enter  Kitely,  muffled  in  Ms  cloak. 

Soft,  who  is  this?  'tis  not  my  son  disguised? 

Dame  K.  [spies  her  husband,  and  runs  to  him.'\ 
Oh,  sir,  have  I  forestall'd  your  honest  market, 
Found  your  close  walks  ?  You  stand  amazed  now, 

do  you  ? 
I'faith,  I  am  glad  I  have  smok'd  you  yet  at  last. 
What  is  your  jewel,  trow  ?  In,  come,  let's  see  her ; 
Fetch  forth  your  housewife,  dame ;  if  she  be  fairer. 
In  any  honest  judgment,  than  mj'self, 
I'll  be  content  with  it :  but  she  is  change, . 
She  feeds  you  fat,  she  soothes  your  appetite, 
And  you  are  well !  Your  wife,  an  honest  woman, 
Is  meat  twice  sod  to  you,  sir!     Oh,  you  treach- 
our !  '■ 

Know.  She  cannot  counterfeit  thus  palpably. 

Kit.  Out  on   thy  more  than   strumpet  impu- 
dence ! 
Steal'st  thou  thus  to  thy  haunts?    and  have  I 

taken 
Thy  bawd  and  thee,  and  thy  companion, 
This  hoary-headed  lecher,  this  old  goat, 
Close  at  your  villany,  and  would'st  thou  'scuse  it 
With  this  stale  harlot's  jest,  accusing  me  ? 
Oh,  old   incontinent    [to  Knowell],  dost   thou 

not  shame, 
When  all  thy  powers  in  chastity  are  spent, 
To  have  a  mind  so  hot  ?  and  to  entice. 
And  feed  the  enticements  of  a  lustful  woman  ? 

Dame  K.   Out,    I   defy   thee,    I,    dissembling 
wretch ! 

Kit.  Defy  me,  strumpet !  Ask  thy  pander  here. 
Can  he  deny  it  ?  or  that  wicked  elder  ? 

Know.  Why,  hear  you,  sir. 

Kit.  T  ut,  tut,  tut ;  never  speak  : 
Thy  guilty  conscience  will  discover  thee. 

Knoio.  What  lunacy  is  this,  that  haunts  this 
man  ? 

Kit.  Well,   good  wife  bawd.  Cob's  wife,  and 

you. 

That  make  your  husband  such  a  hoddy-doddy ; 
And  you,  young  apple-squire,^  and  old  cuckold- 
maker  ; 
I'll  have  you  every  one  before  a  justice : 
Nay,  you  shall  answer  it,  I  charge  you  go. 

Know.  Marry,  with  all    my  heart,   sir,   I    go 
willingly ; 
Though  I  do  taste  this  as  a  trick  put  on  me, 
To  punish  my  impertinent  search,  and  justly. 
And  half  forgive  my  son  for  the  device. 

Kit.  Come,  will  you  go  ? 

Dame  K.  Go !  to  thy  shame  believe  it. 

Enter  Cob. 

Cob.  Why,  what's  the  matter  here,  what's  here 
to  do? 

Kit.  Oh,  Cob,  art  thou  come?  I  have  been 
abused,  and  in  thy  house ;  was  never  man  so 
wrong'd ! 

Cob.  'Slid,  in  my  house,  my  Master  Kitely  I 
Who  wrongs  you  in  my  house? 

Kit.  Marry,  young  lust  in  old,  and  old  in  young 
here : 
Thy  wife's  their  bawd,  here  have  I  taken  them. 

Cob.  How,  bawd !  is  my  house  come  to  that  ? 
Am  I  preferr'd  thither?  Did  I  not  charge  you 
to  keep  your  doors  shut,  Isbel?  and  —  you  let 
them  lie  open  for  all  comers !  \_Beats  his  wife. 

Know.  Friend,  know  some  cause,  before  thou 
beat'st  thy  wife. 
This  is  madness  in  thee. 


^  Ireachour — traitor. 


2  apple-squire — pimp. 


Cob.  Why,  is  there  no  cause  ? 

Kit.  Yes,  I'll  sliow  cause  before  the  justice, 
Cob.     Come,  let  her  go  with  me. 

Cob.  Nay,  she  shall  go. 

Tib.  Nay,  I  will  go.  I'll  see  an  you  may  be 
allowed  to  make  a  bundle  of  hemp  of  your  right 
and  lawful  wife  thus,  at  every  cuckoldy  knave's 
pleasure.     Why  do  you  not  go  ? 

Kit.  A  bitter  quean  !  Come,  we  will  have  you 
tamed.  \_Exeunt, 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IX. 

A  Street. 

Enter  Brainworm,  disguised  as  a  City  Serjeant. 

Brai.  Well,  of  all  my  disguises  yet,  now  am  I 
most  like  myself,  being  in  this  Serjeant's  gown. 
A  man  of  my  present  profession  never  counter- 
feits, till  he  iaj's  hold  upon  a  debtor,  and  says, 
he  rests  him ;  for  then  he  brings  him  to  all 
manner  of  unrest.  A  kind  of  little  kings  we  are, 
bearing  the  diminutive  of  a  mace,  made  like  a 
young  artichoke,  that  always  carries  pepper  and 
salt  in  itself.  Well,  I  know  not  what  danger  I 
undergo  by  this  exploit;  pray  Heaven  I  come 
well  off ! 

Enter  Mathew  and  Bobadill. 

Mat.  See,  I  think,  yonder  is  the  varlet,  by  his 
gown. 

Bob.  Let's  go  in  quest  of  him. 

Mat.  'Save  you,  friend!  are  not  you  here  by 
appointment  of  Justice  Clement's  man  ? 

Brai.  Yes,  an't  please  you,  sir;  he  told  me, 
two  gentlemen  had  will'd  him  to  procure  a  war- 
rant from  his  master,  which  I  have  about  me,  to 
be  served  on  one  Downright. 

Mat.  It  is  honestly  done  of  you  both  ;  and  see 
where  the  party  comes  you  must  arrest ;  serve 
it  upon  him  quickly,  afore  he  be  aware. 

Bob.  Bear  bade.  Master  Mathew. 

Enter  Stephen  in  Downkight's  cloaTc. 

Brai.  Master  Downright,  I  arrest  you  in  the 
queen's  name,  and  must  carry  you  afore  a  justice 
by  virtue  of  this  warrant. 

Step.  Me,  friend  !  I  am  no  Downright,  I ;  I  am 
Master  Stephen.  You  do  not  well  to  arrest  me, 
I  tell  you  truly ;  I  am  in  nobody's  bonds  nor 
books,  I  would  you  should  know  it.  A  plague 
on  you  heartily,  for  making  me  thus  afraid  afore 
my  time ! 

Brai.  Why,  now  you  are  deceived,  gentlemen. 

Bob.  He  wears  such  a  cloak,  and  that  deceived 
us.  But  see,  here  acomes  indeed;  this  is  he, 
officer. 

Enter  Do^vnright.  ' 

Down.  Why,  how  now,  signior  gull !  are  you 
turn'd  filcher  of  late  ?     Come,  deliver  my  cloak. 

Step.  Your  cloak,  sir!  I  bought  it  even  now, 
in  open  market. 

Brai.  Master  Downright,  I  have  a  warrant  I 
must  serve  upon  you,  procured  by  these  two 
gentlemen. 

Down.  These  gentlemen  ?  these  rascals ! 

\^Offers  to  beat  them. 

Brai.  Keep  the  peace,  I  charge  you  in  hei 
majesty's  name. 

Down.  I  obey  thee.     What  must  I  do,  officer  ? 

Brai.  Go  before  Master  Justice  Clement,  to 
answer  that  they  can  object  against  you,  sir.  I 
will  use  you  kindly,  sir. 


534 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Mat.  Come,  let's  before,  and  make  the  justice, ' 
oaptairi. 

Boh.  The  varlet's  a  tall  man,  afore  heaven  ! 

\Exeunt  Bob.  and  Mat. 

Down.  Gull,  you'll  give  me  my  cloak. 

Step.  Sir,  I  bought  it,  and  I'll  keep  it. 

Down.  You  will  ? 

Step.  Ay,  that  I  will. 

Down.  Officer,  there's  thy  fee,  arrest  him. 

Brai.  Master  Stephen,  I  must  arrest  you. 

Step.  Arrest  me !  I  scorn  it.  There,  take  your 
cloak,  I'll  none  on't. 

Down.  Nay,  that  shall  not  serve  your  turn  now, 
sir.  Officer,  I'll  go  with  thee  to  the  justice's; 
bring  him  along. 

Step.  Why,  is  not  here  your  cloak?  what  would 
you  have .' 

Down.  I'll  have  you  answer  it,  sir. 

Brai.  Sir,  I'll  take  your  word,  and  this  gentle- 
man's too,  for  his  appearance. 

Down.  I'll  have  no  words  taken:  bring  him 
along. 

Brai.  Sir,  I  may  choose  to  do  that,  I  may  take 
bail. 

Down.  'Tis  true,  you  may  take  bail,  and  choose 
at  another  time  ;  but  you  shall  not  now,  varlet : 
bring  him  along,  or  I'll  swinge  you. 

Brai.  Sir,  I  pity  the  gentleman's  case ;  here's 
your  naoney  again. 

Down.  'Sdeins,  tell  not  me  of  my  money ;  bring 
him  away,  I  say. 

Brai.  I  warrant  you  he  will  go  with  you  of 
himself,  sir. 

Down.  Yet  more  ado  ? 

Brai.  I  have  made  a  fair  mash  on't.        [^Aside. 

Step.  Must  I  go  ? 

Br-ai.  1  know  no  remedy.  Master  Stephen. 

Down.  Come  along  afore  me  here ;  I  do  not 
love  your  hanging  look  behind. 

Step.  AVhy,  sir,  I  hope  you  cannot  hang  me 
for  it :  can  he,  fellow  ? 

B7-ai.  1  think  not,  sir;  it  is  but  a  whipping 
matter,  sure. 

Step.  Why,  then,  let  him  do  his  worst,  I  am 
resolute.  lExeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

CoLEMAiJ-STREET.    A  Hall  in  Justice 
Clement's  House. 

Enter  Clement,  Kno'Well,  Kitely,  Damo 
KiTELY,  Tib,  Cash,  Cob,  and  Sei-vants. 

Clem.  Nay,  but  stay,  stay,  give  me  leave :  my 
chair,  sirrah.  You,  Master  Knowell,  say  you 
went  thither  to  meet  youi-  son  ? 

Know.  Ay,  sir. 

Clem.  But  who  directed  you  hither  ? 

Know.  That  did  mine  own  man,  sir. 

Clem.  "Where  is  he  ? 

Know.  Nay,  I  know  not  now ;  I  left  him  with 
your  clerk,  and  appointed  him  to  stay  here  for 
me. 

Clem.  My  clerk !  about  what  time  was  this  ? 

Know.  Marry,  between  one  and  two,  as  I  take  it. 

Clem.  And  what  time  came  my  man  with  the 
false  message  to  you.  Master  Kitely  ? 

Kit.  After  two,  sii'. 

Clem.  Very  good.  But,  Mistress  Kitely,  how 
chance  that  you  were  at  Cob's,  ha  ? 

Dame  K.  An't  please  you,  sir,  I'll  tell  you :  my 
brother  Wellbred  told  me  that  Cob's  house  was 
a  suspected  place — 


1  make  the  justice — i.e.  acquaint  him  with  our  business. 

— GlFFORD. 


Clem.  So  it  appears,  methiuks ;  but  on. 

Dame  K.  And  that  my  husband  used  thither 
daily. 

Clem.  No  matter,  so  he  used  himself  well, 
mistress. 

Dame  K.  True,  sir ;  but  you  Imow  what  grows 
by  such  haunts  oftentimes. 

Clem.  I  see  rank  fruits  of  a  jealous  brain, 
Mistress  Kitely:  but  did  you  find  your  husband 
there,  in  that  case  as  you  suspected  ? 

Kit.  I  found  her  there,  sir. 

Clem.  Did  you  so !  that  alters  the  case.  Who 
gave  you  knowledge  of  your  wife's  being  there  ? 

Kit.  Marry,  that  did  my  brother  WeUbred. 

Clem.  How,  Wellbred  first  tell  her;  then  tell 
you  after !     Where  is  Wellbred  ? 

Kit.  Gone  with  my  sister,  sir,  I  know  not 
whither. 

Clem.  Why.  this  is  a  mere  trick,  a  device ;  you 
are  gull'd  in  this  most  grossly  all.  Alas,  poor 
wench !  wert  thou  beaten  for  this  ? 

Tib.  Yes,  most  pitifully,  an't  please  you. 

Coh.  And  worthily,  I  hoj)e,  if  it  shall  prove  so. 

Clem.  Ay,  that's  like,  and  a  piece  of  a  sen- 
tence.— 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now,  sir !  what's  the  matter? 

Serv.  Sir,  there's  a  gentleman  in  the  court 
without,  desires  to  speak  with  your  worship. 

Clem.  A  gentleman  !  what  is  he  ? 

Serv.  A  soldier,  sir,  he  says. 

Clem.  A  soldier!  Take  down  my  armour,  my 
sword  quickly.  A  soldier  speak  with  me  !  Why, 
when,'  knaves?  Come  on,  come  on  \jirms  him- 
self \.  Hold  my  cap  there,  so  ;  give  me  my  gorget, 
my  sword.  Stand  by,  I  will  end  your  matters 
anon. — Let  the  soldier  enter,     v       \_Exit  Servant. 

Enter  Bobadill,  folloioed  hj  Mathew. 

Now,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  ? 
Boh.  By  j'our  worship's  favour — 

Clem.  Nay,  keep  out,  sir;  I  know  not  your 
pretence.  You  send  me  word,  sir,  you  are  a 
soldier:  why,  sir,  you  shall  be  answer'd  here: 
here  be  them  have  been  amongst  soldiers.  Sir, 
your  pleasure. 

Bob.  Faith,  su",  so  it  is,  this  gentleman  and 
mj'self  have  been  most  uncivilly  wrong'd  and 
beaten  by  one  Downright,  a  coarse  fellow,  about 
the  town  here ;  and  for  mine  own  p)art,  I  protest, 
being  a  man  in  no  sort  given  to  this  filthy  humour 
of  quarrelling,  he  hath  assaulted  me  in  the  way  of 
my  peace,  despoiled  me  of  mine  honour,  disarmed 
me  of  my  weapons,  and  rudely  laid  me  along  in 
the  open  streets,  when  I  not  so  much  as  once 
offered  to  resist  him. 

Clem.  Oh,  God's  pi-ecious!  is  this  the  soldier? 
Here,  take  Tuy  armour  off  quickly,  'twill  make 
him  swoon,  I  fear ;  he  is  not  fit  to  look  on't,  that 
will  put  up  a  blow. 

Mat.  An't  please  your  worship,  he  was  bound 
to  the  peace. 

Clem.  Why,  an  he  were,  sir,  his  hands  were 
not  bound,  were  they  ? 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  There's  one  of  the  varlets  of  the  city,  sir, 
has  brought  two  gentlemen  here ;  one  upon  your 
worship's  warrant. 

Clem.  My  warrant ! 

Serv.  Yes,  sir;  the  officer  says,  procured  by 
these  two. 


1  lohen—a,  common  exclamation  of  impatience  in  our 
old  dramatists. — Giffokd. 


BEN  JONSON. 


235 


Clem.  Bid  him  come  in.  [Exit  Servant.]  Set 
by  this  picture. 

Enter  Downright,  Stephen,  and  Brainwokm, 
disguised  as  before. 

What,  Master  Downright !   are  you  brought  at 
Master  Fresh  water's  suit  here  ? 

JDoivn.  I'f aith,  sir :  and  here's  another  brought 
at  my  suit. 

Clem.  What  ai-e  you,  sir  ? 

Step.  A  gentleman,  sir.     Oh,  uncle! 

Clem.  Uncle!  who,  Master  Kuo well? 

Know.  Ay,  sir,  this  is  a  wise  kinsman  of  mine. 

Step.  God's  my  witness,  uncle,  I  am  wrong'd 
here  monstrously ;  he  charges  me  with  stealing 
of  his  cloak,  and  would  I  might  never  stir,  if  i 
did  not  find  it  in  the  street  by  chance. 

Down.  Oh,  did  you  find  it  now?  You  said 
you  bought  it  erewhile. 

Step.  And  you  said  I  stole  it :  nay,  now  my 
uncle  is  here,  I'll  do  well  enough  with  you. 

Clem.  Well,  let  this  breathe  awhile.  You  that 
have  cause  to  complain  there,  stand  forth.  Had 
you  my  warrant  for  this  gentleman's  apprehen- 
sion ? 

Bob.  Ay,  an't  please  your  worship. 

Clem.  Nay,  do  not  speak  in  passion '  so :  where 
had  you  it  ? 

Bob.  Of  your  clerk,  sir. 

Clem.  That's  well!  an  my  clerk  can  make 
warrants,  and  my  hand  not  at  them !  Where  is 
the  warrant — officer,  have  you  it  ? 

Brai.  No,  sir;  your  worship's  man,  Master 
Formal,  bid  me  do  it  for  these  gentlemen,  and 
he  would  be  my  discharge. 

Clem.  Why,  Master  Downright,  are  you  such  a 
novice,  to  be  served  and  never  see  the  warrant  ? 

Down.  Sir,  he  did  not  serve  it  on  me. 

Clem.  No!  how  then? 

Doivn.  Marry,  sir,  he  came  to  me,  and  said  he 
must  serve  it,  and  he  would  use  me  kindly,  and 
60 — 

Clem.  Oh,  God's  pity,  was  it  so,  sir?  Se 
must  serve  it!  Give  me  my  long  sword  there, 
and  help  me  off.  So,  come  on,  sir  varlet,  I  must 
cut  off  your  legs,  sirrah  [Brainwokm  kneels']  ; 
nay,  stand  up,  Fll  use  you  kindly ;  I  must  cut  off 
your  legs,  I  say. 

[Flourishes  over  him  with  his  long  sword. 

Brai.  Oh,  good  sir,  I  beseech  you;  nay,  good 
Master  Justice ! 

Clem.  I  must  do  it,  there  is  no  remedy;  I 
must  cut  off  your  legs,  sirrah;  I  must  cut  off 
your  ears,  you  rascal,  I  must  do  it ;  I  must  cut 
off  your  nose,  I  must  cut  off  your  head. 

Brai.  Oh,  good  your  worship ! 

Clem.  Well,  rise;  how  dost  thou  do  now  ?  dost 
thou  feel  thyself  well  ?  hast  thou  no  harm  ? 

Brai.  No,  I  thank  your  good  worship,  sir. 

Clem.  Why  so  !  I  said  I  must  cut  on  thy  legs, 
and  I  must  cut  off  thy  arms,  and  1  must  cut  off 
thy  head ;  but  I  did  not  do  it :  so  you  said  you 
must  serve  this  gentleman  with  my  warrant,  but 
you  did  not  serve  him.  You  knave,  you  slave, 
you  rogue,  do  you  say  you  must,  sirrah !  Away 
with  him  to  the  jail ;  I'll  teach  you  a  trick  for 
your  must,  sir. 

Brai.  Good  sir,  I  beseech  you,  be  good  to  me. 

Clem.  Tell  him  he  shall  to  the  jail;  away  with 
him,  I  say. 

Brai.  Nay,  sir,  if  you  will  commit  me,  it  shall 
be  for  committing  more  than  this.  I  will  not  lose 
by  my  travail  any  grain  of  my  fame,  certain. 

[Throios  off  his  serjeanfs  goion. 


1  in  passion — in  so  melancholy  a  tone,  so  pathetically. 

— GiFFOKD. 


Clem.  How  is  this  ? 

Know.  My  man  Braiuworm  ! 

Step.  Oh  yes,  uncle ;  Brainworni  has  been 
with  my  cousin  Edward  and  I  all  this  day. 

Clem.  I  told  you  all  there  was  some  device. 

Brai.  Nay,  excellent  justice,  since  I  have  laid 
myself  thus  open  to  you,  now  stand  strong  for 
me  ;  both  with  j'our  sword  and  your  balance. 

Clem.  Body  o'  me,  a  merry  knave !  give  me  a 
bowl  of  sack.  If  he  belong  to  you,  Master 
Knowell,  I  bespeak  your  patience. 

Brai.  That  is  it  1  have  most  need  of.  Sir,  if 
you'll  pardon  mo  only,  I'll  glory  in  all  the  rest 
of  my  exploits. 

Know.  Sir,  you  know  I  love  not  to  have  my 
favours  come  hard  from  me.  You  have  your 
pardon,  though  I  suspect  you  shrewdly  for  being 
of  counsel  with  my  son  against  me. 

Brai.  Yes,  faith,  I  have,  sir,  though  you  re- 
tain'd  me  doubly  this  morning  for  yourself:  first 
as  Brainworm;  after  as  Fitz-iSword.  I  was  your 
reform'd  soldier,  sir.  'Twas  I  sent  you  to  Cob's 
upon  the  errand  without  end. 

Know.  Is  it  possible  ?  or  that  thou  should'st 
disguise  thy  language  so  as  I  should  not  know 
thee? 

Brai.  Oh,  sir,  this  has  been  the  day  of  my 
metamorphosis.  It  is  not  that  shape  alone  that 
I  have  run  through  to-day.  I  brought  this  gen- 
tleman. Master  Kitely,  a  message  too,  in  the  foi-m 
of  Master  Justice's  man  here,  to  draw  him  out  of 
the  way,  as  well  as  your  worship,  while  Master 
Wellbred  might  make  a  conveyance  of  Mistress 
Bridget  to  my  young  master. 

Kit.  How !  my  sister  stolen  away  ? 

Know.  My  son  is  not  married,  I  hope  ! 

Brai.  Faith,  sir,  they  are  both  as  sure  as  love, 
a  priest,  and  three  thousand  pound,  which  is  her 
portion,  can  make  them;  and  by  this  time  are 
ready  to  bespeak  their  wedding-supper  at  the 
Windmill,  except  some  friend  here  prevent  them, 
and  invite  them  home. 

Clem.  Marry,  that  will  I ;  I  thank  thee  for  put- 
ting me  in  mind  on't. — Sirrah,  go  you  and  fetch 
them  hither  tipon  mj^  warrant.  [Exit  Servant.] 
Neither  friends  have  cause  to  be  sorry,  if  I  know 
the  young  couple  aright.  Here,  I  drink  to  thee 
for  thy  good  news.  But,  I  pray  thee,  what  hast 
thou  done  with  my  man.  Formal  ? 

Brai.  Faith,  sir,  after  some  ceremony  past,  as 
making  him  drunk,  first  with  story,  and  then 
with  wine  (but  all  in  kindness),  and  stripping 
him  to  his  shirt,  I  left  him  in  that  cool  vein ; 
departed,  sold  your  worship's  warrant  to  these 
two,  pawn'd  his  livery  for  that  varlet's  gown, 
to  serve  it  in ;  and  thus  have  brought  myself  by 
my  activity  to  your  worship's  consideration. 

Clem.  And  I  will  consider  thee  in  another  cup 
of  sack.  Here's  to  thee,  which,  having  drunk  off', 
this  is  my  sentence.  Pledge  me.  Thou  hast 
done,  or  assisted  to  nothing,  in  my  judgment, 
but  deserves  to  be  pardon'd  for  the  wit  of  the 
offence.  If  thy  master,  or  any  man  here,  be 
angry  with  thee,  I  shall  suspect  his  ingine,* 
while  I  know  him,  for't. — How  now!  what  noise 
is  that  ? 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Su",  it  is  Eoger  is  come  home. 
Clem.  Bring  him  in,  bring  him  in. 

Enter  Formal  in  a  suit  of  armour. 

What !  drunk  ?  in  arms  against  me  ?  your  reason, 
your  reason  for  this  ? 


1  ingine — from  Lat.  ingmium,  wit,  understanding. 


2^6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Form.  I  beseech  your  worship  to  pardon  me. 
I  happened  into  ill  company  by  chance,  that 
cast  me  into  a  sleep,  and  stript  me  of  all  my 
clothes. 

Ciem.  Well,  tell  him  I  am  Justice  Clement,  and 
do  pardon  him :  but  what  is  this  to  your  armour  ? 
what  may  that  signify .' 

Form.  An't  please  you,  sir,  it  hung  up  in  the 
room  whei'e  I  was  stript :  and  I  borrow'd  it  of 
one  of  the  drawers  to  come  home  in,  because  I 
was  loth  to  do  penance  through  the  street  in  my 
shirt. 

Clem.  Well,  stand  by  a  while. 

Enter  E.  Knowell,  Wellbred,  and  Bridget. 

Who  be  these  ?  Oh,  the  young  company ;  wel- 
come, welcome !  Give  you  joy.  Nay,  Mistress 
Bridget,  blush  not;  you  are  not  so  fresh  a  bride, 
but  the  news  of  it  is  come  hither  afore  you. 
Master  Bridegroom,  I  have  made  your  peace, 
give  me  your  hand :  so  will  I  for  all  the  rest  ere 
you  forsake  my  roof. 

E.  Knoio.  We  are  the  more  bound  to  your 
humanity,  sir. 

Clem.  Only  these  two  have  so  little  of  man  in 
them,  they  are  no  part  of  my  care. 

Wei.  Yes,  sir,  let  me  pray  you  for  this  gentle- 
man, he  belongs  to  my  sister  the  bride. 

Clem.  In  what  place,  sir .'' 

Wei.  Of  her  delight,  sir,  below  the  stairs,  and 
in  public :  her  poet,  sir. 

Clem.  A  poet!  I  will  challenge  him  myself 
presently  at  extempore. 

Mount  tip  thy  Phlegon,  Muse,  and  testify, 
How  Saturn,  sitting  in  an  ebon  cloud., 

Disrobed  his  podex,  white  as  ivory, 

And  through  the  welkin  thunder  d  all  aloud. 

Wei.  He  is  not  for  extempore,  sir:  he  is  all 
for  the  pocket  muse ;  please  you  command  a  sight 
of  it. 

Clem.  Yes,  yes,  search  him  for  a  taste  of  his 
vein.  [They  search  Mathew's  jmckets. 

Wei.  You  must  not  deny  the  queen's  justice, 
sir,  under  a  Vrit  of  rebellion. 

Clem.  What !  all  this  verse  ?  Body  o'  me,  he 
carries  a  whole  realm,  a  commonwealth  of  paper 
in  his  hose :  let  us  see  some  of  his  subjects. 

l^Eeads. 
Unto  the  boundless  ocean  of  thy  face,    ^  [eyes. 
Runs  this  j)oor  river,  charged  with  streams  of 
How !  this  is  stolen. 

E.  Kno'w.  A  parody !  a  parody !  with  a  kind 
of  miraculous  gift,  to  make  it  absurder  than  it 
was. 

Clem.  Is  all  the  rest  of  this  batch  ?  bring  me  a 
torch ;  lay  it  together,  and  give  fire.  Cleanse  the 
air.  [Sets  the  papers  onjire.^  Here  was  enough 
to  have  infected  the  whole  city,  if  it  had  not  been 
taken  in  time.  See,  see,  how  our  poet's  glory 
shines!  brighter  and  brighter !  still  it  increases! 
Oh,  now  it  is  at  the  highest ;  and  now  it  declines 
as  fast.     You  may  see,  sic  transit  gloria  mundi!^ 

Know.  There's  an  emblem  for  you,  son,  and 
your  studies. 


>  '  80  vanishes  the  glory  of  the  world." 


Clem.  Nay,  no  speech  or  act  of  mine  be  drawn 
against  such  as  profess  it  worthily.  They  are 
not  born  every  year,  as  an  alderman.  There 
goes  more  to  the  making  of  a  good  poet,  than  a 
sheriff.  Master  Ivitely,  you  look  upon  me  I — 
though  I  live  in  the  city  here  amongst  you,  I 
will  do  more  reverence  to  him,  when  I  meet  him, 
than  I  will  to  the  mayor  out  of  his  year.  But 
these  paper-pedlars !  these  ink-dabblers !  they 
cannot  expect  repi-ehension  or  reproach ;  they 
have  it  with  the  fact. 

E.  Know.  Sir,  you  have  saved  me  the  labour 
of  a  defence. 

Clem.  It  shall  be  discourse  for  supper  between 
your  father  and  me,  if  he  dare  undertake  me. 
But  to  despatch  away  these,  you  sign  o'  the 
soldier,  and  picture  of  the  poet  (but  both  so 
false,  I  will  not  have  you  hanged  out  at  my 
door  till  midnight),  while  we  are  at  supper,  you 
two  shall  penitently  fast  it  out  in  my  court  with- 
out; and,  if  you  will,  you  may  pray  there  that 
we  may  be  so  merry  within  as  to  forgive  or 
forget  you  when  we  come  out.  Here's  a  third, 
because  we  tender  your  safety,  shall  watch  you, 
he  is  provided  for  the  purpose.  Look  to  your 
charge,  sir. 

Step.  And  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Clan.  Oh !  I  had  lost  a  sheep  an'  he  had  not 
bleated.  Why,  sir,  you  shall  give  Master  Down- 
right his  cloak ;  and  I  will  entreat  him  to  take 
it.  A  trencher  and  a  napkin  you  shall  have  in 
the  buttery,  and  keep  Cob  and  his  wife  company 
here ;  whom  I  will  entreat  first  to  be  reconciled ; 
and  you  to  endeavour  with  your  wit  to  keep 
them  so. 

Step.  I'll  do  my  best. 

Cob.  Why,  now  I  see  thou  art  honest,  Tib,  I 
receive  thee  as  my  dear  and  mortal  wife  again. 

Tib.  And  I  you,  as  my  loving  and  obedient 
husband. 

Clem.  Good  compliment !  It  will  be  their  bridal 
night  too.  They  are  married  anew.  Come,  I 
conjure  the  rest  to  put  off  all  discontent.  You, 
Master  Downright,  your  anger;  you.  Master 
Knowell,  your  cares ;  Master  Kitely  and  his 
wife,  their  jealousy. 

For,  I  must  tell  you  both,  while  that  is  fed. 
Horns  in  the  mind  are  worse  than  on  the  head. 

Kit.  Sir,  thus  they  go  from  me ;  kiss  me, 
sweetheart. 

See  what  a  drove  of  horns  fly  in  the  air, 
Winged  with  my  cleansed  and  my  credulous  breath! 
Watch  'em  suspicious  eyes,  watch  luhere  they  fall, 
See,  see  !  on  heads  that  think  they  have  none  at  all! 
Oh,  what  a  plenteous  world  of  this  will  come! 
When  air  rains  honis,  all  may  be  swe  of  some. 
1  have  learn'd  so  much  verso  out  of  a  jealous 
man's  part  in  a  play. 

Clem.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well!  This  night  we'll 
dedicate  to  friendship,  love,  and  laughter.  Mas- 
ter Bridegroom,  take  your  bride  and  lead ;  every 
one  a  fellow.  Here  is  my  mistress,  Brainworm  ! 
to  whom  all  my  addresses  of  courtship  shall 
have  their  reference :  whose  adventures  this  day, 
when  our  grandchildren  shall  hear  to  be  made  a 
fable,  I  doubt  not  but  it  shall  find  both  spec- 
tators and  applause.  [Exeunt. 


\ 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER, 


[All  who  are  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  English  drama  know  that  it  was  a  common 
thing  for  two  or  more  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists  to  join  their  wits  in  the  manufacture  of 
a  play :  thus  A  Looking -Glass  for  London  and  England  was  the  joint  production  of  Greene 
and  Lodge  ;  and  Jonson,  Chapman,  and  Marston  were  nearly  losing  their  ears  for  heing  all 
three  concerned  in  the  manufacture  of  Eastward  Hoe.  Ko  doubt  they  were  frequently 
urged  to  enter  into  these  literary  partnerships  by  a  desire  to  get  their  ware  ready  for  the 
market  as  soon  as  possible,  and  thus  speedily  replenish  their  generally  empty  purses. 
Povert}^,  however,  can  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  illustrious  literary  union  formed  by 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  as  both  these  dramatists  were  well  connected,  and  apparently  were 
quite  independent  of  the  proceeds  of  their  pens. 

John  Fletcher,  the  elder  of  the  two,  was  born  at  Eye,  in  Sussex,  1576  (1579  according  to 
Dyce),  his  father  being  Dr.  Richard  Fletcher,  afterwards  Bishop  of  London,  and  a  favourite 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Fletcher  was  educated  at  Bennet  College,  Cambridge,  but  appears  never 
to  have  taken  his  degree,  although,  it  is  said,  he  acquired  much  classical  erudition  ;  he  must, 
at  any  rate,  have  had  considerable  acquaintance  with  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian,  as  many 
of  his  plots  are  taken  from  then  untranslated  dramas  in  these  languages.  At  what  time  he 
commenced  writing  for  the  stage  is  uncertain  ;  but  it  is  probable  that  in  1606  or  1607,  some- 
what before  his  partnership  with  Beaumont,  he  produced  the  comedy  of  The  Woman  Hater 
and  the  tragedy  of  Thierry  and  Theodoret.  Little  more  is  known  of  the  details  of  his  life, 
except  that  he  died  in  August  1625  of  the  plague,  while  being  detained  in  London  waiting 
for  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  He  appears  to  have  been  of  a  social,  generous  disposition,  and 
somewhat  more  correct  in  his  conduct  than  the  majority  of  his  brother  dramatists.  John 
Fletcher  was  cousin  to  Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher,  two  poets  of  considerable  credit. 

Francis  Beaumont,  like  his  literary  partner,  was  well  connected,  belonging  to  an  ancient 
and  honourable  family,  which  had  been  seated  at  Grace-Dieu,  in  Liecestershire,  for  many 
generations.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  Francis  Beaumont,  a  judge  of  the  Common  Pleas, 
and  Avas  born  in  15S6,  perhaps  earlier,  and  became  a  gentleman-commoner  of  Broadgate 
Hall,  now  Pembroke  College,  in  1596.  After  leaving  college,  he  attempted  to  study  law  in 
the  Inner  Temple,  but  soon  gave  it  up,  his  tastes  lying  in  quite  another  direction.  When 
only  sixteen  he  translated  one  of  Ovid's  fables  into  English  rhyme,  and  must  have  become 
intimate  with  Ben  Jonson  before  he  was  nineteen,  as  at  that  age  he  addressed  some  verses  to 
the  latter  on  his  comedy  of  The  Fox,  produced  in  1605,  Jonson  afterwards  returning  the 
compliment  by  some  laudatory  lines,  beginning — 

*  How  do  I  love  thee,  Beaumont,  and  thy  muse, 
That  unto  me  dost  such  religion  prove  ! ' 

Beaumont,  unlike  his  friend,  did  not  die  a  bachelor,  but  married,  in  what  year  is  not 
known,  Ursula,  daughter  and  co-heir  of  Henry  Isley  of  Sundridge,  Kent,  by  whom  he  left  two 
daughters.  One  of  these,  Frances,  was  alive  in  1700,  enjoying  a  pension  of  one  hundred 
pounds  from  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  in  whose  family  she  had  been  a  domestic.  Beaumont 
died  ten  years  before  his  friend  Fletcher,  in  March  1615-16,  at  the  premature  age  of  twenty- 
nine,  and  was  buried  near  the  entrance  of  St.  Benedict's  Chapel,  Westminster  Abbey,  hia 
grave,  like  that  of  his  friend's,  being  unmarked  by  slab  or  epitaph.     It  is  not  known  that 

237 


238  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 

Beaumont  wrote  any  drama  previous  to  liis  connection  witli  Fletcher.  To  judge  from  their 
portraits,  both  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  seem  to  have  been  handsome  and  good-looking  ;  and 
Beaumont,  at  least,  was  a  member  of  the  famous  club  which  met  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  he 
having  written  a  lively  poetical  description  of  the  '  wit-combats',  which  took  place  there. 

*  What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  eveiy  one  from  whom  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  iu  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life.'   .    .    . 

It  has  been  conjectured  that. Beaumont  and  Fletcher  commenced  their  literary  partner- 
ship about  1608,  and  it  continued  till  the  former's  death  in  1616.  Their  union  seems  to 
have  been  one  not  of  mere  convenience,  but  of  fast  friendship  ;  and,  according  to  Aubrey, 
they  lived  together  in  one  house  '  on  the  Bankside, '  and  were  on  the  most  intimate  and 
familiar  terms.  What  was  their  modus  operandi  in  the  manufactui'e  of  their  dramatic  pro- 
ductions, we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining,  although  there  is  an  amusing  story  told  of  the 
two,  which,  if  true,  affords  us  a  slight  glimpse  into  their  method  of  procedure.  'At  a 
tavern,  as  our  poets  choose  each  his  share  of  some  future  dramatic  task,  a  fierce  ejaculation 
is  heard  from  their  chamber :  "  I'll  undertake  to  kill  the  king ! "  One  who  stood  outside, 
readier  to  catch  up  a  treasonable  than  a  poetic  idea,  gives  information  of  this  regicide  plot ; 
and  the  poor  dramatist,  till  he  can  explain,  has  a  prospect  of  the  block,  which  better  befitted 
the  blockhead  than  the  betrayer. '  All  the  works  together  attributed  to  '  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher '  amount  to  about  fifty -two,  of  which,  it  has  been  conjectured,,  about  seventeen 
were  the  joint  production  of  the  two  friends,  the  remainder  being  mostly  written  by  Fletcher, 
principally  after  the  death  of  Beaumont.  The  first  drama  written  by  the  two  in  conjunction 
is  probably  Philaster,  produced  some  time  previous  to  1611.  The  other  chief  joint  produc- 
tions are  The  Maid's  Tragedy  (written  before  1611),  King  and  No  King  (1611),  The  Honest 
Man's  Fortune  (1613),  Tha  Coxcomb  (1613),  The  Scornful  Lady  (printed  1616),  The  Little 
French  Lawyer,  The  Laws  of  Candy,  The  Knight  of  Malta.  Fletcher  himself,  before  the 
death  of  his  friend,  wi'ote  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  (before  1611),  an  exqiiisite  but  not  very 
pure  pastoral,  from  which  Milton  is  supposed  to  have  borrowed  the  design  of  his  Comus. 
His  principal  productions  after  Beaumont's  death  were  The  Loyal  Subject  (about  1618),  The 
Chances  (before  1621),  The  Spanish  Curate  (1622),  The  Beggar's  Bush  (1622),  PmIc  a  Wife 
and  Have  a  Wife  (1624),  and  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn  (1625-6).  Shakespeare  is  said  to 
have  assisted  Fletcher  in  the  composition  of  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 

We  have  no  means  now  of  apportioning  to  each  of  these  authors  his  share  in  their  joint 
compositions,  and  to  hazard  a  guess  would  be  idle  and  profitless.  The  general  opinion  seems 
to  be  that  Beaumont  was  the  graver  of  the  two  wits,  the  deeper  scholar,  and  more  acute 
critic,  while  Fletcher  had  the  more  brilliant  wit  and  loftier  genius.  Beaumont,  according 
to  quaint  Tom  Fuller,  brought  '  the  ballast  of  judgment,  and  Fletcher  the  sail  of  phantasy, 
both  compounding  a  poet  to  admiration.'  'Beaumont,'  says  Langbaine,  'was  master  of  a 
good  wit  and  a  better  judgment ;  he  so  admirably  well  understood  the  art  of  the  stage  that 
even  Jonson  himself  thought  it  no  disparagement  to  submit  his  writings  to  his  correction. 
Mr.  Fletcher's  wit  was  equal  to  Mr.  Beaumont's  judgment,  and  was  so  luxurious  that,  lUce 
superfluous  branches,  it  was  frequently  pruned  by  his  judicious  partner.'  While  this  may 
be  true  in  the  main,  still,  if  we  may  judge  from  those  dramas  which  are  the  undoubted  com- 
position of  each  singly,  both  could  manifest  on  occasion  an  equal  degree  of  good  taste,  sound 
judgment,  and  brilliant  fancy.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  generally  allowed  to  have  made 
a  nearer  approach  to  Shakespeare  than  did  any  other  dramatist  either  before  or  after.  This 
may  be  true  in  the  general.  No  doubt  in  the  construction  of  their  plays,  the  smoothness, 
correctness,  and  general  richness  of  their  language,  the  reckless  abundance  of  their  fancy, 
and  the  occasional  depth  of  passion,  they  do  often  remind  one  of  the  unapproachable  master ; 
as  they  likewise  do  by  the  occasional  cropping  out  of  an  everlasting  thought  divinely  worded. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


239 


Still,  tlie  intelligent  reader  must  feel  that  their  dramas  are  characterized  by  weakness, 
crudeness,  want  of  strength  and  point,  and  a  certain  effeminate  softness  often  not  unpleas- 
ing.  Nearly  all  their  productions  hear  the  marks  of  haste  and  carelessness  ;  they  seem  to 
have  revelled  in  composition,  to  have  delighted  in  throwing  off  drama  after  drama,  giving 
themselves  little  trouble  about  perfection  in  details.  So  far  as  genuine  comedy  is  concerned, 
as  well  as  perfection  of  dramatic  construction,  we  are  inclined  to  give  the  jxalm  to  Ben 
Jonson ;  and  in  respect  to  the  power  of  depicting  deep  passion,  and  giving  utterance  to 
genuine  pathos,  perhaps  Marlowe  and  Webster  were  their  superiors.  One  of  the  greatest 
blots  on  the  writings  of  these  dramatists  is  the  disgusting  abundance  of  obscene  language  ; 
for  although,  as  we  have  said,  they  seem  to  have  led  more  correct  lives  than  most  of  their 
contemporaries,  nearly  every  play  is  disfigured  by  ad  nauseam  langiiage,  having  '  all  the 
indecency  and  familiarity  of  a  brothel. '  In  this  respect  they  excel  most  of  their  contem- 
poraries, none  of  whom  are  noted  for  the  exceptional  purity  of  their  language. 

We  conclude  by  quoting  Hazlitt's  estimate  of  these  dramatic  partners  ;  it  seems  to  us  to 
be,  on  the  whole,  just  and  discriminating  : — 

'  We  find  all  the  prodigality  of  youth,  the  confidence  inspired  by  success,  an  enthusiasm 
bordering  on  extravagance,  richness  running  riot,  beauty  dissolving  in  its  own  sweetness. 

'  It  cannot  be  denied  that  they  are  lyrical  and  descriptive  poets  of  the  highest  order; 
every  page  of  their  writings  is  a  florileg'mm  :  they  are  dramatic  poets  of  the  second  class  in 
point  of  knowledge,  variety,  vivacity,  and  effect ;  there  is  hardly  a  passion,  character,  or 
situation,  which  they  have  not  touched  in  their  devious  range,  and  whatever  they  touched 
they  adorned  with  some  new  grace  or  striking  feature  :  they  are  masters  of  style  and  versifi- 
cation in  almost  every  variety  of  melting  modulation  or  sounding  pomp,  of  which  they  are 
capable  :  in  comic  wit  and  spirit  they  are  scarcely  sui-passed  by  any  writers  of  any  age. 
There  they  are  in  their  element,  "like  eagles  newly  baited ;"  but  I  speak  rather  of  their 
serious  poetrj^,  and  this,  I  apprehend,  with  all  its  richness,  sweetness,  loftiness,  and  grace, 
wants  something — stimulates  more  than  it  gratifies,  and  leaves  the  mind  in  a  certain  sense 
exhausted  and  unsatisfied.  Their  fault  is  a  too  ostentatious  and  indiscriminate  display  of 
power.  Everything  seems  in  a  state  of  fermentation  and  effervescence,  and  not  to  have 
settled  and  found  its  centre  in  their  minds.  The  ornaments,  through  neglect  or  abundance, 
do  not  always  appear  suSiciently  appropriate :  there  is  evidently  a  rich  wardrobe  of  words 
and  images  to  set  off  any  sentiments  that  occui",  but  not  equal  felicity  in  the  choice  of  the 
sentiments  to  be  expressed ;  the  characters  in  general  do  not  take  a  substantial  form,  or 
excite  a  gi'owiag  interest,  or  leave  a  permanent  impression  ;  the  passion  does  not  accumu- 
late by  the  force  of  time,  of  circumstances,  and  habit,  but  wastes  itself  in  the  first  ebulli- 
tions of  surprise  and  novelty. 

'  Besides  these  more  critical  objections,  there  is  a  too  frequent  mixture  of  voluptuous 
softness  or  effeminacy  of  character  with  horror  in  the  subjects,  a  conscious  weakness  (I  can 
hardly  think  it  wantonness)  of  moral  constitution  struggling  with  wilful  and  violent  situa- 
tions, like  the  tender  wings  of  the  moth,  attracted  to  the  flame  that  dazzles  and  consumes 
it.  In  the  hey-day  of  their  youthful  ardour,  and  the  intoxication  of  their  animal  spirits, 
they  take  a  perverse  delight  in  tearing  up  some  rooted  sentiment,  to  make  a  mawkish  lamen- 
tation over  it ;  and  fondly  and  gratuitously  cast  the  seeds  of  crimes  into  forbidden  grounds, 
to  see  how  they  wiU  shoot  up  and  vegetate  into  luxuriance,  to  catch  the  eye  of  fancy.  They 
are  not  safe  teachers  of  morality  :  they  tamper  with  it  like  an  experiment  tried  in  corpore 
vili,  and  seem  to  regard  the  decomposition  of  the  common  affections,  and  the  dissolution  of 
the  strict  bonds  of  society,  as  an  agreeable  study  and  a  careless  pastime.  The  tone  of 
Shakespeare's  writings  is  manly  and  bracing ;  theirs  is  at  once  insipid  and  meretricious  in 
the  comparison. '] 


240 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


PHILASTER;   OR,   LOVE  LIES  A-BLEEDING. 

AS  IT  HATH  BEEN  DIVERS  TIMES  ACTED  AT  THE  GLOBE  AND  BLACK 
FRIAKS  BY  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 

WKITTEN  BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER,  GENT, 

The  Second  Impression,  Corrected  and  Amended.     London.     1622. 


^xumviin  ^crsoitJB. 


King. 

Philastek,  Heir  to  the  Crown  of  Sicily. 
Pharamond,  Prince  of  Spain. 
Dion,  a  Lord. 

Thrasiline'   i  -^"^^^  Gentlemen,  his  Associates. 

An  old  Captain. 

Five  Citizens. 

A  Country  Fellow. 


Two  Woodmen. 

The  King's  Guard  and  Ti'ain, 

Akethusa,  the  King's  Daughter. 

Galatea,  awisemodest  Lady,  attending  the  Princess. 

Megra,  a  Court  Lady. 

Euphrasia,  Daughter  of  Dion,  hut  disguised  as  a 

Page,  under  the  name  o/'Bellauio. 
Two  other  Ladies. 


Scene — Messina,  and  a  Neighhouring  Forest. 


ACT  L— SCENE  L 

Messina.     The  Presence-Chamher  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thkasiline. 

Cle.  Here's  nor  lords  nor  ladies. 

Dion,  Credit  me,  gentlemen,  I  wonder  at  it. 
They  received  strict  charge  from  the  king  to 
attend  here.  Besides,  it  was  boldly  published, 
that  no  officer  should  forbid  any  gentlemen  that 
desire  to  attend  and  hear. 

Cle.  Can  you  guess  the  cause  ? 

Dion.  Sii",  it  is  plain,  about  the  Spanish  prince, 
that's  come  to  marry  our  kingdom's  heir,  and  be 
our  sovereign. 

Thra.  Many,  that  will  seem  to  know  much,  say 
she  looks  not  on  him  like  a  maid  in  love. 

Dion.  Oh,  sir,  the  multitude  (that  seldom  know 
anything  but  their  own  opinions)  speak  that  they 
would  have ;  but  the  prince,  before  his  own  ap- 
proach, received  so  many  confident  messages 
from  the  state,  that  I  think  she's  resolved  to  be 
ruled. 

Cle.  Sir,  it  is  thought,  with  her  he  shall  enjoy 
both  these  kingdoms  of  Sicily  and  Calabria. 

Dion.  Sir,  it  is,  without  controversy,  so  meant. 
But  'twill  be  a  troublesome  labour  for  him  to 
enjoy  both  these  kingdoms  with  safety,  the 
right  heir  to  one  of  them  living,  and  living  so 
virtuously;  especially,  the  people  admiring  the 
bravery  of  his  mind,  and  lamenting  his  injuries. 

Cle.  Who?  Philaster? 

Dion.  Yes ;  whose  father,  we  all  know,  was,  by 
our  late  king  of  Calabria,  unrighteously  deposed 
from  his  fruitful  Sicily.  Myself  drew  some  blood 
in  those  wars,  which  I  would  give  my  hand  to  be 
wash'd  from. 

Cle.  Sir,  my  ignorance  in  state  policy  will  not 
let  me  know  why,  Philaster  being  heir  to  one  of 
these  kingdoms,  the  king  should  suffer  him  to 
walk  abroad  with  such  free  liberty. 

Dion.  Sir,  it  seems  your  nature  is  more  con- 
stant than  to  inquire  after  state  news.  But  the 
king,  of  late,  made  a  hazard  of  both  the  king- 
doms, of  Sicily  and  his  own,  with  offering  but  to 


imprison  Philaster.  At  which  the  city  was  in 
arms,  not  to  be  charm'd  down  by  any  state  order 
or  proclamation,  till  they  saw  Philaster  ride 
through  the  streets  pleased,  and  without  a  guard ; 
at  which  they  threw  their  hats  and  their  arms 
from  th&m ;  some  to  make  bonfires,  some  to  drink, 
all  for  his  deliverance.  Which,  wise  men  say, 
is  the  cause  the  king  labours  to  bring  in  the 
power  of  a  foreign  nation,  to  awe  his  own  with. 

Enter  Galatea,  a  Lady,  and  Megra. 

Thra.  See,  the  ladies.     What's  the  first  ? 

Dion.  A  wise  and  modest  gentlewoman  that 
attends  the  princess. 

Cle.  The  second  ? 

Dion.  She  is  one  that  may  stand  still  discreetly 
enough,  and  ill-favouredly  dance  her  measure; 
simper  when  she  is  courted  by  her  friend,  and 
slight  her  husband. 

Cle.  The  last  ? 

Dion.  Marry,  I  think  she  is  one  whom  the 
state  keeps  for  the  agents  of  our  confederate 
princes.  She'll  cog^  and  lie  with  a.  whole  army, 
before  the  league  shall  break  :  her  name  is  com- 
mon through  the  kingdom,  and  the  trophies  of 
her  dishonour  advanced  beyond  Hercules'  Pillars. 
She  loves  to  try  the  several  constitutions  of  men's 
bodies ;  and,  indeed,  has  destroyed  the  worth  of 
her  own  body,  by  making  experiment  upon  it, 
for  the  good  of  the  commonwealth. 

Cle.  She's  a  profitable  member — 

Meg.  Peace,  if  you  love  me!  You  shall  see 
these  gentlemen  stand  their  ground,  and  not 
court  us. 

Gal.  What  if  they  should  ? 

Lady.  What  if  they  should  ? 

Meg.  Nay,  let  her  alone.  What  if  they  should  ? 
Why,  if  they  should,  I  say  they  were  never 
abroad.  What  foreigner  would  do  so  ?  It  writes 
them  directly  untravelled. 

Gal.  Why,  what  if  they  be  ? 


*  cojr— flatter,  cheat,  cajole. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


24.1 


Lady.  What  if  tliey  be  ? 

Mefi.  Good  madam,  let  her  go  on.  What  if 
they  be  ?  Why,  if  they  be,  I  will  justify,  they 
cannot  maintain  discourse  with  a  judicious  lady, 
nor  make  a  leg,'  nor  say  'Excuse  me.' 

Gal.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Meg.  Do  you  laugh,  madam  ? 

Dion.  Your  desires  upon  you,  ladies. 

Meg.  Then  you  must  sit  beside  us. 

Dion.  I  shall  sit  near  you  then,  lady. 

Meg.  Near  me ;  perhaps.  But  there's  a  lady  en- 
dures no  stranger ;  and  to  me  you  appear  a  very 
strange  fellow. 

Lady.  Methinks  he's  not  so  strange ;  he  would 
quickly  be  acquainted. 

Thru.  Peace,  the  king ! 

Enter  King,  Pharamond,  Arethusa,  and  Train. 

King.  To  give  a  stronger  testimony  of  love 
Than  sickly  promises  (which  commonly 
In  princes  find  both  birth  and  burial 
In  one  breath),  we  have  drawn  you,  worthy  sir. 
To  make  your  fair  endeai-ments  to  our  daughter, 
And  worthy  services  known  to  our  subjects. 
Now  loved  and  wondsr'd  at :  next,  our  intent, 
To  plant  you  deeply,  our  Immediate  heir, 
Both  to  our  blood  and  kingdoms.     For  this  lady 
(The  best  part  of  your  life,  as  you  confirm  me. 
And  I  believe),  though  her  few  years  and  sex 
Yet  teach  her  nothing  but  her  fears  and  blushes, 
Desires  without  desire,  discourse  and  knowledge 
Only  of  what  herself  is  to  herself. 
Make  her  feel  moderate  health;  and  when  she 

sleeps. 
In  making  no  ill  day,  knows  no  ill  dreams. 
Think  not,  dear  sir,  these  undivided  parts, 
That  must  mould  up  a  virgin,  are  put  on 
To  show  her  so,  as  borrow'd  ornaments. 
To  speak  her  perfect  love  to  you,  or  add 
An  artificial  shadow  to  her  nature  : 
No,  sir ;  I  boldly  dare  proclaim  her,  yet 
No  woman.     But  woo  her  still,  and  think  her 

modesty 
A  sweeter  mistress  than  the  offer'd  language 
Of  any  dame,  were  she  a  queen,  whose  ej'e 
Speaks  common  loves  and  comforts  to  her  sei'- 

vants.2 
Last,  noble  son  (for  so  I  now  must  call  you), 
What  I  have  done  thus  public,  is  not  only 
To  add  a  comfort  in  particular 
To  you  or  me,  but  all ;  and  to  confirm 
The  nobles,  and  the  gentry  of  these  kingdoms, 
By  oath  to  your  succession,  which  shall  be 
Within  this  month  at  most. 

Thra.  This  wOl  be  hardly  done. 

Cle.  It  must  be  ill  done,  if  it  be  done. 

Dion.  When  'tis  best,  'twill  be  but  half  done, 
whilst 
So  brave  a  gentleman's  wrong'd  and  flung  off. 

Thra.  I  fear. 

Cle.  Who  does  not  ? 

Dion.  I  fear  not  for  myself,  and  yet  I  fear  too. 
Well,  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see.     No  more. 

Pha.  Kissing  your  white  hand,  mistress,  I  take 
leave 
To  thank  your  royal  father;  and  thus  far, 
To  be  my  own  free  trumpet.    Understand, 
Great  king,  and  these  your  subjects,  mine  that 

must  be 
(For  so  deserving  you  have  spoke  hie,  sir, 
And  so  deserving  1  dare  speak  myself), 
To  what  a  person,  of  what  eminence, 
Ripe  expectation,  of  what  faculties. 


1  leg—\io\Y. 


2  servants — lovers. 


Manners  and  virtues,  you  would  wed  your  king- 
doms : 
You  in  me  have  your  wishes.     Oh,  this  country ! 
By  more  than  all  \\\y  hopes  I  hold  it  hajjpy ; 
Happy,  in  their  dear  memories  that  have  been 
Kings  great  and  good  ;  happy  in  yours  that  is; 
And  from  you  (as  a  chronicle  to  keep 
Your  noble  name  from  eating  age)  do  I 
Opine  myself  most  happy.     Gentlemen, 
Believe  me,  in  a  word,  a  prince's  word, 
There  shall  be  nothing  to  make  up  a  kingdom 
Mighty,  and  flourishing,  defenced,  fear'd, 
Equal  to  be  commanded  and  obey'd, 
But  through  the  travels  of  my  life  I'll  find  it, 
And  tie  it  to  this  country.     And  I  vow 
My  reign  shall  be  so  easy  to  the  subject. 
That  every  man  shall  be  his  prince  himself, 
And  his  own  law  (yet  I  his  prince  and  law). 
And,  dearest  lady,  to  your  dearest  self 
(Dear,  in  the  choice  of  him  whose  name  and  lustre 
Must  make  you  more  and  mightier)  let  me  say. 
You  are  the  blessed'st  living ;  for,  sweet  princess 
You  shall  enjoy  a  man  of  men,  to  be 
Your  servant;  you  shall  make  him  yours,   for 

whom 
Great  queens  must  die. 
Thra.  Miraculous ! 

Cle.  This  speech   calls    him   Spaniard,   being 
nothing  but  a  large  inventory  of  his  own  com- 
mendations. 
Dion.  I  wonder  what's  his  price  ?    For   cer- 
tainly 
He'll  sell  himself,  he  has  so  praised  his  shape. 

Enter  Piiilaster. 

But  here  comes  one  more  worthy  those  large 

speeches. 
Than  the  large  speaker  of  them. 
Let  me  be  swallowed  quick,"^  if  I  can  find, 
In  all  the  anatomy  of  yon  man's  virtues. 
One  sinew  soimd  enough  to  promise  for  him, 
He  shall  be  constable.     By  this  sun,  he'll  ne'er 

make  king 
Unless  it  be  for  trifles,  in  my  poor  judgment. 

Phi.  Right  noble  sir,  as  low  as  my  obedience, 
And  with  a  heart  as  loyal  as  my  knee, 
I  beg  your  favour. 

King.  Rise  ;  you  have  it,  sir. 

Dion.  Mark  but  the  king,  how  pale  he  looks 
with  fear ! 
Oh !  this  same  whoreson  conscience,  how  it  jades 
us!^ 

King.  Speak  your  intents,  sir. 

Phi.  Shall  I  sjDeak  'em  freely  ? 
Be  still,  my  royal  sovereign. 

King.  As  a  subject. 
We  give  you  freedom. 

Dion.  Now  it  heats. 

Phi.  Then  thus  I  turn 
Jly  language  to  you,  prince ;  you,  foreign  man  ! 
Ne'er  stare,  nor  put  on  wonder,  for  you  must 
Endure  me,  and  you  shall.     This  earth  you  tread 

upon 
(A  dowry,  as  you  hope,  with  this  fair  princess). 
By  my  dead  father  (oh,  I  had  a  father, 
Whose  memory  I  bow  to  !)  was  not  left 
To  your  inheritance,  and  I  up  and  living  ; 
Having  myself  about  me,  and  my  sword. 
The  souls  of  all  my  name,  and  memories, 
These  arms,  and  some  few  friends  beside  the  gods ; 
To  part  so  calmly  with  it,  and  sit  still. 
And  say,  '  I  might  have  been.'  I  tell  thee,  Phara- 
mond, 

1  quicTc — alive. 

"  This  reminds  us  of  Shakespeare's  more  forcible  and 
concise,  '  'Tis  conscience  that  makes  cowards  of  us  all.' 


242 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


When  thou  art  king,  look  I  be  dead  and  rotten, 
And  my  name  ashes :  For,  hear  me,  Pharamond ! 
This  very  ground  thou  goest  on,  this  fat  earth. 
My  father's  friends  made  fertile  with  their  faiths, 
Before  that  day  of  shame,  shall  gape  and  swallow 
Thee  and  thy  nation,  like  a  hungry  grave, 
Into  her  hidden  bowels.     Prince,  it  shall ; 
By  Nemesis,  it  shall ! 

Pha.  He's  mad ;  beyond  cure,  mad. 

Dion.  Here  is  a  fellow  has  some  fire  in  's  veins : 
The  outlandish  prince  looks  like  a  tooth-drawer. 

Phi.  Sir,  prince  of  popinjays,'  I'll  make  it  well 
Appear  to  you  I'm  not  mad. 

King.  Tou  displease  us : 
Tou  are  too  bold. 

Phi.  No,  sir,  I  am  too  tame, 
Too  much  a  turtle,  a  thing  born  without  passion, 
A  faint  shadow,  that  every  drunken  cloud 
Sails  over  and  makes  nothing. 

King.  I  do  not  fancy  this. 
Call  our  physicians :  sure  he's  somewhat  tainted. 

Thra.  I  do  not  think  'twill  prove  so. 

Dion.  He    has    given  him    a  general    purge 
already, 
For  all  the  right  he  has  ;  and  now  he  means 
To  let  him  blood.     Be  constant,  gentlemen  : 
By  these  hilts,  I'U  run  his  hazard. 
Although  I  run  my  name  out  of  the  kingdom. 

Cle.  Peace,  we  are  aU  one  soul. 

Pha.  What  have  you  seen  in  me,  to  stir  offeuco, 
I  cannot  find ;  unless  it  be  this  lady, 
Offer'd  into  mine  arms,  with  the  succession  ; 
Which  I  must  keep,  though  it  hath  pleas'd  your 

fury 
To  mutiny  within  you ;  without  disputing 
Your  genealogies,  or  taking  knowledge 
Whose  branch  you  are.     The  king  will  leave  it 

me ; 
And  1  dare  make  it  mine.    Tou  have  your  answer. 

Phi.  If  thou  wert  sole  inheritor  to  him 
That  made  the  world  his,^  and  couldst  see  no  sun 
Shine  upon  anything  but  thine ;  were  Pharamoud 
As  truly  valiant  as  I  feel  him  cold. 
And  ring'd  among  the  choicest  of  his  friends 
(Such  as  woiild  blush  to  talk  such  serious  follies, 
Or  back  such  bellied  commendations), 
And  from  this  presence,  'spite  of  all  these  bugs,^ 
You  should  hear  fui-ther  from  me. 

King.  Sii",  you  wrong  the  prince :  I  gave  you 
not  this  freedom 
To  brave   our  best  friends.     You  deserve  oui- 

frown. 
Go  to  ;  be  better  temper'd. 

Phi.  It  must  be,  sii',  when  I  am  nobler  used. 

Gal.  Ladies, 
This  would  have  been  a  pattern  of  succession,* 
Had  he  ne'er  met  this  mischief.     By  my  life. 
He  is  the  worthiest  the  true  name  of  man 
This  day  within  my  knowledge. 

Meg.  I   cannot  teU  what  you  may  call  your 
Imowledge ; 
But  the  other  is  the  man  set  in  my  eye. 
Oh,  'tis  a  prince  of  wax !  * 

Gal.  A  dog  it  is.^ 

King.  Philaster,  tell  me 
The  injuries  you  aim  at  in  your  riddles. 

Phi.  If  you  had  my  eyes,  sir,  and  sufferance, 
My  griefs  upon  you,  and  my  broken  fortunes. 


1  popinjays — parrots. 

2  him  that  made,  &c. — Alexander. 
^  hugs — bugbears,  terrors. 

■•  pattern  of  succession,— i.e.  a  pattern  to  succeeding 
kings. — Theobald. 

^  0/  wax — well  made,  as  if  modelled  in  ■wax. — Dtce. 

"  This  expression  is  obscure;  Jonson,  in  bis  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  speaks  of  a  '  dog  of  wax.' — Dice. 


My  wants  great,  and  now  nought  but  hopes  and 

fears. 
My  wrongs  would  make  ill  riddles  to  be  laugh'd 

at. 
Dare  you  be  still  my  Mng,  and  right  me  not  ? 

Ki7ig.  Give  me  your  wrongs  in  private. 

Phi.  Take  them. 
And  ease  me  of  a  load  would  bow  strong  Atlas. 
[They  icalk  apart. 

Cle.  He  dares  not  stand  the  shock. 

Dion.  I  cannot  blame  him :  there's  danger  in't. 
Every  man  in  this  age  has  not  a  soul  of  crystal, 
for  all  men  to  read  their  actions  through.  Men's 
hearts  and  faces  are  so  far  asunder,  that  thqy  hold 
no  intelligence.  Do  but  view  yon  stranger  well, 
and  you  shall  see  a  fever  through  all  his  bravery, 
and  feel  him  shake  hke  a  true  recreant.^  If  he 
give  not  back  his  crown  again,  upon  the  report 
of  an  elder-gun,  I  have  no  augury. 

King.  Go  to ! 
Be  more  yourself,  as  you  respect  our  favour ; 
You'll  stir  us  else.     Sir,  I  must  have  you  know, 
That  you  are,  and  shall  be,  at  our  pleasure, 
What  fashion  we  will  put  upon  you.     Smooth 
Your  brow,  or  by  the  gods — 

Phi.  I  am  dead,  sir ;  you're  my  fate.     It  was 
not  I 
Said,  I  was  wrong'i :  I  carry  all  about  me 
!My  weak  stars  lead  me  to,  all  my  weak  fortunes. 
Who  dares  in  all  this  presence,  speak  (that  is 
But  man  of  flesh,  and  may  be  mortal),  tell  me, 
I  do  not  most  entirely  love  this  prince,       ^ 
And  honour  his  full  virtues ! 

King.  Sure,  he's  possess'd. 

Phi.  Yes,  with  my  father's  spirit.     It's  here,  O 
king! 
A  dangerous  spirit.     Now  he  tells  me,  king, 
I  was  a  king's  heir,  bids  me  be  a  king ; 
And  whispers  to  me,  these  are  aU  my  subjects. 
'Tis  strange  ho  will  not  let  me  sleep,  but  dives 
Into  my  fancy,  and  there  gives  me  shapes 
That  kneel,  and  do  me  service,  cry  me  'king:' 
But  I'll  suppress  him;  he's  a  factious  spirit, 
And  will  undo  me. — Noble  sir,  your  hand  : 
I  am  your  servant. 

King.  Away,  I  do  not  like  this  : 
I'll  make  you  tamer,  or  I'll  dispossess  you 
Both  of  life  and  spirit.     For  this  time 
I  pardon  your  wild  speech,  without  so  much 
As  yotir  imprisonment. 

\_Exeiint  King,  Phae.\mond,  and  Akethusa. 

Dion.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  you  dare  not  for  the 
people. 

Gal.  Ladies,  what  think  you  now  of  this  brave 
fellow  ? 

Meg.  A  pretty  talking  fellow;  hot  at  hand. 
But  eye  yon  stranger.  Is  he  not  a  fine  complete 
gentleman  ?  Oh,  these  strangers,  I  do  affect 
them  strangely.  They  do  the  rarest  home 
things,  and  please  the  fullest !  As  I  live,  I  could 
love  all  the  nation  over  and  over  for  his  sake. 

Gal.  Pride  comfort  your  poor  headpiece,  lady! 
'Tis  a  weak  one,  and  had  need  of  a  night-cap. 

Dion.  See,  how  his  fancy  labours!  Has  he  not 
Spoke  home,  and  bravely?     What  a  dangerous 

train 
Did  he  give  fire  to !    How  he  shook  the  king, 
Made  his  soul  melt  within  him,  and  his  blood 
Eun  into  whey !     It  stood  upon  his  brow, 
Like  a  cold  winter  dew. 

Phi.  Gentlemen, 
You  have  no  suit  to  me  ?     I  am  no  minion : « 


1  recreant — tenant  is  the  reading  of  the  old  copies ;  the 
Eev.  J.  Mitford  suggests  tyrant. 

"  no  minion — i.e.  no  favourite  of  influence  enough  to 
carry  suits  at  court. — Theobald. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


243 


You   stand,  methinks,  like  men  that  -would  be 

courtiers, 
If  I  could  well  be  flatter'd  at  a  price, 
Not  to  undo  your  children.     You're  all  honest : 
Go,  get  you  home  again,  and  make  your  country 
A  vhtuous  court,  to  which  your  great  ones  may, 
In  their  diseased  age,  retire,  and  live  recluse. 

Cle.  How  do  you,  worthy  su-  ? 

Phi.  Well,  veiy  well ; 
And  so  well,  that,  if  the  king  please,  I  find 
I  may  Hve  many  years. 

Bion.  The  king  miTst  please, 
Whilst  we  know  what  you  are,  and  who  you  are, 
Your  wrongs  and  injuries.     Shrink  not,  worthy 

sir, 
But  add  your  father  to  you.    In  whose  name 
We'll  waken  all  the  gods,  and  conjm-e  up 
The  rods  of  vengeance,  the  abused  people ; 
Who,  like  to  raging  torrents,  shall  swell  high, 
And  so  begirt  the  dens  of  these  male-dragons, 
That,  through  the  strongest  safety,  they  shall 

beg 
For  mercy  at  your  sword's  point. 

PM.  Friends,  no  more ; 
Our  ears  may  be  corrupted.     'T;  ■  an  age 
We  dare  not  trust  our  wills  to.    l)o  you  love  me  ? 

Thra.  Do  we  love  heaven  and  honour  ? 

Phi.  My  lord  Dion,  you  had 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  call'd  you  father : 
Is  she  yet  alive  ? 

Bion.  Most  honour'd'sir,  she  is; 
And,  for  the  penance  but  of  an  idle  dream, 
Has  undertook  a  tedious  pUgrimage. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Phi.  Is  it  to  me. 
Or  any  of  these  gentlemen,  you  come  ? 
Lady.  To  you,  brave  lord.    The  princess  would 
entreat 
Your  present  company. 
Phi.  The  princess  send  for  me !     You  are  mis- 
taken. 
Lady.  If  you  be  call'd  Philaster,  'tis  to  you. 
Phi.  Kiss  her  fair  hand,  and  say  I  will  attend 
her.  \Exit  Lady. 

Dion.  Do  yoii  Iniow  what  you  do  ? 
Phi.  Yes ;  go  to  see  a  woman. 
Cle.  But  do  you  weigh  the  danger  you  are  in .' 
Phi.  Danger  in  a  sweet  face ! 
By  Jupiter,  I  must  not  fear  a  woman. 

Thra.  But  are  you  sure  it  was  the  princess 
sent? 
It  may  be  some  foul  train  to  catch  your  life. 

Phi.  I  do  not  think  it,  gentlemen ;  she's  noble ; 
Her  eye  may  shoot  me  dead,  or  those  true  red 
And  white  friends  in  her  face  may  steal  my  soul 

out  : 
There's  all  the  danger  in't.     But,  be  what  may. 
Her  single  name  hath  ai*med  me. 

[Exit  Philastee. 
Bion.  Go  on : 
And  be  as  truly  happy  as  thou'rt  feai-less. — 
Come,    gentlemen,    let's    make   our  friends   ac- 
quainted, 
Lest  the  king  prove  false.  \Exmnt. 


ACT  L— SCENE  IL 

An  Apartment  in  the  same. 

Enter  Arethusa  and  a  Lady. 

Are.  Comes  he  not  ? 

Lady.  Madam? 

Are.  Will  Philaster  come  ? 


Lady.  Dear  madam,  you  were  wont  to  credit 
me 
At  first. 

Are.  But  didst  thou  tell  me  so  ? 
I  am  forgetful,  and  my  woman's  strength 
Is  so  o'ercharged  with  dangers  like  to  grow 
About  my  marriage,  that  these  imder  things 
Dare  not  abide  in  such  a  troubled  sea. 
How  look'd  he,  when  he  told   thee   ho  would 
come? 

Lady.  Why,  well. 

Are.  And  not  a  little  fearful? 

Lady.  Fear,  madam !  sure,  he  knows  not  what 
it  is. 

Are.  You  are  all  of  his  faction;   the  whole 
court 
Is  bold  iu  praise  of  him :  whilst  I 
May  hve  neglected,  and  do  noble  things. 
As  fools  in  strife  throw  gold  into  the  sea, 
Drown'd  in  the  doing.     But,  I  know  he  fears. 

Lady.  Fear  ?     Madam,   methought  his  looks 
hid  more 
Of  love  than  fear. 

Are.  Of  love  ?  to  whom  ?  to  you  ? — 
Did  you  deliver  those  plain  words  I  sent. 
With  such  a  winning  gesture,  and  quick'  look. 
That  you  have  caught  him  ? 

Lady.  Madam,  I  mean  to  you. 

Are.  Of  love  to  me  ?  alas !  thy  ignorance 
Lets  thee  not  see  the  crosses  of  our  births. 
Nature,  that  loves  not  to  be  questioned 
Why  she  did  this,  or  that,  but  has  her  ends. 
And  knows  she  does  well,  never  gave  the  world 
Two  things  so  opposite,  so  contrary, 
As  he  and  I  am.    If  a  bowl  of  blood, 
Drawn  from  this  arm  of  mine,  would  poison 

thee, 
A  draught  of  his  would  cure  thee.     Of  love  to 
me? 

Lady.  Madam,  I  think  I  hear  him. 

Are.  Bring  him  in. — 
Ye  gods,  that  would  not  have  your  dooms  with- 
stood. 
Whose  holy  wisdoms  at  this  time  it  is, 
To  make  the  passion  of  a  feeble  maid 
The  way  unto  your  justice,  I  obey. 

Enter  Philaster. 

Lady.  Here  is  my  lord  Philastei*. 

Are.  Oh !  'tis  well. 
Withdraw  yourself.  \_Exit  Lady. 

Phi.  Madam,  your  messenger 
jiade  me  believe  you  wish'd  to  speak  with  me. 

Are.  'Tis  true,  Philaster;   but  the  words  are 
such 
I  have  to  say,  and  do  so  ill  beseem 
The  mouth  of  woman,  that  I  wish  them  said. 
And  yet  am  loath  to  speak  them.    Have  you 

known 
That  I  have  aught  detracted  from  your  worth  ? 
Have  I  in  person  wrong'd  you  ?     Or  have  set 
My  baser  instruments  to  throw  disgrace 
Dpon  your  virtues  ? 

Phi.  Never,  madam,  you. 

Are.  Why,  then,  should  you,  in  such  a  public 
place. 
Injure  a  princess,  and  a  scandal  lay 
Upon  my  fortunes,  famed  to  be  so  great ; 
Calling  a  great  part  of  my  dowry  in  question? 

Phi.  Madam,  this  tmth  which  I  shall  speak, 
will  be 
Foolish.    But,  for  your  fair  and  vii-tuous  self, 
I  could  afford  myself  to  have  no  right 
To  anything  you  wish'd. 


'  quick — ^lively. 


244 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Are,.  Pliilaster,  know, 
I  must  enjoy  these  kingdoms. 
Phi.  Madam!     Both? 

Art.  Both,  or  I  die.     By  fate,  I  die,  Pliilaster, 
If  I  not  cahnly  may  enjoy  them  both. 

Phi.  I  would  do  much  to  save  that  noble  life ; 
Yet  would  be  loath  to  have  posterity 
Find  in  our  stories,  that  Philaster  gave 
His  right  unto  a  sceptre  and  a  crown, 
To  save  a  lady's  longing. 

Are.  Nay  then,  hear! 
I  must  and  will  have  them,  and  moro — 
Phi.  What  more  ? 

Are.  Or  lose  that  little  life  the  gods  prepared, 
To  trouble  this  poor  piece  of  earth  withal. 
Phi.  Madam,  what  more  ? 
Are.  Turn,  then,  away  thy  face. 
Phi.  No. 
Are.  Do. 

Phi.  I  can  endure  it.    Turn  away  my  face  ? 
I  never  yet  saw  enemy  that  look'd 
So  dreadfully,  but  that  I  thought  myself 
As  great  a  basilisk  as  he ;  or  spake 
So  horrible,  but  that  I  thought  my  tongue 
Bore  thunder  underneath,  as  much  as  his ; 
Nor  beast  that  I  could  turn  from :  Shall  I  then 
Begin  to  fear  sweet  sounds  ?  a  lady's  voice. 
Whom  I  do  love  :  Say,  you  would  have  my  life; 
Why,  I  will  give  it  you ;  for  'tis  of  me 
A  tiling  so  loath'd,  and  unto  you  that  ask 
Of  so  jioor  use,  that  I  shall  make  no  price: 
If  you  entreat,  I  will  unmov'dly  hear. 
Are.  Yet,  for  my  sake,  a  little  bend  thy  looks. 
Phi.  I  do. 

Are.  Then  know,  I  must  have  them,  and  thee. 
Phi.  And  me  ? 

Are.  Thy  love ;  without  which  all  the  laud 
Discover'd  yet,  will  serve  me  for  no  use, 
But  to  be  buried  in. 
Phi.  Is't  possible  ? 

Are.  With  it,  it  were  too  little  to  bestow 
On  thee.    Now,  though  thy  breath  do  strike  me 

dead 
(Which,  know,  it  may),  I  have  unript  my  breast. 
P}d.  Madam,  you  are  too  full  of  noble  thoughts. 
To  lay  a  train  for  this  contemned  life. 
Which  you  may  have  for  asking.    To  suspect 
Were  base,  where  I  deserve  no  ill.     Love  you, 
By  all  my  hopes,  I  do,  above  my  life : 
But  how  this  passion  should  proceed  from  you 
So  violently,  would  amaze  a  man 
That  would  be  jealous. 

Are.  Another  soul,  into  my  body  shot, 
Could  not  have  filled  me  with  more  strength  and 

spirit. 
Than  this  thy  breath.     But  spend  not  hasty  time. 
In  seeking  how  I  came  thus :  'Tis  the  gods. 
The  gods,  that  make  me  so ;  and,  sure,  our  love 
Will  be  the  nobler,  and  the  better  blest, 
In  that  the  secret  justice  of  the  gods 
Is  mingled  with  it.     Let  us  leave,  and  kiss ; 
Lest  some  unwelcome  guest  should  fall  betwixt 

us, 
And  we  should  jiart  without  it. 

Phi.  'Twill  be  ill 
I  should  abide  here  long. 

Are.  'Tis  true ;  and  worse 
You  should  come  often.     How  shall  we  devise 
To  hold  intelligence,  that  our  true  loves, 
On  any  new  occasion,  may  agree 
What  jiath  is  best  to  tread  ? 

Phi.  I  have  a  boy, 
Sent  by  the  gods,  I  hope,  to  this  intent, 
Not  yet  seen  in  the  court.     Hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain's  side, 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst. 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 


A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself. 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  vale. 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me.    But  ever  when  he  turn'd 
His  tender  ej'es  upon  'em,  he  would  weep, 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  'em  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  ask'd  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died, 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 
Which   gave    him  roots ;    and  of    the   crystal 

springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses;  and  the  sun, 
Which  still,  he  thank'd  him,  yielded  him  his 

light. 
Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  show 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold. 
Did  signify ;  and  how  all,  order  d  thus, 
Express'd  his  grief:  And,  to  my  thoughts,  did 

read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wish'd  :    so  that,  methought,  I 

could 
Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertain'd  him, 
Who  was  glad  to  follow ;  and  have  got 
The  trustiest,  loving'st,  and  the  gentlest  boy 
That  ever  master  kept.     Him  will  I  send 
To  wait  on  you,  and  bear  our  hidden  love. 

Enter  Lady. 

Are.  'Tis  well ;  no  more. 

Lady.  Madam,  the  prince  is  come  to  do  his 
service. 

Are.  What  will  you  do,  Philaster,  with  your- 
self? 

Phi.  Why,  that  which  all  the  gods  have  painted 
out  for  me. 

Are.  Dear,  hide  thyself. — 
Bring  in  the  prince. 

Phi.  Hide  me  from  Pharamond ! 
When  thunder  speaks,  which  is  the  voice  of  Jove, 
Though  I  do  reverence,  yet  I  hide  me  not ; 
And  shall  a  stranger  prince  have  leave  to  brag 
Unto  a  foreign  nation,  that  he  made 
Philaster  hide  himself  ? 

Are.  He  cannot  know  it. 

Phi.  Though  it  should  sleep  for  ever  to  the 
world. 
It  is  a  simple  sin  to  hide  myself, 
Which  will  for  ever  on  my  conscience  lie. 

Are.  Then,  good   Philaster,   give  him  scope 
and  way 
In  what  he  says ;  for  he  is  apt  to  speak 
What  you  are  loath  to  hear.    Por  my  sake,  do. 

Phi.  I  will. 

Enter  Phaeamond. 

Pha.   My  princely  mistress,   as    true  lovers 
ought, 
I  come  to  kiss  these  fair  hands,  and  to  show, 
In  outward  ceremonies,  the  dear  love 
Writ  in  my  heart. 

Phi.  If  I  shall  have  an  answer  no  directlier, 
I  am  gone. 

Pha.  To  what  would  he  have  answer  ? 

Are.  To  his  claim  unto  the  kingdom. 

Pha.  Sirrah,  I  forbare  you  before  the  king. 

Phi.  Good  sir,  do  so  still:  I  would  not  talk 
with  you. 

Pha.  But  now  the  time  is  fitter.    Do  but  offer 
To  make  mention  of  right  to  any  kingdom, 
Though  it  be  scarce  habitable — 

Phi.  Good  sir,  let  me  go. 

Pha.  And  by  my  sword — 

Phi.  Peace,  Pharamond !  If  thou — 

Are.  Leave  us,  Philaster. 

Phi.  I  have  done. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


245 


Pha.  You  are  gone  ?  By  heaven,  I'll  fetch  you 
back. 

Plii.  You  shall  not  need. 

Pha.  What  now  ? 

Phi.  Know,  Phavamond, 
I  loath  to  brawl  with  such  a  blast  as  thou, 
Who  art  nought  but  a  valiant  voice :  But  if 
Thou  shalt  provoke  me  further,  men  shall  say 
'  Thou  wert,'  and  not  lament  it. 

Pha.  Do  you  slight 
My  greatness  so,  and  in  the  chamber  of 
The  princess  ? 

Pki.  It  is  a  place  to  which,  I  must  confess, 
I  owe  a  reverence :  But  were't  the  church, 
Ay,  at  the  altar,  there's  no  place  so  safe, 
Where  thou  dar'st  injure  me,  but  I  dare  kill  thee. 
And  for  your  greatness,  know,  sii-,  I  can  grasp 
You  and  your  greatness  thus,  thus  into  nothing. 
Give  not  a  word,  not  a  word  back !     Farewell. 
\_Exit  Philaster. 

Pha.  'Tis  an  odd  fellow,  madam.  We  must 
stop  his  mouth  with  some  office  when  we  are 
married. 

Are.  You  were  best  make  him  your  controller. 

Pha.  I  think  he  would  discharge  it  well.     But, 
madam, 
I  hope  our  hearts  are  knit ;  and  yet,  so  slow 
The  ceremonies  of  state  are,  that  'twill  be  long 
Before  our  hands  be  so.     If  then  you  please. 
Being  agreed  in  heart,  let  us  not  wait 
For  dreaming  form,  but  take  a  little  stolen 
Delights,  and  so  prevent^  our  joys  to  come. 

Are.  If  you  dare  speak  such  thoughts, 
I  must  withdraw  in  honour.  \Exit. 

Pha.  The  coustitution  of  my  body  will  never 
hold  out  tiU  the  wedding.  I  must  seek  else- 
where. \_Exit. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Philaster  and  Bellario. 

Phi.  And  thou  shalt  find  her  honourable,  boy; 
Full  of  regard  unto  thy  tender  youth. 
For  thine  own  modesty ;  and  for  my  sake, 
Apter  to  give  than  thou  wilt  be  to  ask, 
Ay,  or  deserve. 

Bel.  Sir,  you  did  take  me  up 
When  I  was  nothing;  and  only  yet  am  some- 
thing. 
By  being  yours.     You  trusted  me  unknown ; 
And  that  which  you  were  apt  to  conster- 
A  simple  innocence  in  me,  perhaps 
Might  have  been  craft — the  cunning  of  a  boy 
Hardened  in  lies  and  theft :  yet  ventured  you 
To  part  my  miseries  and  me  ;  for  which 
I  never  can  expect  to  serve  a  lady 
That  bears  more  honour  in  her  breast  than  you. 
Phi.  But,  boy,  it  will  prefer  thee.     Thou  art 
young, 
And  bear'st  a  childish  overflowing  love 
To  them  that  clap  thy  cheeks,  and  speak  thee 

fair  yet. 
But  when  thy  judgment  comes  to  rule  those  pas- 
sions, 
Thou  wilt  remember  best  those  careful  friends 
That  placed  thee  in  the  noblest  way  of  life. 
She  is  a  princess  I  prefer  thee  to. 
Bel.  In  that  small  time  that  I  have  seen  the 
world, 
I  never  knew  a  man  hasty  to  part 
With  a  servant  he  thought  trusty :  I  remember. 


1  ^r«reni— anticipate. 


*  conster — construe. 


My  father  would  prefer  the  boys  he  kept 
To  greater  men  than  he ;  but  did  it  not 
Till  they  were  grown  too  saucy  for  himself. 

Phi.  Why,  gentle  boy,  I  find  no  fault  at  all 
In  thy  behaviour. 

Bel.  Sir,  if  I  have  made 
A  fault  of  ignorance,  instruct  my  youth: 
I  shall  be  willing,  if  not  apt,  to  learn; 
Age  and  experience  will  adorn  my  mind 
With  larger  knowledge:  And  if  1  have  done 
A  wilful  fault,  think  me  not  past  all  hope, 
For  once.     What  master  holds  so  strict  a  hand 
Over  his  boy,  that  he  will  part  with  him 
Without  one  warning  }     Let  me  be  corrected, 
To  break  my  stubbornness,  if  it  be  so. 
Bather  than  turn  me  off,  and  I  shall  mend. 

Phi.  Thy  love  doth  plead  so  prettily  to  stay. 
That,  trust  me,  I  could  weep  to  part  with  thee. 
Alas  !  I  do  not  turn  thee  off ;  thou  know'st 
It  is  my  business  that  doth  call  thee  hence ; 
And,  when  thou  art  with  her,  thou  dwell'st  with 

me. 
Think  so,  and  'tis  so.     And  when  time  is  full. 
That  tliou  liast  well  discharged  this  heavy  trust, 
Laid  on  so  weak  a  one,  I  will  again 
With  joy  receive  thee  :  as  I  live,  I  will. 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  bey !    'Tis  more  than  time 
Thou  did'st  attend  the  princess. 

Bel.  I  am  gone. 
But  since  I  am  to  part  with  you,  my  lord. 
And  none  knows  whether  I  shall  liVe  to  do 
More  service  for  you,  take  this  little  prayer : 
Heaven  bless  your  loves,  your  fights,  all  your 

designs ! 
May  sick  men,  if  they  have  your  wish,  be  well ; 
And  heaven  hate  those  you  curse,  though  I  be 
one !  [Exit. 

Phi.   The  love   of  boys  unto   their  lords  is 
strange  ; 
I  have  read  wonders  of  it :  Yet  this  boy, 
For  my  sake  (if  a  man  may  judge  by  looks 
And  sjjeech)  would  outdo  story.     1  may  see 
A  day  to  pay  him  for  his  loyalty. 

\_ExLt  Philastee. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  IL 

A  Gallery  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Phaeamond. 

Pha.  Why  should  these  ladies  stay  so  long? 
They  must  come  this  way :  I  know  the  queen 
employs  'em  not ;  for  the  reverend  mother'  sent 
me  word,  they  would  all  be  for  the  garden.  If 
they  should  prove  honest  now,  I  were  in  a  fair 
taking.  I  was  never  so  long  without  sport  in 
my  life,  and,  in  my  conscience,  'tis  not  niy  fault. 
Ob,  for  our  country  ladies  ! — Here's  one  bolted; 
I'll  hound  at  her. 

Enter  Galatea. 

Madam ! 

Gal.  Your  grace ! 

Pha.  Shall  I  not  be  a  trouble  ? 

Gal.  Not  to  me,  sir. 

Pha.  Nay,  nay ;  you  are  too  quick.  By  this 
sweet  hand — 

Gal.  You'll  be  forsworn,  sir ;  'tis  but  an  old 
glove.  If  you  will  talk  at  distance,  I  am  for 
you  ;  but,  good  prince,  be  not  bawd}',  nor  do  not 
brag  ;  these  two  I  bar  :  and  theu,  I  think,  I  shall 
have  sense  enough  to  answer  all  the  weighty 
apophthegms  your  royal  blood  shall  manage. 

Pha.  Dear  lady,  can  you  love  ? 


1  reverend  mother — i.e.  mother  of  the  maids.— Dyce. 


Gal.  Dear  iwince!  how  dear?  I  ne'er  cost 
you  a  coach  yet,  nor  put  you  to  the  dear  repent- 
ance of  a  banquet.  Here's  no  scarlet,  sir,  to 
blush  the  sin  out  it  was  given  for.  This  wire 
mine  own  hair  covers  ;  and  this  face  has  been  so 
far  from  being  dear  to  any,  that  it  ne'er  cost 
penny  painting :  and  for  the  rest  of  my  poor 
wardrobe,  such  as  you  see,  it  leaves  no  hand 
behind  it  to  make  the  jealous  mercer's  wife  curse 
our  good  doings. 

Pha.  You  mistake  me,  lady. 

Gal.  Lord,  I  do  so.  'Would  you  or  T  could 
help  it! 

Pha.  You're  very  dangerous  bitter,  like  a  po- 
tion. 

Ga2.  No,  sir,  I  do  not  mean  to  purge  you, 
though  I  mean  to  purge  a  little  time  ou  you. 

Pha.  Do  ladies  of  this  country  use  to  give  no 
more  respect  to  men  of  my  full  being  ? 

Gal.  Full  being  ?  I  understand  you  not,  unless 
your  grace  means  growing  to  fatness ;  and  then 
your  only  remedy  (upon  my  knowledge,  prince) 
is,  in  a  morning,  a  cuj)  of  neat  white  wine,  brewed 
with  carduus ; '  then  fast  till  supper :  about  eight 
you  may  eat ;  use  exercise,  and  keep  a  sparrow- 
hawk;  you  can  shoot  in  a  tiller:-  but,  of  all, 
your  grace  must  fly  phlebotomy,  fresh  pork, 
conger,  and  clarified  whey ;  they  are  all  dullers 
of  the  vital  spirits. 

Pha.  Lady,  you  talk  of  nothing  all  this  while. 

Gal.  'Tis  very  true,  six-,  I  talk  of  you. 

Pha.  This  is  a  crafty  wench;  I  like  her  wit 
well ;  'twill  be  rare  to  stir  up  a  leaden  appetite. 
She's  a  Dauae,  and  must  be  courted  in  a  shower 
of  gold. — E,adam,  look  here :  All  these,  and  more 
than — 

Gal,  What  have  you  there,  my  lord .'  Gold  ! 
Now,  as  I  live,  'tis  fair  gold !  You  would  have 
silver  for  it,  to  play  with  the  pages.  You  could 
not  have  taken  me  in  a  worse  time  ;  but,  if  you 
have  present  use,  my  lord,  I'll  send  my  man  with 
silver,  and  keep  your  gold  for  you. 

Pha.  Lady,  lady ! 

Gal.  She's  coming,  sir,  behind,  will  take  white 

money.    Yot  for  all  this  I'll  match  you.     [Apart. 

[Exit  behind  the  hangincjs. 

Pha.  If  there  be  but  two  such  more  in  this 
kingdom,  and  near  the  court,  we  may  even  hang 
up  our  harps.  Ten  such  camphire  constitutions^ 
as  this  would  call  the  golden  age  again  in  ques- 
tion, and  teach  the  old  way  for  every  ill-faced 
husband  to  get  his  own  children ;  and  what  a 
mischief  that  would  breed,  let  all  consider ! 

Evier  Megea. 
Here's  another :  if  she  be  of  the  same  last,  the 
devil  shall  pluck  her  on. — Many  fair  mornings, 
lady, 

Meg.  As  many  mornings  bring  as  many  days, 
Fair,  sweet,  and  hopeful  to  your  grace. 

Pha.  She   gives   good  words  yet;   sure,   this 
wench  is  free. — 
If  your  more  serious  business  do  not  call  you. 
Let  me  hold  quarter  with  you ;  we'll  talk  an  hour 
Out  quickly. 

Meg.  What  would  your  grace  talk  of  ? 

Pha.  Of  some  such  pi-etty  subject  as  yourself. 
I'U  go  no  further  than  youi-  eye,  or  lip  ; 
There's  theme  enough  for  one  man  for  an  age. 


1  carduus — Latin  for  thistle. 

2  tiller — of  doubtful  meaning.  Probably  a  steel  bow 
or  cross  bow ;  also  explained  as  a  stand,  a  small  tree 
left  in  a  wood  for  growtb,  tiU  it  is  fellable. 

3  camphire  constitutions.  —  Camphire  was  anciently- 
classed  among  those  articles  of  the  Materia  Medica, 
which  were  cold  in  an  eminent  degree. — Webeb. 


Meg.  Sir,  they  stand  right,  and  my  lips  are 
yet  even. 
Smooth,  young  enough,  ripe  enough,   and  red 

enough, 
Or  ray  glass  wrongs  me. 

Pha.  Oh !  they  are  two  twinn'd  cherries  dyed 
in  blushes, 
Which  those  fair  suns  above,  with  their  bright 

beams, 
Eeflect  upon  and  ripen.     Sweetest  beauty, 
Bow  down  those  branches,  that  the  longing  taste 
Of  the  faint  looker-on  may  meet  those  blessings, 
And  taste  and  live. 

3feg.  Oh !  delicate,  sweet  prince, 
She  that  hath  snow  enough  about  her  heart. 
To  take  the  wanton  spring  of  ten  such  lines  off. 
May  be  a  nun  without  probation. — Sir, 
You  have,  in  such  neat  poetry,  gather'd  a  kiss, 
That  if  1  had  but  five  lines  of  that  number. 
Such  pretty  begging  blanks,'  I  should  commend 
Your  forehead,  or  your  cheeks,  and  kiss  you  too. 

Pha.  Do  it  in  prose ;  you  cannot  miss  it,  madam. 

3feg.  I  shall,  I  shall. 

Pha.  By  my  life,  you  shall  not.  [Kisses  her. 
I'll  prompt  you  first :  can  you  do  it  now  ? 

Meg.  Methinks  'tis  easy,  now  you  ha'  done't 
before ; 
But  yet  I  should  stick  at  it. 

Plia.  Stick  till  to-morrow ; 
I'll  never  part  you,  sweetest.     But  we  lose  time. 
Can  you  love  me  ? 

3Ieg.  Love  you,  my  lord?  How  would  you 
have  me  love  you  ? 

Pha.  I'll  teach  you  in  a  short  sentence,  'cause  I 
will  not  load  your  memory.    This  is  all — love  me. 

Meg.  'Tis  impossible. 

Pha.  Not  to  a  willing  mind,  that  will  endea- 
vour. If  I  do  not  teach  you  to  do  it  easily,  I'll 
lose  my  royal  blood  for't. 

Meg.  AVhy,  prince,  you  have  a  lady  of  your 
own,  that  yet  wants  teaching. 

Pha.  I'll  sooner  teach  a  mare  the  old  measures, 
than  teach  her  anj'thing  belonging  to  the  func- 
tion. She's  afraid  to  lie  with  herself,  if  she  have 
but  any  masculine  imaginations  about  her. 

Meg.  By  my  honour,  that's  a  foul  fault,  in- 
deed; but  time,  and  your  good  help,  will  wear 
it  out,  sir. 

Pha.  And  for  any  other  I  see,  excepting  your 
dear  self,  dearest  lady,  I  had  rather  be  Sir  Tim 
the  schoolmaster,  and  love  a  dairymaid. 

Meg.  Has  your  grace  seen  the  court -star, 
Galatea  ? 

Pha.  Out  upon  her !  She's  as  cold  of  her  fa- 
vour as  an  apoplex.     She  sail'd  by  but  now. 

Meg.  And  how  do  you  hold  her  wit,  sir  ? 

Pha.  I  hold  her  wit  ?  The  strength  of  all  the 
guard  cannot  hold  it,  if  they  were  tied  to  it ;  she 
would  blow  'em  out  of  the  kingdom.  They  talk 
of  Jupiter;  he's  but  a  squib-cracker  to  her. 
Look  well  about  you,  and  you  may  find  a  tongue- 
bolt.  But  speak,  sweet  lady,  shall  I  be  freely 
welcome  ? 

Meg.  I  dare  not,  prince,  I  dare  not. 

Pha.  Make  your  own  conditions,  my  purse 
shall  seal  'em ;  and  what  you  dare  imagine  you 
can  want,  I'll  furnish  you  withal.  Give  two 
houi-s  to  your  thoughts  every  morning  about  it. 
Gome,  I  know  you  are  bashful ;  speak  in  my  ear, 
will  you  be  mine  ?  Keep  this,  and  with  it  me. 
Soon  I  will  visit  you.  [Gives  her  a  ring. 

Meg.  My  lord,  my  chamber's  most  unsafe  ;  but 
I'U  find  some  means  to  slip  into  your  lodging ; 
till  when — 


1  blan&s — blank  verses. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


247 


Pha.  Till  when,  this,  and  my  heart,  go  with 
thee  !  \_Exe.unt  several  ways. 

Enter  GALATEAyro??!  behind  the  Hangings. 

Gal.  Oh,  thou  pernicious  petticoat  prince  !  are 
these  your  virtues  ?  Well,  if  I  do  not  lay  a  train 
to  blow  your  sport  uj),  I  am  no  woman.  And, 
Lady  Towsabel,'  I'll  fit  you  for't.  \ExLt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III. 

Arethusa's  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Arethusa  and  a  Lady. 

Are.  Where's  the  boy  ? 
Lady.  Within,  madam. 

Are.  Gave  you  him  gold  to  buy  him  clothes  ? 
Lady.  I  did. 

Are.  And  has  he  done't .' 
Lady.  Yes,  madam. 

Are.  'Tis  a  pretty  sad-talking  boy,  is  it  not.' 
Ask'd  you  his  name  ? 
Lady.  No,  madam. 

Enter  Galatea. 

Are.  Oh,  you  are  welcome.   What  good  news  ? 

Gal.  As  good  as  any  one  can  tell  your  gi-ace, 
That  says,  she  has  done  that  you  would  have 
wish'd. 

Are.  Hast  thou  discover'd  ? 

Gal.  I  have  strain'd  a  point  of  modesty  for 
you. 

Are.  J  pr'ythee,  how  ? 

Gal.  In  list'ning  after  bawdry.  I  see,  let  a 
lady  live  never  so  modestly,  she  shall  bo  sure 
to  find  a  lawful  time  to  hearken  after  bawdry. 
Your  prince,  brave  Pharamond,  was  so  hot  on't ! 

Are.  With  whom  ? 

Gal.  Why,  with  the  lady  I  suspected :  I  can 
tell  the  time  and  place. 

Are.  Oh!  when,  and  where  ? 

Gal.  To-night,  his  lodging. 

Are.  Eun  thyself  into  the  presence ;  mingle 
there  again 
With  other  ladies  ;  leave  the  rest  to  me. 
If  Destiny  (to  whom  we  dare  not  saj-, 
'  Why  thou  did'st  this  ? ')  have  not  decreed  it  so, 
In  lasting  leaves  (whose  smallest  characters 
Were  never  altered),  yet  this  match  shall  break. — 
Where's  the  boy  ? 

Lady.  Here,  madam. 

Enter  Bellario. 

Are.  Sir,  you  are  sad  to  change  your  service  ; 

is't  not  so  ? 
Bel.  Madam,  I  have  not  changed ;  I  wait  on 
you, 
To  do  him  service. 

Are.  Thou  disclaim'st  in  me.^ 
Tell  me  thy  name. 
Bel.  Bellario. 

Are.  Thou  canst  sing,  and  play? 
Bel.  If  grief  will  give  me  leave,  madam,  I  can. 
Are.  Alas !  what  kind  of  grief  can  thy  years 
know? 
Hadst  thou  a  curst  s  master  when  thou  went'st 

to  school  ? 
Thou  art  not  capable  of  other  grief ; 
Thy  brows  and  cheeks  are  smooth  as  waters  be. 
When  no  breath  troubles  them.   Believe  me,  boy, 


1  Towsahel — a  jocular  alteration   of  Dowsahel.      See 
note  1,  p.  161,  col.  1. 
-  disclaim'st  in  me — disclalmest  me. — Dyce. 
*  curst — cross. 


Care  seeks  out  wrinkled  brows  and  hollow  eyes, 
And  builds  himself  caves,  to  abide  iu  them. 
Come,  sir,  tell  me  truly,  does  your  lord  love  me  ? 

Bd.  Love,  madam  ?     I  know  not  what  it  is. 

Are.  Canst  thou  know  grief,  and  never  yet 
knew'st  love  ? 
Thou  art  deceived,  boy.     Does  he  speak  of  me, 
As  if  he  wish'd  me  well  ? 

Bel.  If  it  be  love. 
To  forget  all  respect  of  his  own  friends, 
In  thinking  of  your  face  ;  if  it  be  love, 
To  sit  cross-arm'd,  and  sigh  away  the  day, 
Mingled  with  starts,  crying  your  name  as  lead 
And  hastily  as  men  i'  the  streets  do  fire  ; 
If  it  be  love  to  weep  himself  awaj'. 
When  he  but  hears  of  any  lady  dead. 
Or   kill'd,    because  it    might    have    been    your 

chance ; 
If,  when  he  goes  to  rest  (which  will  not  be), 
'Twixt  every  prayer  he  saj's,  to  name  you  once, 
As  others  drop  a  bead, — be  to  be  in  love, 
Then,  madam,  I  dare  swear  he  loves  you. 

Are.  Oh,   you're  a  cunning  boy,  and  taught 
to  lie 
For  your  lord's  credit ;  but  thou  know'st  a  lie, 
That  bears  this  sound,  is  welcomer  to  me 
Than  any  truth  that  says  he  loves  me  not. 
Lead  the  way,  boy. — Do  you  attend  me  too. — 
'Tis  thy  lord's  business  hastes  me  thus.    Away ! 

\_£3;eunt. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  IV. 

Before  Prince  Pharamond's  Lodgings  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,  Thrasiline,  Megra, 
and  Galatea. 

Dion.  Come,  ladies,  shall  we  talk  a  round  ? 
As  men 
Do  walk  a  mile,  women  should  talk  an  horn- 
After  supper ;  'tis  their  exercise. 

Gal.  'Tis  late. 

Meg.  'Tis  all 
My  ej'es  will  do  to  lead  me  to  my  bed. 

Gal.  I  fear,  they  are  so  heavy,  you'll  scarce 
find 
The  way  to  your  lodging  with  'em  to-night. 

Enter  Pharajiond. 

Thra.  The  pi-ince ! 

Pha.  Nota-bed,  ladies  ?  You're  good  sitters  up. 
What  think  you  of  a  pleasant  dream,  to  last 
Till  morning  ? 

Meg.  I   should  choose,   my  lord,   a   pleasing 
wake  before  it. 

Enter  Arethusa  and  Bellario. 

Are.  'Tis  well,  my  lord  ;  you're  courting  of 
these  ladies. — 
Is't  not  late,  gentlemen  ? 
Cle.  Yes,  madam. 

Are.  Wait  you  there.  [^Exit. 

Meg.  She's  jealous,  as  I  live. — Look  you,  my 
lord, 
The  princess  has  a  Hylas,  an  Adonis. 
Pha.  His  form  is  angel-like. 
Meg.  Why,  this  is  he  that  must,  when  you  are 
wed. 
Sit  by  your  pillow,  like  young  Apollo,  with 
His  hand  and  voice,  binding  your  thoughts  in 

sleejj. 
The  princess  does  provide  him  for  you,  and  for 
herself. 
Pha.  I  find  no  music  in  these  boys. 
Meg.  Nor  I : 


248 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


They  can  do  little,  and  that  small  they  do, 
They  have  not  wit  to  hide. 
Dion.  Serves  he  the  princess  ? 
Thra.  Yes. 
Dion.  'Tis  a  sweet  boy ;  how  brave  *  she  keeps 

him ! 
Pha.  Ladies  all,  good  rest ;  I  mean  to  kill  a 
buck 
To-morrow  morning,  ere  you  have  done  your 
dreams.  \Ji,xit. 

Meg.  All  happiness  attend  your  grace!    Gentle- 
men, good  rest. — 
Come,  shall  we  to  bed  ? 
Gal.  Yes  ;  all  good  night. 

\Exeunt  Galatea  and  Megra. 
Dion.  May  your  dreams  be  true  to  you! — 
What  shall  we  do,  gallants  ?  'tis  late.    The  king 
Is  up  still ;  see,  he  comes  ;  a  guard  along 
With  him. 

Enter  King,  Arethusa,  and  Guard. 

King.  Look  your  intelligence  be  true. 

Are.  Upon  my  life  it  is  ;  and  I  do  hope 
Your  highness  will  not  tie  me  to  a  man 
That,  in  the  heat  of  wooing,  throws  me  off, 
And  takes  another. 

Dion.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

King.  If  it  be  true, 
That  lady  had  been  better  have  embraced 
Cureless  diseases.    Get  you  to  your  rest. 

^Exeunt  Arethusa  and  Bellario. 
You  shall  be  righted. — Gentlemen,  draw  near  ; 
We  shall  employ  you.    Is  young  Pharamond 
Come  to  his  lodging  ? 

Dion.  I  saw  him  enter  there. 

King.  Haste,    some    of    you,   and    cunningly 
discover 
If  Megra  be  in  her  lodging.  \Exit  Dion. 

Cle.  Sir, 
She  parted  henco  but  now,  with  other  ladies. 

King.  If  she  be  there,  we  shall  not  need  to 
make 
A  vain  discovery  of  our  suspicion. — 
Ye  gods,  I  see,  that  who  imrighteously      \^Aside. 
Holds  wealth,  or  state,  from  others,  shall  be  curst 
In  that  which  meaner  men  are  blest  withal. 
Ages  to  come  shall  know  no  male  of  him 
Left  to  inherit ;  and  his  name  shall  be 
Blotted  from  earth.     If  he  have  any  child, 
It  shall  be  crossly  match'd  ;  the  gods  themselves 
Shall  sow  wild  strife  betwixt  her  lord  and  her. 
Yet,  if  it  be  your  wills,  forgive  the  sin 
I  have  committed  ;  let  it  not  fall 
Upon  this  understanding  child  of  mine ; 
She  has  not  broke  your  laws.     But  how  can  I 
Look  to  be  heard  of  gods,  that  must  be  just, 
Praying  upon  the  ground  I  hold  by  wrong .' 

Enter  Dion. 

Dion.  Sir,  I  have  asked,  and  her  women  swear 
she  is  within ;  but  they,  I  think,  are  bawds.  I 
told  'em,  I  must  speak  with  her ;  they  laugh'd, 
and  said,  their  lady  lay  speechless.  I  said,  my 
business  was  important;  thoy  said,  their  lady 
was  about  it.  I  grew  hot,  and  cried,  my  business 
was  a  matter  that  concerned  life  and  death  ;  tbey 
answer'd,  so  was  sleeping,  at  which  their  lady 
was.  I  urged  again,  she  had  scarce  time  to  be 
so  since  last  I  saw  her ;  they  smiled  again,  and 
seem'd  to  instruct  me,  that  sleeping  was  nothing 
but  lying  down  and  winking.  Answers  more 
direct  I  could  not  get.  In  short,  sir,  I  think  she 
is  not  there. 

King.  'Tis  then  no  time  to  dally. — You  o'  the 
guard, 

1  firave— well-dressed ;  Scotch,  hraw. 


Wait  at  the  back-door  of  the  prince's  lodging, 
And  see  that  none  pass  thence,  upon  your  lives. — 
Knock,  gentlemen  !  Knock  loud  !  Louder  yet ! 
What,  has  their  pleasure  taken  off  their  hearing? 
I'll  break  your  meditations.  Knock  again ! 
Not  yet  ?  I  do  not  think  he  sleeps,  having  this 
Larumbyhim.  Once  more. — Pharamond!  prince! 

Pharamond  appears  at  a  windoiu. 

Pha.  What  saucy  groom  knocks  at  this  dead  of 
night  7 
Where  be  our  waiters  ?     By  my  vexed  soul, 
He  meets   his   death,   that  meets  me,    for  this 
boldness. 
King.  Prince,  prince,  you  wrong  your  thoughts; 
we  are  your  friends. 
Come  down. 
Pha.  The  king? 

King.  The  same,  sir;  come  down. 
We  have  cause  of  present  counsel  with  you. 
Pha.  If  your  grace  please  to  use  me,  I'll  attend 
you 
To  your  chamber. 
King.  No,  'tis  too  late,  prince;  I'll  make  bold 

with  yours. 
Pha.  I  have  some  private  reasons  to  myself, 
Make  me  unmannerly,  and  say,  '  You  cannot.' — 
Nay,  press  not  forward,  gentlemen  ;  he  must 
Come  through  my  life,  that  comes  here. 

Enter  Pharamond  helow. 

King.  Sir,  be  resolved,'  I  must  and  will  come. 

\_Enter. 

Pha.  I'll  not  be  dishonour'd. 
He  that  enters,  enters  upon  his  death. 
Sir,  'tis  a  sign  you  make  no  stranger  of  me, 
To  bring  these  renegadoes  to  my  chamber. 
At  these  unseason'd  hours. 

King.  Why  do  you 
Chafe  yourself  so?     You  are  not  wrong'd,  nor 

shall  be ; 
Only  I'll  search  your  lodging,  for  some  cause 
To  ourself  known. — Enter,  I  say. 

Pha.  I  say,  no.  [Megra  appears  above. 

Meg.  Let  'em  enter,  prince ;  let  'em  enter ; 
I  am  up,  and  ready  ;-  I  know  their  business  : 
'Tis  the  poor  breaking  of  a  lady's  honour, 
They  hunt  so  hotly  after ;  let  'em  enjoy  it. — 
You  have  your  business,  gentlemen  ;  I  lay  here. — 
Oh,  my  lord  the  king,  this  is  not  noble  in  you 
To  make  public  the  weakness  of  a  woman. 

King.  Come  down. 

Meg.  I  dare,  my  lord.  Your  hootings  and  your 
clamours. 
Your  private  whispers,  and  your  broad  fleerings, 
Can  no  more  vex  my  soul,  than  this  base  carriage. 
But  I  have  vengeance  yet  in  store  for  some, 
Shall,  in  the  most  contempt  you  can  have  of  me, 
Be  joy  and  nourishment. 

King.  Will  you  come  down  ? 

Meg.  Yes,  to  laugh  at  your  worst.     But  I  shall 
wring  you, 
If  my  skill  fail  me  not. 

King.  Sir,   I  must  dearly  chide  you  for  this 
looseness. 
You  have  wrong'd  a  worthy  lady ;  but,  no  more. — 
Conduct  him  to  my  lodging,  and  to  bed. 

Cle.  Get  him  another  wench,  and  you  bring  him 
to  bed  indeed. 

Dion.  'Tis  strange  a  man  cannot  ride  a  stage 
or  two,  to  breathe  himself,  without  a  warrant. 
If  this  gear  hold,  that  lodgings  be  search'd  thus, 
pray  heaven  we  may  lie  with  our  own  wives  in 
safety,  that  they  be  not  by  some  trick  of  state 
mistaken. 


1  resoZuecJ— assured. 


2  ready — dressed. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


249 


Ent&r  Megra. 

King.   Now,   lady   of    honour,    wliere's    your 
honour  now  ? 
No  man  can  fit  your  palate,  but  the  prince. 
Thou  most  ill-shrouded  rottenness ;  thou  piece 
Made  by  a  painter  and  a  'pothecary  ; 
Thou  troubled  sea  of  lust ;  thou  wilderness, 
Inhabited  by  wild  thoughts ;  thou  swoU'n  cloud 
Of  infection  ;  thou  ripe  mine  of  all  diseases ; 
Thou  all  sin,  all  hell,  and  last,  all  devils,  tell  me 
Had  you  none  to  pull  on  with  your  courtesies. 
But  he  thatmust  be  mine,  and  wrong  my  daughter  ? 
By  all  the  gods !  all  these,  and  all  the  pages, 
And  all  the  court,  shall  hoot  thee  through  the 

court ; 
Fling  rotten  oranges,  make  ribald  rhymes, 
And  sear  thy  name  with  candles  upon  walls. 
Do  you  laugh,  lady  Venus  .' 

Meg.  'Faith,  sir,  you  must  pardon  me  ; 
I  cannot  choose  but  laugh  to  see  you  merry. 
If  you  do  this,  0  king !  nay,  if  you  dare  do  it. 
By  all  those  gods  you  swore  by,  and  as  many 
More  of  mine  own,  I  will  have  fellows,  and  such 
Fellows  in  it,  as  shall  make  noble  mirth. 
The  princess,  your  dear  daughter,  shaU  stand  by 

me 
On  walls,  and  sung  in  ballads,  anything. 
Urge  me  no  more  ;  I  know  her  and  her  haimts, 
Her  lays,  leaps,  and  outlays,  and  will  discover 

all; 
Nay,  will  dishonour  her.     I  know  the  boy 
She  keeps  ;  a  handsome  boy,  about  eighteen  ; 
Know  what  she  does  with  him,  where,  and  when. 
Come,  sir,  you  put  me  to  a  woman's  madness, 
The  glory  of  a  fui-y;  and  if  I  do  not 
Do't  to  the  height — 

King.  What  boy  is  this  she  raves  at  ? 

Meg.  Alas !  good-minded  prince,  you  know  not 
these  things ; 
I  am  loath  to  reveal  'em.     Keep  this  fault, 
As  you  would  keep  your  health,  from  the  hot  air 
Of  the  corrupted  people,  or,  by  heaven, 
I  will  not  fall  alone.     What  1  have  known, 
Shall  be  as  public  as  a  print ;  all  tongues 
Shall  speak  it,  as  they  do  the  language  they 
Are  born  in,  as  free  and  commonly  ;  I'll  set  it. 
Like  a  prodigious  star,  for  all  to  gaze  at ; 
And  so  high  and  glowing,  that  other  kingdoms, 

far  and  foreign, 
Shall  read  it  there,  nay,  travel  with't  till  they  find 
No  tongue  to  make  it  more,  nor  no  more  people  ; 
And  then  behold  the  fall  of  your  fair  j)rincess. 

King.  Has  she  a  boy  ? 

Cle.  So  please  your  grace,  I  have  seen  a  boy 
wait 
On  her  ;  a  fair  boy. 

King.  Go,  get  you  to  your  quarter : 
For  this  time  I  will  study  to  forget  you. 

Meg.  Do  you  study  to  forget  me,  and  I'll  study 
to  forget  you. 

\^Exeunt  King,  Megra,  and  Guard. 

Cler.  Why,  here's  a  male  sp)irit  fit  for  Hercules. 
If  ever  there  be  nine  worthies  of  women,  this 
wench  shall  ride  astride  and  be  their  captain. 

Dion.  Sure  she  has  a  garrison  of  devils  in  her 
tongue,  she  uttered  such  balls  of  wild-fire.  She 
has  so  nettled  the  king,  that  all  the  doctors  in  the 
country  will  scarce  cure  him.  That  boy  was  a 
strange-found-out  antidote  to  cure  her  infection. 
That  boy,  that  princess's  boy,  that  brave,  chaste, 
virtuous  lady's  boy  ;  and  a  fair  boy,  a  well-spoken 
boy  !  All  these  considered,  can  make  nothing  else 
— But  there  I  leave  you,  gentlemen. 

Thra.  Nay,  we'll  go  wander  with  you. 

\_Exewit. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

The  Court  of  the  Palace. 

Enter  Cleremont,  Dion,  and  Tiirasiline. 

Cle.  Nay,  doubtless,  'tis  true. 

Dion.  Ay  ;  and  'tis  the  gods 
That  raised  this  punishment,  to  scourge  the  king 
With  his  own  issue.     Is  it  not  a  shame 
For  us,  that  should  write  noble  in  the  land. 
For  us,  that  should  be  freemen,  to  behold 
A  man,  that  is  the  bravery  of  his  age, 
Philaster,  press'd  down  from  his  royal  right, 
By  this  regardless  king  ?  and  only  look 
And  see  the  sceptre  ready  to  be  cast 
Into  the  hands  of  that  lascivious  lad}', 
That  lives  in  lust  with  a  smooth  boy,  now  to  be 

married 
To  yon  strange  prince,  who,  but  that  people  please 
To  let  him  be  a  prince,  is  born  a  slave 
In  that  which  should  be  his  most  noble  part, 
His  mind! 

Thra.  That  man,  that  would  not  stir  with  you 
To  aid  Philaster,  let  the  gods  forget 
That  such  a  creature  walks  upon  the  earth. 

Cle.  Philaster  is  too  backward  in't  himself. 
The  gentry  do  await  it,  and  the  people. 
Against  their  nature,'  are  all  bent  for  him, 
And  like  a  field  of  standing  corn,  that's  moved 
With  a  stiff  gale,  their  heads  bow  all  one  way. 

Dion.  The  only  cause   that  draws   Philaster 
back 
From  this  attempt,  is  the  fair  princess's  love, 
Which  he  admires,  and  wo  can  now  confute. 

Thra.  Perhaps,  he'll  not  believe  it. 

Dion.  Why,  gentlemen, 
'Tis  without  question  so. 

Cle.  Ay,  'tis  past  speech. 
She  lives  dishouestlj'.     But  how  shall  we, 
If  he  be  curious,^  work  upon  his  faith  ? 

Thra.  We  all  are  satisfied  within  ourselves. 

Dion.  Since  it  is  true,  and  tends  to  his  own 
good, 
I'll  make  this  new  report  to  be  my  knowledge  : 
I'll  say  I  know  it ;  nay,  I'll  swear  I  saw  it. 

Cle.  It  will  be  best. 

Thra.  'Twill  move  him. 

Enter  Philaster. 

Dion.  Here  he  comes. — 
Good  moiTOvv  to  your  honour !     We  have  spent 
Some  time  in  seeking  you. 

Phi.  My  worthy  friends, 
Yovi  that  can  keep  your  memories  to  know 
Your  friend  in  miseries,  and  cannot  frown 
On  men  disgraced  for  virtue,  a  good  day 
Attend  you  all !     What  service  may  I  do, 
Worthy  your  accejptation  ? 

Dion.  My  good  lord. 
We  come  to  urge  that  virtue,  which  we  know 
Lives  in  your  breast,  forth !    Kise,  and  make  a 

head. 
The  nobles  and  the  people  are  all  dull'd 
With  this  usurping  king;  and  not  a  man. 
That  ever  heard  the  word,  or  knew  such  a  thing 
As  virtue,  but  will  second  your  attempts. 

Phi.  How  honourable  is  this  love  in  you 
To  me,  that  have  deserved  none  ?     Know,  my 

friends 
(You,  that  were  born  to  shame  your  poor  Philaster 
With  too  much  courtesy),  I  could  afford 
To  melt  myself  in  thanks.    But  my  designs 


1  against  their  nature — i.e.  contrary  to  the  nature  of 
the  discordant  multitude. — Mason. 
^  curious — scrupulous. — Weber. 


250 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Are  not  yet  ripe  ;  suffice  it,  that  ere  long 
I  shall  employ  your  loves  ;  but  yet  the  time 
Is  short  of  what  I  would. 

Dion.  The  time  is  fuller,  sir,  than  you  expect : 
That  which  hereafter  will  not,  perhaps,  be  reach'd 
By  violence,  may  now  be  caught.    As  for  the 

king. 
You  know  the  people  have  long  hated  him ; 
But  now  the  princess,  whom  they  loved —  . 

Phi.  Why,  what  of  her .' 

Dion.  Is  loath'd  as  much  as  he. 

Dili.  By  what  strange  means  ? 

Dion.  She's  known  a  whore. 

Phi.  Thou  liest. 

Dion.  My  lord — 

Phi.  Thou  liest,       [Offers  to  draio,  and  is  held. 
And  thou  shalt  feel  it.     I  had  thought  thy  mind 
Had  been  of  honour.     Thus  to  rob  a  lady 
Of  her  good  name,  is  an  infectious  sin. 
Not  to  be  pardon'd.     Be  it  false  as  hell, 
'Twill  never  be  redeem'd,  if  it  be  sown 
Amongst  the  peoi)le,  fruitful  to  increase 
All  evil  they  shall  hear.     Let  me  alone 
That  I  may  cut  off  falsehood,  whilst  it  springs! 
Set  hills  on  hills  betwixt  me  and  the  man 
That  utters  this,  and  I  will  scale  them  all, 
And  from  the  utmost  top  fall  on  his  neck, 
Like  thunder  from  a  cloud. 

Dion.  This  is  most  strange : 
Sure  he  does  love  her. 

Phi.  I  do  love  fair  truth : 
She  is  my  mistress,  and  who  injures  her. 
Draws  vengeance  from  me.    Sirs,  let  go  my  arms. 

Thra.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  patient. 

Cle.  Sir,  remember  this  is  your  honour'd  fi-iend 
That  comes  to  do  his  service,  and  will  show 
You  why  he  utter'd  this. 

Phi.  I  ask  your  pardon,  su- ; 
My  zeal  to  truth  made  me  unmannerly ; 
Should  I  have  heard  dishonour  spoke  of  you, 
Behind  your  back,  untruly,  I  had  been 
As  much  distemper'd  and  enraged  as  now. 

Dion.  But  this,  my  lord,  is  truth. 

Phi.  Oh,  say  not  so  ! 
Good  sir,  forbear  to  say  so  !     'Tis  then  truth 
That  all  womankind  is  false  !     Urge  it  no  more  ; 
It  is  impossible.     Why  should  you  think 
The  princess  light .' 

Dion.  Why,  she  was  taken  at  it. 

Phi.  'Tis  false !     By  Heaven,  'tis  false  !  it  can- 
not be ! 
Can  it?     Speak,  gentlemen;  for  love  of  truth, 

speak ! 
Is't  possible  ?     Can  women  all  be  damn'd  ? 

Dion.  Why,  no,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Why,  then,  it  cauuot  be. 

Dion.  And  she  was  taken  with  her  bov. 

Phi.  What  boy.' 

Dion.  A  page,  a  boy  that  serves  her. 

Phi.  Oh,  good  gods  ! 
A  little  boy  ? 

Dion.  Ay ;  know  you  him,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  Hell  and  sin  know  him! — Sir,  you  are 
deceived ; 
I'll  reason  it  a  little  coldly  with  you  : 
If  she  were  lustful,  would  she  take  a  boy. 
That  knows  not  yet  desire  ?    She  would  have  one 
Should  meet  her  thoughts,  and  know  the  sin  ho 

acts. 
Which  is  the  great  delight  of  wickedness. 
You  are  abused,  and  so  is  she,  and  I. 

Dio7i.  How  you,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  Why,  all  the  world's  abused 
In  an  unjust  report. 

Dion.  Oh,  noble  sir,  your  virtues 
Cannot  look  into  the  subtle  thoughts  of  woman. 
In  short,  my  lord,  I  took  them;  I  myself. 


Phi.  Now,  all   the   devils,    thou   did'st!     Ply 
from  my  rage ! 
Would    thou    hadst    ta'en    devils    engendering 

plagues, 
When  thou  didst  take  them!    Hide  thee  from 

my  eyes ! 
Would  thou  hadst  taken  thunder  on  thy  breast, 
When  thou  didst  take  them ;  or  been  strucken 

dumb 
For  ever ;  that  this  foul  deed  might  have  slept 
In  silence ! 

Tk7-a.  Have  you  known  him  so  ill-temper'd  ? 

Cle.  Never  before. 

Phi.  The  winds,  that  are  let  loose 
From  the  four  several  corners  of  the  earth, 
And  spread  themselves  all  over  sea  and  land, 
Kiss  not  a  chaste  one.    What  friend  bears  a  sword 
To  run  me  through  ? 

Dion.  Why,  my  lord,  are  you  so  moved  at  this  ? 

Phi.  When  any  fall  from  virtue,  I  am  distract ; 
I  have  an  interest  in't. 

Dion.  But,  good  my  lord,  recall  yourself,  and 
think 
What's  best  to  be  done. 

Phi.  I  thank  you :  I  will  do  it. 
Please  you  to  leave  me  :  I'll  consider  of  it. 
To-morrow  I  will  find  your  lodging  forth. 
And  give  you  answer. 

Dion.  All  the  gods  direct  you 
The  readiest  way  ! — 

Thra.  He  was  extreme  impatient. 

Cle.  It  was  his  virtue,  and  his  noble  mind. 
\Exeunt  Diox,  Clekemont,  and  Thrasilink. 

Plii.  I  had  foi'got  to  ask  him  where  he  took 
them. 
I'll  follow  him.     Oh  that  I  had  a  sea 
Within  my  breast,  to  quench  the  fire  I  feel ! 
More  circumstances  will  but  fan  this  fire. 
It  more  afflicts  me  now,  to  know  by  whom 
This  deed  is  done,  than  simply  that  'tis  done  : 
And  he,  that  tells  me  this,  is  honourable, 
As  far  from  lies  as  she  is  far  from  truth. 
Oh  that,  like  beasts,  we  could  not  grieve  our- 
selves, 
With  that  we  see  not !     Bulls  and  rams  will  fight 
To  keep  their  females,  standing  in  their  sight ; 
But  take  'em  from  them,  and  you  take  at  once 
Their  spleens  away  ;  and  they  will  fall  again 
Unto  their  pastures,  growing  fresh  and  fat ; 
And  taste  the  water  of  the  springs  as  sweet 
As  'twas  before,  finding  no  start  in  sleep. 
But  miserable  man — 

Enter  Bellario  with  a  Letter, 

See,  see,  you  gods. 
He  walks  still;  and  the  face,  you  let  him  wear 
When  he  was  innocent,  is  still  the  same. 
Not  blasted !     Is  this  justice  ?     Do  you  mean 
To  intrap  mortality,  that  you  allow 
Treason  so  smooth  a  brow  ?     I  cannot  now 
Think  he  is  guilty. 

Bel.  Health  to  you,  my  lord ! 
The  princess  doth  commend  her  love,  her  life, 
And  this,  unto  you. 

Phi.  Oh,  Bellario ! 
Now  I  perceive  she  loves  me  ;  she  does  show  it 
In  loving  thee,  my  boy  :  she  has  made  thee  brave. 

Bel.  My  lord,  she  has  attired  me  past  my  Avish, 
Past  mj'  desert ;  more  fit  for  her  attendant. 
Though  far  unfit  for  me,  who  do  attend. 

Phi.  Thou  art  grown  courtly,  boy. — Oh,  let 
all  women. 
That  love  blaclc  deeds,  learn  to  dissemble  here. 
Here,  by  this  paper!     She  does  write  to  me, 
As  if  her  heart  were  mines  of  adamant 
To  all  the  world  besides ;  but,  \vaio  me, 
A  maiden-snow  that  melted  with  my  looks. — 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


251 


Tell  me,  my  boy,  how  doth  the  princess  use  thee  ? 
For  I  shall  guess  her  love  to  me  by  that. 

Bd.  Scarce  like  her  servant,  but  as  if  I  were 
Something  allied  to  her ;  or  had  preserved 
Her  life  three  times  by  my  fidelity. 
As  mothers  fond  do  use  their  only  sons ; 
As  I'd  use  one  that's  left  unto  my  trust. 
For  whom  my  life  should  pay  if  he  met  harm, 
So  she  does  use  me. 

PK.  Why,  this  is  wondrous  well : 
But  what  kind  language  does  she  feed  thee  with  ? 

Bd.  Why,  she  does  tell  me  she  will  trust  my 
youth 
With  all  her  loving  secrets  ;  and  does  call  me 
Her  pretty  servant ;  bids  me  weep  no  more 
For  leaving  you ;  she'll  see  my  services 
Regarded ;  and  such  words  of  that  soft  strain, 
That  I  am  nearer  weeping  when  she  ends 
Than  ere  she  spake. 

Phi.  This  is  much  better  still. 

Bel.  Are  you  not  ill,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  Ill  ?     No,  Bellario. 

Bel.  Methinks,  yoiu-  words 
Fall  not  from  off  your  tongue  so  evenly, 
Nor  is  there  in  your  looks  that  quietness 
That  I  was  wont  to  see. 

Phi.  Thou  art  deceived,  boy : 
And  she  strokes  thy  head  ? 

Bel.  Yes. 

Phi.  And  she  does  clap  thy  cheeks  ? 

Bel.  She  does,  my  lord. 

Phi.  And  she  does  kiss  thee,  boy  ?  ha ! 

Bel.  How,  my  lord .'' 

Phi.  She  lasses  thee  ? 

Bel.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Come,  come,  I  know  she  does, 

Bel.  No,  by  my  life. 

Phi.  Why,  then,  she  does  not  love  me.    Come, 
she  does. 
I  bade  her  do  it ;  I  charged  her,  by  all  charms 
Of  love  between  xis,  by  the  hope  of  peace 
We  should  enjoy,  to  j-ield  thee  all  delights 
Naked,  as  to  her  bed  :  I  took  her  oath 
Thou  should'st  enjoy  her.     Tell  me,  gentle  boy. 
Is  she  not  parallelless  ?     Is  not  her  breath 
Sweet  as  Arabian  winds,  when  fruits  are  ripe  ? 
Are  not  her  breasts  two  liquid  ivory  balls  ? 
Is  she  not  all  a  lasting  mine  of  joy  ? 

Bd.  Ay,  now  I  see  why  my  disturbed  thoughts 
Were  so  perples'd :  when  first  I  went  to  her, 
My  heart  held  augury.     You  are  abused ; 
Some  villain  has  abused  you !     I  do  see 
Whereto  you  tend.     Fall  rocks  upon  his  head 
That  put  this  to  j'ou  !     'Tis  some  subtle  train, 
To  bring  that  noble  frame  of  yours  to  nought. 

Phi.  Thou  think'st  I  will  be  angry  with  thee. 
Come, 
Thou  shalt  know  all  my  drift :  I  hate  her  more 
Than  I  love  happiness,  and  placed  thee  there, 
To  pry  with  narrow  eyes  into  her  deeds. 
Hast  thou  discover'd  ?     Is  she  fall'n  to  lust. 
As  I  would  wish  her  ?    Speak  some  comfort  to  me. 

Bel.  My  lord,  you  did  mistake  the  boy  you  sent : 
Had  she  the  lust  of  sparrows,  or  of  goats ; 
Had  she  a  sin  that  way,  hid  from  the  world, 
Beyond  the  name  of  lust,  I  would  not  aid 
Her  base  desires  ;  but  what  I  came  to  know 
As  servant  to  her,  I  would  not  reveal, 
To  make  my  life  last  ages. 

Phi.  Oh,  my  heart ! 
This  is  a  salve  worse  than  the  main  disease. 
TeU  me  thy  thoughts ;  for  I  will  know  the  least 

\I)raws. 
That  dwells  within  thee,  or  will  rip  thy  heart 
To  know  it :  I  will  see  thy  thoughts  as  plain 
As  I  do  now  thy  face. 

Bel.  Why,  so  you  do.  \Kiieels. 


She  is  (for  au.ght  I  know),  by  all  the  gods, 
As  chaste  as  ice.     But  were  she  foul  as  hell, 
And  I  did  know  it  thus,  the  breath  of  kings, 
The  points  of  swords,  tortures,  nor  bulls  of  brass  • 
Should  draw  it  from  me. 

Phi.  Then  it  is  no  time 
To  dally  with  thee;  I  will  take  thy  life, 
For  I  do  hate  thee :  I  could  cui'se  thee  now. 

Bel.  If  J'OU  do  hate,  you  could  not  curse  mo 
worse ; 
The  gnds  have  not  a  punishment  in  store 
Greater  for  me,  than  is  your  hate. 

Phi.  Fie,  fie. 
So  young  and  so  dissembling !     Tell  me  when 
And  where  thou  didst  enjoy  her,  or  let  plagues 
Fall  on  me,  if  I  destroy  thee  not. 

Bel.  Heaven  knows  I  never  did ;  and  when  I  lie 
To  save  my  life,  may  I  live  long  and  loath'd. 
Hew  me  asunder,  and,  whilst  I  can  think, 
I'll  love  those  pieces  you  have  cut  away 
Better  than  those  that  grow ;  and  kiss  those  limbs 
Because  you  made  'em  so. 

Phi.  Fear'st  thou  not  death  ? 
Can  boj's  contemn  that  ? 

Bel.  Ob,  what  boy  is  he 
Can  be  content  to  live  to  be  a  man. 
That  sees  the  best  of  men  thus  passionate, 
Thus  without  reason  ? 

Phi.  Oh,  but  thou  dost  not  know 
What  'tis  to  die. 

Bel.  Yes,  I  do  know,  my  lord  : 
'Tis  less  than  to  be  born  ;  a  lasting  sleep, 
A  quiet  resting  from  all  jealousy  ; 
A  thing  we  all  pursue.     I  know,  besides, 
It  is  but  giving  over  of  a  game 
That  must  be  lost. 

Phi.  But  there  are  pains,  false  boy, 
For  perjured  souls ;  think  but  on  these,  and  then 
Thy  heart  will  melt,  and  thou  wilt  utter  all. 

Bel.  May  they  fall  all  upon  me  whilst  I  live, 
If  I  be  pei-jured,  or  have  ever  thought 
Of  that  you  charge  me  with  !     If  I  be  false, 
Send  me  to  suffer  in  those  punishments 
You  speak  of  ;  kill  me. 

Phi.  Oh,  what  should  I  do .' 
Why,  who  can  but  believe  him  ?     He  does  swear 
So  earnestlj',  that  if  it  were  not  true. 
The  gods  would  not  endure  him.   Else,  Bellario  ! 
Thy  protestations  are  so  deej-),  and  thou 
Dost  look  so  truly,  when  thou  uttev'st  them. 
That  though  I  know  'em  false,  as  were  my  hopes, 
I  cannot  urge  thee  further.     But  thou  werfc 
To  blame  to  injure  me,  for  I  must  love 
Thy  honest  looks,  and  take  no  revenge  upon 
Thy  tender  j^outh  :  a  love  from  me  to  thee 
Is  firm,  whate'er  thou  dost.     It  troubles  me 
That  I  have  call'd  the  blood  out  of  thy  cheeks, 
That  did  so  well  become  thee.     But,  good  boy. 
Let  me  not  see  thee  more  ;  something  is  done 
That  wUl  distract  me,  that  will  make  me  mad. 
If  I  behold  thee.     If  thou  tender'st  -  me, 
Let  me  not  see  thee. 

Bel.  I  will  fly  as  far 
As  there  is  morning,  ere  I  give  distaste 
To  that  most  honour'd  mind.    But  through  these 

tears 
Shed  at  my  hopeless  parting,  I  can  see 
A  world  of  treason  practised  upon  you, 
And  her,  and  me.     Farewell,  for  evermore  ! 
If  you  shall  hear  that  sorrow  struck  me  dead. 
And  after  find  me  loyal,  let  there  be 


1  6mWs  of  brass— an  allusion  to  the  tyranny  of  Phalaris, 
who  enclosed  the  wretches  that  had  offended  him  in  a 
bull  of  brass,  and  burned  them  alive. 

-  tender'st — luvest. 


:5: 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


A  tear  shed  from  you  in  my  memory, 

And  I  shall  rest  at  peace.  \_Exit. 

Phi.  Blessing  be  with  thee, 
Whatever  thou  deserv'st! — Oh,  where  shall  I 
Go  bathe  this  body  ?  Nature,  too  unkind, 
That  made  no  medicine  for  a  troubled  mind ! 

[Exit. 

ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 

Aeethusa's  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Arethusa. 
Are.  I  marvel  my  boy  conies  not  back  again  : 
But  that  I  know  my  love  will  question  him 
Over  and  over,  how  I  slept,  waked,  talk'd  ; 
How  I  remember'd  him  when  his  dear  name 
Was  last  spoke,  and  how,  when  I  sigh'd,  wept, 

sung. 
And  ten  thousand  such ;  I  should  be  angry  at 
his  stay. 

Enter  King. 

King.  What,  at  your  meditations?     Who  at- 
tends you  ? 

Are.  None  but  my  single  self.    I  need  no  guard ; 
I  do  no  wrong,  nor  fear  none. 

King.  Tell  me,  have  you  not  a  boy  ? 

Are.  Yes,  sir. 

King.  What  kind  of  boy  ? 

Are.  A  page,  a  waiting-boy. 

King.  A  handsome  boy .' 

Are.  I  think  he  be  not  ugly  : 
Well  qualified,  and  dutiful,  I  know  him ; 
I  took  him  not  for  beauty. 

King.  He  speaks,  and  sings,  and  plays  ? 

Are.  Yes,  sir. 

King.  About  eighteen  ? 

Are.  I  never  ask'd  his  age. 

King.  Is  he  full  of  service  ? 

Are.  By  your  pardon,  why  do  you  ask  ? 

King.  Put  him  away. 

Are.  Sir! 

King.  Put  him  away !    He  has  done  you  that 
good  service. 
Shames  me  to  speak  of. 

Are.  Good  sir,  let  me  understand  you. 

King.  If  you  fear  me. 
Show  it  in  duty.     Put  away  that  boy. 

Are.  Let  me  have  reason  for  it,  sir,  and  then 
Your  will  is  my  command. 

King.  Do  not  you  blush  to  ask  it  ?     Cast  him 
off, 
Or  I  shall  do  the  same  to  you.     You're  one 
Shame  with  me,  and  so  near  unto  myself, 
That,  by  my  life,  I  dare  not  tell  myself. 
What  you,  myself,  have  done. 

Are.  What  have  I  done,  my  lord  ? 

King.  'Tis  a  new  language,  that  all  love  to 
learn : 
The  common  people  speak  it  well  already ; 
They  need  no  grammar.     Understand  we  well ; 
There  be  foul  whispers  stirring.     Cast  him  off. 
And  suddenly.     Do  it !     Farewell.     [Exit  King. 

Are.  Where  may  a  maiden  live  securely  free. 
Keeping  her  honour  fair  ?     Not  with  the  living  ; 
They  feed  upon  opinions,  errors,  dreams. 
And  make  'em  truths  ;  they  draw  a  nourishment 
Out  of  defamings,  grow  upon  disgraces; 
And,  when  they  see  a  virtue  fortified 
Strongly  above  the  battery  of  their  tongues, 
Oh,  how  they  casti  to  sink  it;  and,  defeated 
(Soul-sick  with  poison),  strike  the  monuments 
Where  noble  names  lie  sleeping ;  till  they  sweat. 
And  the  cold  marble  melt. 


*  ca«/— contrive,  plot. 


Enter  Philaster. 

Phi.  Peace  to   your  fairest  thoughts,  deai-est 
mistress. 

Are.  Oh,  my  dearest  servant,'  I  have  a  war 
within  me. 

Phi.  He  must  be  more  than  man,  that  makes 
these  crystals 
Eun  into  rivers.     Sweetest  fair,  the  cause  ? 
And,  as  I  am  your  slave,  tied  to  your  goodness, 
Your  creature,  made  again,  from  what  I  was. 
And  newly-spirited,  I'll  right  your  honour. 

Are.  Oh,  my  best  love,  that  boy ! 

Phi.  What  boy  ? 

Are.  The  pretty  boy  you  gave  me — 

Phi.  What  of  him  ? 

Are.  Must  be  no  more  mine. 

Phi.  Why? 

Ai-e.  They  ai'e  jealous  of  him. 

Phi.  Jealous!  who? 

Are.  The  king. 

Phi.  Oh,  my  misfortune! 
Then  'tis  no  idle  jealousy.    \_Aside.'] — Let  him  go. 

Are.  Oh,  cruel ! 
Are  you  hard-hearted  too  ?     Who  shall  now  tell 

you 
How  much  I  loved  you  ?  who  shall  swear  it  to 

you? 
And  weep  the  tears  I  send  ?  who  shall  now  bring 

you 
Letters,    rings,    bracelets  ?     lose   his   health    in 

service  ? 
Wake  tedious  nights  in  stories  of  your  praise  ? 
Who  shall  now  siug  your  crying  elegies  ? 
And  strike  a  sad  soul  into  senseless  pictures. 
And  make  them  mourn  ?  who  shall  take  up  his 

lute. 
And  touch  it,  till  he  crown  a  silent  sleep 
Upon  my  eyelids,  making  me  dream,  and  cry, 
'  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  Philaster ! ' 

Phi.  Oh,  my  heart  I 
Would  he  had  broken  thee,  that  made  thee  know 
This  lady  was  not  loyal. — Mistress,  forget 
The  boy  :  I'll  get  thee  a  far  better. 

Are.  Oh,  never,  never  such  a  boy  again 
As  my  Bellario ! 

Phi.  'Tis  but  your  fond  affection. 

Are.  With  thee,  my  boy,  farewell  for  ever 
All  secrecy  in  servants!     Farewell  faith. 
And  all  desire  to  do  well  for  itself ! 
Let  all  that  shall  succeed  thee,  for  thy  wrongs, 
Sell  and  betray  chaste  love ! 

Phi.  And  all  this  passion  for  a  boy  ? 

A  re.  He  was  your  boy,  and  you  put  him  to  me, 
And  the  loss  of  such  must  have  a  movxruing  for. 

Phi.  Oh,  thou  forgetful  woman ! 

Are.  How,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  False  Arethusa! 
Hast  thou  a  medicine  to  restore  my  wits. 
When  I  have  lost  'em  ?     If  not,  leave  to  talk, 
And  do  thus. 

Are.  Do  what,  sir  ?     Would  you  sleep  ? 

Phi.  For  ever,  Arethusa.     Oh,  ye  gods. 
Give  me  a  worthy  patience  !     Have  I  stood 
Naked,  alone,  the  shock  of  many  fortunes  ? 
Have  I  seen  mischiefs  numberless,  and  mighty, 
Grow  like  a  sea  upon  me  ?     Have  I  taken 
Danger  as  stern  as  death  into  my  bosom, 
And  laugh'd  upon  it,  made  it  but  a  mirth, 
And  flung  it  by  ?     Do  I  live  now  like  him. 
Under  this  tyrant  king,  that  languishing 
Hears  his  sad  bell,  and  see  his  mourners  ?     Do  I 
Bear  all  this  bravely,  and  must  sink  at  length 
Under  a  woman's  falsehood  ?     Oh,  that  boy, 

1  servant — lover. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


25; 


That  cursed  boy !     None  but  a  villain  boy 
To  ease  your  lust  ? 

An.  Nay,  then  I  am  betray'd  : 
I  feel  the  plot  cast  for  ray  overthrow. 
Oh,  I  am  wretched  ! 

Phi.  Now  3'ou  may  take  that  little  right  I  have 
To  this  poor  kingdom.     Give  it  to  your  joy ; 
For  I  have  no  joy  in  it.     Some  far  place, 
Where  never  womankind  durst  set  her  foot, 
For  bursting  1  with  her  poisons,  must  I  seek, 
And  live  to  curse  you : 

There  dig  a  cave,  and  preach  to  birds  and  beasts 
What  woman  is,  and  help  to  save  them  from  you : 
How  heaven  is  in  your  ejvs,  but  in  your  hearts, 
More  hell  than  hell  has  :  how  your  tongues,  like 

scorpions, 
Both  heal  and  poison :  how  your  thoughts  are 

woven 
With  thousand  changes  in  one  subtle  web. 
And  worn  so  by  you  :  how  that  foolish  man 
That  reads  the  story  of  a  woman's  face, 
And  dies  believing  it,  is  lost  for  ever : 
How  all  the  good  you  have  is  but  a  shadow, 
r  th'  morning  with  you,  and  at  night  behind  you, 
Past  and  forgotten.     How  j'our  vows  are  frosts, 
Fast  for  a  night,  and  with  the  next  sun  gone  : 
How  you  are,  being  taken  all  together, 
A  mere  confusion,  and  so  dead  a  chaos. 
That  love  cannot  distinguish.     These  sad  texts. 
Till  my  last  hour,  I  am  bound  to  utter  of  you. 
So,  farewell  all  my  woe,  all  my  delight! 

YExit  Philasteu. 

Are.  Be  merciful,  ye  gods,  and  strike  me  dead ! 

What  way  have  I  deserved  this  ?      Make   my 

breast 
Transparent  as  pure  crystal,  that  the  world. 
Jealous  of  me,  may  see  the  foulest  thought 
My  heart  holds.     Where  shall  a  woman  turn  her 

eyes, 
To  find  out  constancy  ? 

Enter  Bellario. 

Save  me,  how  black 
And  guiltily,  methinks,  that  boj's  looks  now! 
Oh,  thou  dissembler,  that,  before  thou  spak'st, 
Wert  in  thy  cradle  false,  sent  to  make  lies. 
And  betray  innocents  I     Thy  lord  and  thou 
May  glory  in  the  ashes  of  a  maid 
Fool'd  by  her  passion  ;  but  the  conquest  is 
Nothing  so  great  as  wicked.     Fly  away! 
Let  my  command  force  thee  to  that,  which  shame 
Would  do  without  it.     If  thou  understood'st 
The  loathed  office  thou  hast  undergone. 
Why,  thou  wouldst  hide  thee  under  heaps  of  hills. 
Lest  men  should  dig  and  find  thee. 

Bel.  Oh,  what  god. 
Angry  with  men,  hath  sent  this  strange  disease 
Into  the  noblest  minds  ?     Madam,  this  grief 
You  add  unto  me  is  no  more  than  drops 
To  seas,  for  which  they  are  not  seen  to  swell : 
My  lord  hath  struck  his  anger  through  my  heart. 
And  let  out  all  the  hojie  of  future  joys. 
Tou  need  not  bid  me  ily ;  I  came  to  part. 
To  take  my  latest-  leave.     Farewell  for  ever ! 
I  durst  not  run  away,  in  honesty, 
From  such  a  lady,  like  a  boy  that  stole. 
Or  made  some  grievous  fault.    The  power  of  gods 
Assist  you  in  your  sufferings  !     Hasty  time 
Reveal  the  truth  to  your  abused  lord 
And  mine,  that  he  may  know  your  worth ;  whUst  I 
Go  seek  out  some  forgotten  place  to  die  ! 

\_Exit  Bellario. 


1  For  bursting — for  fear  of  bursting.  It  was  vulgarly 
supposed  there  were  places  where  no  venomous  creatui'e 
could  live,  Ireland  being  one. — Mason. 

2  latest — last. 


Are.  Peace  guide  thee!    Thou  hast  overthrown 
me  once ; 
Yet,  if  I  had  another  Troy  to  lose, 
Thou,  or  another  villain,  with  thy  looks, 
Might  talk  me  out  of  it,  and  send  me  naked, 
My  hau-  dishevell'd,  through  the  fiery  streets. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Lady.  Madam,  the  king  would  hunt,  and  calls 
for  you 
With  earnestness. 

Are.  I  am  in  tune  to  hunt ! 
Diana,  if  thou  canst  rage  with  a  maid 
As  with  a  man,  let  me  discover  thee 
Bathing,  and  turn  me  to  a  fearful  hind, 
That  I  may  die  pursued  by  cruel  hounds, 
And  have  my  story  written  in  my  wounds. 

{^Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  L 

A  Forest. 

Enter  King,  Piiaramond,  Arethusa,  Galatea, 
Dion,  Cleremont,  Tiir.vsiline,  and  At- 
tendants. 

King.  What,  are  the  hounds  before,  and  all  the 
woodmen ; 
Our  horses  ready,  and  our  bows  bent  ? 

Dion.  All,  sir. 

King.  You  are  cloudy,  sir.      Come,  we  have 
forgotten 
Your  venial  trespass ;  let  not  that  sit  heavy 
Upon  your  spirit :  here's  none  dare  utter  it. — 

Dion.  He  looks  like  an  old  surfeited  stallion 
after  his  leaj)ing,  dull  as  a  dormouse.  See  how 
he  sinks !  The  wench  has  shot  him  between 
wind  and  water,  and,  I  hope,  sprung  a  leak. 

Thru.  He  needs  no  teaching,  he  strikes  sure 
enough  ;  his  greatest  fault  is,  he  hunts  too  much 
in  the  purlieus.  Would  he  would  leave  off 
poaching ! 

Dion.  And  for  his  horn,  he  has  left  it  at  the 
lodge  where  he  lay  late.'  Oh,  he's  a  precious 
lime-hound !  -  Turn  him  loose  upon  the  pursuit 
of  a  lady,  and  if  he  lose  her,  hang  him  up  i'  th' 
slip.  When  my  fox-bitch  Beauty  grows  proud, 
I'll  borrow  him. — 

Ki)ig.  Is  your  boy  turn'd  away  ? 

Are.  You  did  command,  sir,  and  I  obey'd  you. 

King.  'Tis  well  done.     Hark  ye  further. 

[They  talk  apart. 

Cle.  Is't  possible  this  fellow  should  repent  ? 
Methinks,  that  were  hot  noble  in  him ;  and  yet 
he  looks  like  a  mortified  member,  as  if  he  had  a 
sick  man's  salve*  in's  mouth.  If  a  worse  man 
had  done  this  fault  now,  some  physical  justice  or 
other  would  presently  (without  the  help  of  an 
almanack)  have  opened  the  obstructions  of  his 
liver,  and  let  him  blood  with  a  dog-whip. 

Dion.  See,  see,  how  modestly  yon  lady  looks, 
as  if  she  came  from  churching  with  her  neigh- 
bour. Why,  what  a  devil  can  a  man  see  in  her 
face,  but  that  she's  honest ! 

Thra.  'Troth  no  great  matter  to  speak  of ;  a 
foolish  twinkling  with  the  eye,  that  spoils  her 
coat ;  but  he  must  be  a  cunning  herald  that  finds 
it. 

Dion.  See  how  they  muster  one  another !     Oh, 

1  late — lately. 

2  lime-hound — a  sporting  dog,  led  by  a  kind  of  thing 
called  a  lyam,  or  lyme ;  Fr.  limier. — Nakf.s. 

3  sick  man's  salve — See  note  2,  p.  199,  col.  2. 


254 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


there's  a  rank  regiment  where  the  devil  carries 
the  colours,  and  his  dam  drum-major !  Now  the 
world  and  the  flesh  come  behind  with  the  car- 
riage.i 

Cle.  Snre,  this  lady  has  a  good  turn  done  her 
against  her  will.  Before,  she  was  common  talk ; 
now,  none  dare  say  cantharides  can  stir  her. 
Her  face  looks  like  a  warrant,  willing  and  com- 
manding all  tongues,  as  they  will  answer  it,  to  be 
tied  up  and  bolted  wlien  this  lady  means  to  let 
herself  loose.  As  I  live,  she  has  got  her  a  goodly 
protection,  and  a  gracious  ;  and  may  use  her  body 
discreetly,  for  her  health's  sake,  once  a  week, 
excepting  Lent  and  Dog-days.  Oh,  if  they  were 
to  be  got  for  money,  what  a  great  sum  would 
come  out  of  the  city  for  these  licences  ! 

King.  To  horse,  to  horse  !  We  lose  the  morn- 
ing, gentlemen.  \Exs,unt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 

Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  two  Woodmen. 

1  Wood.  What,  have  you  lodged  the  deer  ? 

2  Wood.  Yes,  they  are  ready  for  the  bow. 

1  Wood.  Who  shoots  ? 

2  Wood.  The  princess. 

1  Wood.  No,  she'll  hunt. 

2  Wood.  She'll  take  a  stand,  I  say. 

1  Wood.  Who  else  ? 

2  Wood.  Why,  the  young  stranger  prince. 

1  Wood.  He  shall  shoot  in  a  stone-bow-  for  me. 
I  never  loved  his  beyond-sea-ship,  since  he  for- 
sook the  say,'  for  paying  ten  shillings.  He  was 
there  at  the  fall  of  a  deer,  and  would  needs  (out 
of  liis  mightiness)  give  ten  groats  for  the  dow- 
cets ;  *  marry,  the  steward  would  have  had  the 
velvet-head  into  the  bargain  to  tuft  his  hat  withal. 
I  think  he  should  love  venery :  he  is  an  old  Sir 
Tristrem ; '  for,  if  you  be  remember'd,  he  forsook 
the  stag  once,  to  strike  a  rascal^  mitchiug'  in  a 
meadow,  and  her  he  killed  in  the  eye.  Who 
shoots  else  ? 

2  Wood.  The  Lady  Galatea. 

1  Wood.  That's  a  good  wench,  an  she  would 
not  chide  us  for  tumbling  of  her  women  in  the 
brakes.  She's  liberal,  and,  by  my  bow,  they  say 
she's  honest ;  and  whether  that  be  a  fault,  I  have 
nothing  to  do.     There's  all  ? 

2  Wood.  No,  one  more ;  Megra. 

1  Wood.  That's  a  firker,*i' faith,  boy ;  there's  a 
wench  will  ride  her  haunches  as  hard  after  a 
kennel  of  hounds,  as  a  hunting  saddle  ;  and  when 
she  comes  home,  get  'em  clapt,  and  all  is  well 
again.  I  have  Icnown  her  lose  herself  thi-ee  times 
in  one  afternoon  (if  the  woods  have  been  answer- 
able), and  it  has  been  work  enough  for  one  man 


'  carriage — baggage. 

2  stone-bow — a  cross-bow,  'which  shoots  stones.— Dtce. 

*  since  he  forsook  the  say  (i.e.  assav).  When  a  deer  is 
hunted  down,  and  to  he  cut  up,  it  is  a  ceremony  for  the 
keeper  to  offer  his  knife  to  a  man  of  the  first  distinction 
in  the  field,  that  he  may  cut  up  the  belly,  and  take  an 
assay  of  the  phght  and  fatness  of  the  game.  But  this 
Pharamond  declined,  to  save  the  customary  fee  of  ten 
shillings. — Theobald. 

*  dowcets  or  doulcets — the  testes. 

5  Sir  Tristrem.  This  hero  in  romance  is  reputed  the 
patron  saint  of  the  chase. 

^  rascal — a  lean  deer  or  doa 

'  mitching  or  miching  —  skvUking,  creeping,  solitary. 
Tlie  reading  here  is  doubtful :  Dyce  suggests  loaUcing. 

*  firker.  To  firk  is  to  quirk,  truck ;  here  it  is  used  in 
a  bad  sense. — Weber. 


to  find  her ;  and  he  has  sweat  for  it.     She  rides 
well,  and  she  pays  well.     Hai-k !  let's  go. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter  Philaster. 

Phi.  Oh  that  I  had   been   nourish'd  in  these 

woods, 
With  milk  of  goats  and  acorns,  and  not  known 
The  right  of  crowns,  nor  the  dissembling  trains ' 
Of  women's  looks ;  but  digg'd  myself  a  cave, 
Where  I,  my  fire,  my  cattle,  and  my  bed, 
Might  have  been  shut  together  in  one  shed ; 
And  then  had  taken  me  some  mountain  girl, 
Beaten  with  winds,  chaste  as  the  harden'd  rocks 
Whereon  she  dwells;   that  might  have  strew'd 

my  bed 
With  leaves  and  reeds,  and  with  the  skins  of  beasts, 
Our  neighbours ;  and  have  borne  at  her  big  breasts 
My  large  coarse  issue !     This  had  been  a  life 
Free  from  vexation. 

Enter  Bellario. 

Bel.  Oh,  wicked  men! 
An  innocent  may  walk  safe  among  heasts ; 
Nothing  assaults  me  here.     See  my  griev'd  lord 
Sits  as  his  soul  were  searching  out  a  way 
To  leave  his  body. — Pardon  me,  that  must 
Break  thy  last  commandment ;  for  I  must  speak. 
Tou,  that  are  grieved,  can  pity :  hear,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Is  there  a  creature  yet  so  miserable, 
That  I  can  pity  ? 

Bel.  Oh,  my  noble  lord ! 
View  my  strange  fortune ;  and  bestow  on  me, 
According  to  your  bounty  (if  my  service 
Can  merit  nothing)  so  much  as  may  serve 
To  keep  that  little  piece  I  hold  of  life 
From  cold  and  hunger. 

Phi.  Is  it  thou  ?     Begone  ! 
Go  sell  those  misbeseeming  clothes  thou  wear'st, 
And  feed  thyself  with  them. 

Bel.  Alas  !  my  lord,  I  can  get  nothing  for  them ! 
The  silly  coimtry  people  think  'tis  treason 
To  touch  such  gay  things. 

Phi.  Now,  by  my  life,  this  is 
Unkindly  done,  to  vex  me  with  thy  sight. 
Thou'rt  fallen  again  to  thy  dissembling  trade : 
How,  should'st  thou  think  to  cozen  me  again  ? 
Eemains  there  yet  a  plague  untried  for  me ; 
Even  so  thoii  wept'st,  and  look'd'st,  and  spok'st, 
I  took  thee  up  :  [when  first 

Curse  on  the  time !     If  thy  commanding  tears 
Can  work  on  any  other,  use  thy  art, 
I'll  not  betray  it.     Which  way  wilt  thou  take, 
That  I  may  shun  thee  ?  for  thine  eyes  are  poison 
To  mine  ;  and  I  am  loath  to  gi'ow  in  rage. 
This  way,  or  that  way  ? 

Bel.  Any  will  serve.    But  I  will  choose  to  have 
That  path  in  chase  that  leads  unto  my  grave. 

[Exeunt  Philaster  and  Bellakio  severally. 

Enter  Dion  and  the  Woodmen. 

Bion.  This  is  the   strangest  sudden  chance ! 
You  woodmen ! 

1  Wood.  My  lord  Dion! 

Dion.  Saw  you  a  lady  come  this  way,  on  a  sable 
horse,  studded  with  stars  of  white  ? 

2  Wood.  Was  she  not  young  and  tall  ? 

Dion.  Yes.    Kode  she  to  the  wood  or  to  the 
plain  ? 

2  Wood.  'Faith,  my  lord,  we  saw  none. 

[Exeunt  Woodmen. 

Enter  Clerejiokt. 

Dion.  Pox  of  your  questions,  then ! — What !  is 
she  found .' 


1  trains — artifices. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


':)D 


Cle.  Nor  will  be,  I  think. 

Dion.  Let  him  seek  his  daughter  himself.  She 
cannot  stray  about  a  little  necessary  natural  busi- 
ness, but  the  whole  court  must  be  in  arms.  "When 
she  has  done  we  shall  have  peace. 

Cle.  There's  already  a  thousand  fatherless  tales 
amongst  us :  some  say,  her  horse  ran  away  with 
her ;  some,  a  wolf  j)ursued  her ;  others,  it  was  a 
plot  to  kill  her,  and  that  armed  men  were  seen  iu 
the  wood :  but,  questionless,  she  rode  away  Avill- 
ingly. 

Enter  King,  Thrasilinb,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Where  is  she.' 

Cle.  Sir,  I  cannot  tell. 

King.  How  is  that  ? 
Answer  me  so  again  ! 

Cle.  Sir,  shall  1  lie  ? 

King.  Yes,  lie  and  damn,  rather  than  tell  me 
that. 
I  say  again,  where  is  she  ?     Mutter  not ! — 
Sir,  speak  you !     Where  is  she  ? 

Dion.  Sir,  I  do  not  know. 

King.  Speak  that    again    so   boldly,   and   by 
Heaven, 
It  is  thy  last. — Tou  fellows,  answer  me ; 
Where  is  she  .'  Mark  me  all ;  I  am  your  king; 
I  wish  to  see  my  daughter ;  show  her  me  : 
I  do  command  you  all,  as  you  are  subjects, 
To  show  her  me  !  What !  am  I  not  youi-  king  ? 
If  '  ay,'  then  am  I  not  to  be  obeyed  ? 

Dion.  Yes,  if  you  command  things  possible  and 
honest. 

King.  Things  possible  and  honest !     Hear  me, 
thou, 
Thou  traitor!  that  dar'st  confine  thy  king  to  things 
Possible  and  honest ;  show  her  to  me, 
Or,  let  me  perish  if  I  cover  not 
All  Sicily  with  blood: 

Dion.  Indeed  I  cannot,  unless  you  tell  me 
where  she  is. 

King.  You  have  betrayed  me ;  you  have  let  me 
The  jewel  of  my  life  :  go  bring  her  me,  [lose 

And  set  her  here,  before  me  :  'tis  the  king 
Will  have  it  so  ;  whose  breath  can  still  the  winds, 
Uncloud  the  sun,  charm  down  the  swelling  sea, 
And  stop  the  floods  of  heaven.  Speak,  can  it  not  ? 

Dion.  No. 

King.  No !  cannot  the  breath  of  kings  do  this  ? 

Dion.  No,  nor  smell  sweet  itself,  if  once  the 
lungs  be  but  cornipted. 

King.  Is  it  so  ?     Take  heed ! 

Dion.  Sir,  take  you  heed,  how  you  dare  the 
powers  that  must  be  just. 

King.  Alas !  what  are  we  kings  ? 
Why  do  you,  gods,  place  us  above  the  rest, 
To  be  served,  flattered,  and  ador'd,  till  we 
Believe  we  hold  within  our  hands  your  tlivinder ; 
And,  when  we  come  to  try  the  power  we  have. 
There's  not  a  leaf  shakes  at  our  threatenings  ? 
I  have  sinn'd,  'tis  true,  and  ,  here  stand  to  be 

punished ; 
Yet  would  not  thus  be  punish'd.     Let  me  choose 
My  way,  and  lay  it  on. 

Dion.  He  articles  with  the  gods.  Would  some- 
body would  draw  bonds  for  the  performance 
of  covenants  betwixt  them !  {Aside. 

Enter  Pharamoot),  Galatea,  and  Megea. 

King.  What,  is  she  found  ? 

Fha.  No;  we  have  ta'en  her  horse » 
He  gallop'd  empty  by.     There  is  some  treason. 
You,  Galatea,  rode  with  her  into  the  wood ; 
Why  left  you  her  ? 

Gal.  She  did  command  me. 

King.  Command !     You  should  not. 


Gal.  'Twould  ill  become  my  fortunes  and  my 
To  disobey  the  daughter  of  my  king.  [birth 

King.  You're  all  cunning  to  obey  us  for  our 
But  I  will  have  her.  [hurt ; 

Pha.  If  I  have  her  not, 
By  this  hand  there  shall  he  no  more  Sicily. 

Dion.  What,  will  he  carry  it  to  Spain  in's  pocket? 

Pha.  I  will  not  leave  one  man  alive,  but  the 
A  cook,  and  a  tailor.  [kiug, 

Dion.  Yet  you  may  do  well  to  spare  your  lady 
bedfellow ;  and  her  you  may  keep  for  a  spawner. 

King.  I  see  the  injuries  I  have  done  must  be 
revenged. 

Dion.  Sir,  this  is  not  the  way  to  find  her  out. 

King.  Eunall;  disperse  yourselves!     The  man 
that  finds  her. 
Or  (if  she  be  kill'd)  the  traitor,  I'll  make  him  great. 

Dion.  I  know  some  would  give  five  thousand 
pounds  to  find  her. 

Pha.  Come,  let  us  seek. 

King.  Each  man  a  several  way  ; 
Here  I  myself. 

Dion.  Come,  gentlemen,  we  here, 

Cle.  Lady,  you  must  go  search  too. 

Meg.  I  had  rather  be  search'd  myself. 

\Extxmt  severally. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IIL 
Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Arethusa. 

Are.  Where  am  I  now  ?  Feet,  find  me  out  a  way 
Without  the  counsel  of  my  troubled  head: 
I'll  follow  you  boldly  about  these  woods. 
O'er  mountains, thorough  brambles,pits,and  floods. 
Heaven,  I  hope,  will  ease  me.     I  am  sick. 

{Sits  doion. 

Enter  Bellakio. 

Bel.  Yonder's  my  lady  ;  Heaven  knows  I  want 
Because  I  do  not  wish  to  live ;  yet  I       [nothing. 
Will  try  her  charity. — 
Oh  hear,  you  that  have  plenty :  from  that  flowing 

store, 
Drop  some  on  dry  ground. — See,  the  lively  red 
Is  gone  to  guard  her  heart !  I  fear  she  faints. — 
Madam,  look  up !— She  breathes  not.     Open  ouce 

more 
Those  rosy  twins,  and  send  unto  my  lord 
Your  latest  farewell.     Oh,  she  stirs ! — How  is  it, 
Madam  ?     Speak  comfort. 

Are.  'Tis  not  gently  done, 
To  put  me  in  a  miserable  life. 
And  hold  me  there  :  I  pr'ythee  let  me  go ; 
I  shall  do  best  without  thee :  I  am  well. 

Enter  Philaster. 

Phi.  I  am  to  blame  to  be  so  much  in  rage : 
I'll  teU  her  coolly  when  and  where  I  heard 
This  killing  truth.     I  will  be  temperate 
In  speaking,  and  as  just  in  hearing. — 
Oh,  monstrous!     Tempt  me  not,  ye  gods!  good 

gods. 
Tempt  not  a  frail  man!  What's  he  that  has  a  heart, 
But  he  must  ease  it  here ! 

Bel.  My  lord,  help  the  princess. 

Are.  I  am  well :  forbear. 

Phi.  Let  me  love  lightning,  let  me  be  embraced 
And  kissed  by  scoi-pions,  or  adore  the  eyes 
Of  basilisks,  rather  than  trust  the  tongues 
Of  hell-bred  women  !  Some  good  god  look  down. 
And  shrink  these  veins  up ;  stick  me  here  a  stone 
Lasting  to  ages,  in  the  memory 
Of  this  damn'd  act :  hear  me,  you  wicked  ones  ; 


256 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


You  have  put  hills  of  fire  into  this  breast, 
Not  to  be  quench'd  with  tears;   for  which  may- 
guilt 
Sit  on  your  bosoms !  at  your  meals  and  beds 
Despair  await  you !  What !  before  my  face  ? 
Poison  of  asps  between  your  lips  !     Diseases 
Be  your  best  issues  I     Nature  make  a  curse, 
And  throw  it  on  you ! 

Arc.  Dear  Philaster,  leave 
To  be  enraged,  and  hear  me. 

Phi.  I  have  done  : 
Forgive  my  passion.    Not  the  calmed  sea, 
When  ^olus  locks  up  his  windy  brood, 
Is  less  disturb'd  than  I :  I'll  make  you  know  it. 
Dear  Arethusa,  do  but  take  this  sword, 
And  search  how  temperate  a  heart  I  have ; 
Then  you,  and  this  your  boy,  may  live  and  reign 
In  lust  without  control.     Wilt  thou,  Bellario  ? 
I  pr'ythee  kill  me  :  thou  art  poor,  and  may'st 
Nourish  ambitious  thoughts  when  I  am  dead : 
This  way  were  freer.     Am  I  raging  now  ? 
If  I  were  mad  I  should  desire  to  live. 
Sii's,  feel  my  pulse :  whether  have  you  known 
A  man  in  a  more  equal  tune  to  die  ? 

Bel.  Alas,  my  lord,  your  pulse  keeps  madman's 
So  does  your  tongue.  [time, 

Phi.  You  will  not  kill  me,  then  ? 

Are.  Kill  you  ? 

Bd.  Not  for  a  world. 

Phi.  I  blame  not  thee, 
Bellario  :  thou  hast  done  but  that,  which  gods 
Would  have  transformed  themselves  to  do.     Be- 
Leave  me  without  reply  ;  this  is  the  last    [gone ; 
Of  all  our  meeting.     [Exit  Bellario.] — Kill  me 

with  this  sword ; 
Be  wise,  or  worse  will  follow.     We  are  two 
Earth  cannot  bear  at  once.    Eesolve  to  do, 
Or  suffer. 

Are.  If  my  fortune  be  so  good  to  let  me  fall 
Upon  thy  hand,  I  shall  have  peace  in  death. 
Yet  tell  me  this,  will  there  be  no  slanders. 
No  jealousy  in  the  other  woi'ld ;  no  ill  there  ? 

Phi.  No. 

Are.  Show  me,  then,  the  way. 

Phi.  Then  guide  my  feeble  hand,  {Draws. 

You  that  have  j)ower  to  do  it,  for  I  must 
Perform  a  piece  of  justice  ! — If  your  youth 
Have  any  way  offended  Heaven,  let  prayers 
Short  and  effectual  reconcile  you  to  it. 

Art.  I  am  prepared. 

Enter  a  Country  Fellow. 

Coun.  I'll  see  the  king,  if  he  be  in  the  forest- 
I  have  hunted  him  these  two  hours ;  if  I  should 
come  home  and  not  see  him,  my  sisters  would 
laugh  at  me.  I  can  see  nothing  but  people  better 
horsed  than  myself,  that  outride  me  ;  I  can  hear 
nothing  but  shouting.  These  kings  had  need  of 
good  brains ;  this  whooping  is  able  to  put  a  mean 
man  out  of  his  wits.  There's  a  courtier  with  his 
sword  drawn ;  by  this  hand,  upon  a  woman,  I 
think. 

Phi.  Are  you  at  peace  ? 

Are.  With  heaven  and  earth. 

Phi.  May  they  divide  thy  soul  and  body ! 

[  Wounds  her. 

Coun.  Hold,  dastard,  strike  a  woman !  Thou 
art  a  craven,  I  warrant  thee  :  Thou  would'st  be 
loath  to  play  half  a  dozen  of  venies  at  wasters  1 
with  a  good  fellow  for  a  broken  head. 

Phi.  Leave  us,  good  friend. 

Are.  What  ill-bred  man  art  thou,  to  intrude 
thyself 
Upon  our  private  sports,  our  recreations  ? 


1  venies  at  wasters — ^bouts  at  cudgels. 


Coun.  God  uds  >  me,  I   understand  you  not ; 
but 
I  know  the  rogue  has  hurt  you. 

Phi.  Pursue  thy  own  affairs  :  It  will  be  ill 
To  multiply  blood  upon  my  head  ; 
Which  thou  wilt  force  me  to. 

Coun.  1  know  not  your  rhetoric ;  but  I  can  lay 
it  on,  if  you  touch  the  woman.  [They  fight. 

Phi.  Slave,  take  what  thou  deservest. 

Are.  Heavens  guard  my  lord ! 

Coun.  Oh,  do  you  breathe  ? 

Phi.  I  hear  the  tread  of  people.     I  am  hurt : 
The  gods  take  part  against  me.    Could  this  boor 
Have  held  me  thus  else  ?     I  must  shift  for  life, 
Though  I  do  loathe  it.     I  would  find  a  course 
To  lose  it  rather  by  my  will,  than  force. 

[Exit  Philaster. 

Coun.  I  cannot  follow  the  rogue.  I  pray  thee, 
wench,  come  and  kiss  me  now. 

Enter  Pharamoxd,  Dion,  Cleremont,  and 
Woodmen. 

Pha.  What  art  thou  ? 

Coun.  Almost  kill'd  I  am  for  a  foolish  woman  ; 
a  knave  has  hurt  her. 

Pha.  The  princess,  gentlemen !     Where's  tha 
wound,  madam  ? 
Is  it  dangerous  ? 

Are.  He  has  not  hurt  me. 

Coun.  V  faith  she  lies ;  he  has  hurt  her  in  the 
breast ;  look  else. 

Pha.  Oh,  sacred  spring  of  innocent  blood  ! 

Dion.  'Tis  above  wonder !     Who  should  dare 
this? 

Are.  I  felt  it  not. 

Pha.  Speak,  villain,  who  has  hurt  the  princess  ? 

Coun.  Is  it  the  princess  ? 

Dion.  Ay. 

Coun.  Then  I  have  seen  something  yet. 

Pha.  But  who  has  hurt  her .' 

Coun.  I  told  you,  a  rogue  ;  I  ne'er  saw  him  be- 
fore, I. 

Pha.  Madam,  who  did  it  ? 

Are.  Some  dishonest  wretch ; 
Alas !  I  know  him  not,  and  do  forgive  him. 

Coun.  He's  hurt  too ;  he  cannot  go  far.  I 
made  my  father's  old  fox  ^  fly  about  his  ears. 

Pha.  How,  will  you  have  me  kill  him  ? 

Are.  Not  at  all ; 
'Tis  some  distracted  fellow. 

Pha.  By  this  hand,  I'll  leave  ne'er  a  piece  of 
him  bigger  than  a' nut,  and  bring  him  all  to  you 
in  my  hat. 

Are.  Nay,  good  sir. 
If  you  do  take  him,  bring  him  quick  ^  to  me, 
And  I  will  study  for  a  jpunishment 
Great  as  his  fault. 

Pha.  I  will. 

Are.  But  swear. 

Pha.  By  all  my  love,  I  will. — Woodmen,  con- 
duct the  princess  to  the  king,  and  bear  the 
wounded  fellow  to  dressing. — Come,  gentlemen, 
we'll  follow  the  chase  close. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  second  Woodman  and 
Countryman. 

Coun.  I  pray  you,  friend,  let  me  see  the  king. 
2  Wood.  That  you  shall,  and  receive  thanks. 
Coun.  If  I  get  clear  with  this,  I'U  go  to  see  no 
more  gay  sights.  [Exeunt. 


1  ?/rf>'— judge.  (?) 
"fox — broadsword. 
'  quick — alive. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


257 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 

Another  jpart  of  the  same. 

Enter  Bellario,  and  lies  down. 

Bel.  A  heaviness  near  deatli  sits  on  my  brow, 
And  I  must  sleep.     Bear  me,  thou  gentle  bank, 
Tor  ever,  if  thou  wilt.     You  sweet  ones  all. 
Let  me  unworthy  press  you  :  I  could  wish, 
I  rather  were  a  corse  strew'd  o'er  with  you. 
Than  quick  above  you.    Dulness  shuts  mine  eyes. 
And  I  am  giddy.     Oh  that  I  could  take 
So  sound  a  sleep,  that  I  might  never  wake  ! 

[Falls  asleep. 

Enter  Philaster. 

Phi.  I  have  done  ill ;  my  conscience  calls  me 
false. 
To  strike  at  her,  that  would  not  strike  at  me. 
When  I  did  fight,  methought  I  heard  her  jn-ay 
The  gods  to  guard  me.     She  may  be  abused. 
And  I  a  loathed  villain.     If  she  be. 
She  will  conceal  who  hurt  her.    He  has  wounds. 
And  cannot  follow  ;  neither  knows  he  me. — 
Who's  this  ?  Bellario  sleeping  .'  If  thou  be'st 
Guilty,  there  is  no  justice  that  thy  sleep 
Should  be  so  sound  ;  and  mine,  whom  thou  hast 
wrong'd,  {Ci'U  within. 

So  broken. — Hark !  I  am  pursued.     Ye  gods, 
I'll  take  this  offer'd  means  of  my  escape  : 
They  have  no  mark  to  know  me,  but  my  wounds. 
If  she  be  true ;  if  false,  let  mischief  light 
On  all  the  world  at  once !     Sword,  print  my 

wounds 
Upon  this  sleeping  boy  !  I  have  none,  I  think, 
Are  mortal,  nor  would  I  lay  greater  on  thee. 

(  Wounds  Bellario. 

Bel.   Oh !   death,   I   hope,  is  come.     Blest  be 
that  hand. 
It  meant  me  well.     Again,  for  pity's  sake  ! 

Phi.  I  have  caught  myself :  [^Falls. 

The  loss  of  blood  hath  stay'd  my  flight.     Here, 

here, 
Is  he  that  struck  thee :  take  thy  full  revenge  ; 
Use  me,  as  I  did  mean  thee,  worse  than  death  : 
I'll  teach  thee  to  revenge.     This  luckless  hand 
Wounded  the  princess  ;  tell  my  followers,* 
Thou  didst  receive  these  hurts  in  staying  me, 
And  I  will  second  thee :  get  a  reward. 

Bel.  Fly,  fly,  my  lord,  and  save  yourself. 

Phi.  How's  this  ? 
Wouldst  thou  I  should  be  safe  ? 

Bel.  Else  were  it  vain 
For  me  to  live.     These  little  wounds  I  have, 
Have  not  bled  much ;  reach  me  that  noble  hand ; 
I'll  help  to  cover  you. 

Phi.  Art  thou  true  to  me  ? 

Bel.  Or  let  me  perish  loath'd !  Come,  my  good 
lord, 
Creep  in  amongst  those  bushes.    Who  does  know 
But  that  the  gods  may  save  your  much-loved 
breath  ? 

Phi.  Then  I  shall  die  for  grifef,  if  not  for  this, 
That  I  have  wounded  thee.    What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Bel.  Shift  for  myself  well.    Peace  !  I  hear  'em 
come.  [Philaster  creeps  into  a  bush. 

Within.  Follow,  follow,  follow !  that  way  they 
went. 

Bel.  With  my  own  wounds  I'll  bloody  my  own 
sword. 
I  need  not  counterfeit  to  fall ;  Heaven  knows 
That  I  can  stand  no  longer. 


1  followers — pui'suers. 


Enter  Pharamoxd,  Dion,  Cleremont,  and 
Thkasiline. 

Pha.  To  this  place  we  have  track'd  him  by 
his  blood. 

Cle.  Yonder,  my  lord,  creeps  one  away. 

Pion.  Stay,  sir  !  what  are  you  ? 

Bel.  A  wretched  creature  wounded  in  these 
woods 
By  beasts.     Eelieve  me,  if  your  names  be  men, 
Or  I  shall  perish. 

Dion.  This  is  he,  my  lord, 
Upou  my  soul,  that  hurt  her.     'Tis  the  boy. 
That  wicked  boy,  that  served  her. 

Pha.  Oh,  thou  damn'd  in  thy  creation  !    What 
cause  could'st  thou  shape  to  hurt  the  princess  ? 

Bel.  Then  I  am  betray'd. 

Pion.  Betrayed!  no,  apprehended. 

Bel.  I  confess, 
Urge  it  no  more,  that,  big  with  evil  thoughts, 
I  set  upon  her,  and  did  make  mj  aim 
Her  death.     For  charity,  let  fall  at  once 
The  punishment  you  niean,  and  do  not  load 
This  weary  flesh  with  tortures. 

Pha.  1  will  know 
Who  hired  thee  to  this  deed. 

Bel.  Mine  own  revenge. 

Pha.  Kevenge  !  for  what  ? 

Bel.  It  pleased  her  to  receive 
Me  as  her  page,  and,  when  my  fortunes  ebb'd. 
That  men  strid  o'er  them  careless,  she  did  shower 
Her  welcome  graces  on  me,  and  did  swell 
My  fortunes,  till  they  overflow'd  their  banks. 
Threatening  the  men  that  crost  'em ;   when  as 

swift 
As  storms  arise  at  sea,  she  turn'd  her  eyes 
To  burning  suns  iipou  me,  and  did  dry 
The  stream  she  had  bestow'd;  leaving  me  worse 
And  more  contemn'd,  than  other  little  brooks, 
Because  I  had  been  great.     In  short,  I  knew 
I  could  not  live,  and  therefore  did  desire 
To  die  revenged. 

Pha.  If  tortures  can  be  found. 
Long  as  thy  natural  hfe,  resolve  to  feel 
The  utmost  rigour. 

[Philaster  creeps  out  of  a  hush. 

Cle.  Help  to  lead  him  hence. 

Phi.  Turn  back,  you  ravishers  of  innocence  ! 
Know  ye  the  price  of  that  you  bear  away 
So  rudely  ? 

Pha.  Who's  that  ? 

Pion.  'Tis  the  Lord  Philaster. 

Phi.  'Tis  not  the  treasure  of  all  kings  in  one, 
The  wealth  of  Tagus,  nor  the  rocks  of  pearl 
That  pave  the  court  of  Neptune,  can  weigh  down 
That  virtue  !  It  was  I  that  hurt  the  princess. 
Place  me,  some  god,  upon  a  pyramid. 
Higher  than  hills  of  earth,  and  lend  a  voice 
Loud  as  yom-  thunder  to  me,  that  from  thence 
I  may  discourse  to  all  the  under-world 
The  worth  that  dwells  in  him ! 

Pha.  How's  this  ? 

Bel.  My  lord,  some  man 
Weary  of  life,  that  would  be  glad  to  die. 

Phi.  Leave  these  untimely  courtesies,  Bellario. 

Bel.  Alas,  he's  mad !  Come,  will  you  lead  me 
on? 

Phi.  By  all  the  oaths  that  men  ought  most  to 
keep. 
And  gods  do  punish  most  when  men  do  break. 
He  touch'd  her  not. — Take  heed,  Bellario, 
How  thou   dost  drown-  the  vii'tues  thou   hast 

shown 
With  perjury.T-By  all  that's  good,  'twas  I ! 
You  know,  she  stood  betwixt  me  and  my  right 

Pha.  Thy  own  tongue  be  thy  judge. 

Cle.  It  was  Philaster. 


258 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Dion.  Is't  not  a  brave  boy  ? 
Well,  sirs,  I  fear  me,  we  were  all  deceived. 

PM.  Have  I  no  friend  here  ? 

Dion.  Yes. 

PM.  Then  show  it : 
Some  good  body  lend  a  hand  to  draw  us  nearer. 
Would  you  have  tears  shed  for  you  when  you 

die? 
Then  lay  me  gently  on  his  neck,  that  there 
I  may  weep  iloods,  and  breathe  forth  my  spirit. 
'Tis  not  the  wealth  of  Plutus,  nor  the  gold 
Lock'd  in  the  heart  of  earth,  can  buy  away 
This  ai-mful  from  me.     This  had  been  a  ransom 
To  have  redeem'd  the  great  Augustus  Cassar, 
Had  he  been  taken.     You  hard-hearted  men. 
More  stony  than  these  mountains,  can  you  see 
Such  clear  pure  blood  drop,  and  not  cut  your 

flesh 
To  stop  his  life  ?     To  bind  whose  bitter  wounds. 
Queens  ought  to  tear  their  hair,  and  with  their 

tears 
Bathe  'em. — Forgive  me,  thou  that  art  the  wealth 
Of  poor  Philaster ! 

Enter  King,  Aeethusa,  and  a  Guard. 

King.  Is  the  villain  ta'en  ? 

Pha.  Sii',  here  be  two  confess  the  deed ;  but  sure 
It  was  Philaster. 

Phi.  Question  it  no  more  ;  it  was. 

Ring.  The  fellow,  that  did  fight  with  hun,  will 
tell  us  that. 

Are.  Ah  me !  I  know  he  will. 

King.  Did  not  you  know  him  ? 

Are.  Sir,  if  it  was  he, 
He  was  disguised. 

Phi.  I  was  so. — Oh,  my  stars ! 
That  I  should  live  still. 

King.  Thou  ambitious  fool ! 
Thou  hast  laid  a  train  for  thy  own  life  ! — 
Now  I  do  mean  to  do,  I'll  leave  to  talk. 
Bear  them  to  prison. 

Are.  Sir,  they  did  plot  together  to  take  hence 
This  harmless  life  ;  should  it  pass  unrevenged, 
I  should  to  earth  go  weeping.     Grant  me,  then 
(By  all  the  love  a  father  bears  his  child). 
Then-  custodies,  and  that  I  may  appoint 
Their  tortures  and  their  deaths. 

Dion.  Death?     Soft!   our  law  will  not  reach 
that  for  this  fault. 

King.  'Tis  granted;   take  'em  to  you,  with  a 
guard. — 
Gome,  princely  Pharamond,  this  business  past. 
We  may  wflh  more  security  go  on 
To  your  intended  match. 

Cle.  I  pray  that  this  action  lose  not  Philaster 
the  hearts  of  the  people. 

Dion.  Fear  it  not ;  their  over-wise  heads  will 
think  it  but  a  trick.  \Exemit. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 
Messina.    The  Court  of  the  Palace. 

Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thrasiline. 

Thra.  Has  the  king  sent  for  him  to  death  ? 

Dion.  Yes ;  but  the  king  must  know  'tis  not  in 
his  power  to  war  with  Heaven. 

Cle.  We  linger  time ;  the  king  sent  for  Philas- 
ter and  the  headsman  an  hour  ago. 

Thra.  Are  all  his  wounds  well  ? 

Dion.  All;  they  were  but  scratches;   but  the 
loss  of  blood  made  him  faint. 

Cle.  We  dally,  gentlemen. 

Thra.  Away! 

Diem.  We'll  scuffle  hard,  before  he  perish. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  11. 

The  Prison. 

Enter  Philaster,  Arethusa,  and  Beliario. 

Are.  Nay,  dear  Philaster,  grieve  not ;   we  are 
well. 

Bel.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  forbear ;  we  are  won- 
drous well. 

Phi.  Oh,  Arethusa !  oh,  Bellario ! 
Leave  to  be  kind  : 

I  shall  be  shut  from  heaven,  as  now  from  earth, 
If  you  continue  so.     I  am  a  man, 
False  to  a  pair  of  the  most  trusty  ones 
That  ever  earth  bore :  can  it  bear  us  all  ? 
Forgive  and  leave  me !  But  the  king  hath  sent 
To  call  me  to  my  death ;  oh,  show  it  me, 
And  then  forget  me !  And  for  thee,  my  boy, 
I  shall  deliver  words  will  mollify 
The  hearts  of  beasts,  to  spare  thy  innocence. 

Bel.  Alas,  my  lord,  my  life  is  not  a  thing 
Worthy  your  noble  thoughts.     'Tis  not  a  life ; 
'Tis  but  a  piece  of  childhood  thrown  away. 
Should  I  outlive  you,  I  should  then  outlive 
Virtue  and  honour ;  and,  when  that  day  comes, 
If  ever  I  shall  close  these  eyes  but  once, 
May  I  live  spotted  for  my  jjerjury. 
And  waste  my  limbs  to  nothing ! 

Are.  And  I  (the  woful'st  maid  that  ever  was. 
Forced  with  my  hands  to  bring  my  lord  to  death)  i 
Do,  by  the  honour  of  a  virgin,  swear 
To  tell  no  hours  beyond  it. 

Phi.  Make  me  not  hated  so. 

Are.  Come  from  this  prison,  all  jojrful  to  our 
deaths. 

Phi.  People  will  tear  me,  when  they  find  ye  true 
To  such  a  wretch  as  I ;  I  shall  die  loath'd. 
Enjoy  your  kingdoms  peaceably,  whilst  I 
For  ever  sleep  forgotten  with  my  faults ! 
Every  just  servant,i  every  maid  in  love, 
Will  have  a  piece  of  me,  if  ye  be  true. 

Are.  My  dear  lord,  say  not  so. 

Bel.  A  piece  of  you  ? 
He  was  not  born  of  woman  that  can  cut 
It  and  look  on. 

Phi.  Take  me  in  tears  betwixt  you,  for  my 
heart 
Will  break  with  shame  and  sorrow. 

Are.  Why,  'tis  well. 

Bel.  Lament  no  more. 

Phi.  What  would  you  have  done 
If  you  had  wrong'd  me  basely,  and  had  found 
Your  life  no  price,  compared  to.mine  ?     For  love, 

sirs, 
Deal  with  me  truly. 

Bel.  'Twas  mistaken,  sir. 

Phi.  Why,  if  it  were? 

Bel.  Then,  sir,  we  would  have  ask'd  you  pardon. 

Phi.  And  have  hope  to  enjoy  it? 

Are.  Enjoy  it?  ay. 

Phi.  Would  you,  indeed  ?     Be  plain. 

Bel.  We  would,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Forgive  me,  then. 

Are.  So,  so. 

Bel.  'Tis  as  it  should  be  now. 

Phi.  Lead  to  my  death.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IIL 

A  State-room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King,  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thrasiline. 

King.  Gentlemen,  who  saw  the  prince  ? 

Cle.  So  please  you,  sir,  he's  gone  to  see  the  city, 

1  servant— \o\av. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


!59 


And  the  new  platfonn,  with  some  gentlemen 
Attending  on  him. 

King.  Is  the  pi-iiicess  ready 
To  bring  her  prisoner  out  ? 

Thra.  Slie  waits  your  grace. 

King.  Tell  her  we  stay. 

Dion.  King,  you  may  be  deceived  yet :   \_Aside. 
The  head  you  aim  at  cost  more  setting  on 
Than  to  be  lost  so  lightly.     If  it  must  off, 
Like  a  wild  overflow,  that  swoops  before  him 
A  golden  stack,  and  with  it  shakes  down  bridges, 
Cracks  the  strong  heai-ts  of  pines,  whose  cable  roots 
Held  out  a  thousand  storms,  a  thousand  thunders, 
And,  so  made  mightier,  takes  whole  villages 
Upon  his  back,  and,  in  that  heat  of  pride. 
Charges  strong  towns,  towers,  castles,  palaces, 
And  lays  them  desolate ;  so  shall  thy  head. 
Thy  noble  head,  bury  the  lives  of  thousands, 
That  must  bleed  with  thee  like  a  sacrifice. 
In  thy  red  ruins. 

EnUr  Philaster,  Arethusa,  and  Bellakio  in  a 
robe  and  garland. 
King.  How  now !  what  a  masque  is  this .' 
Bel.  Eight  royal  sir,  I  should 
Sing  you  an  epithalamium  of  these  lovers. 
But,  having  lost  my  best  airs  with  my  fortunes, 
And  wanting  a  celestial  harp  to  strike 
This  blessed  union  on,  thus  in  glad  story 
I  give  you  all.     Those  two  fair  cedar  branches. 
The  noblest  of  the  mountain,  where  they  grew 
Straightest  and  tallest,  under  whose  still  shades 
The  worthier  beasts  have  made  their  lairs,  and 

slept 
Free  from  the  Sirian  '■  star,  and  the  fell  thunder- 
stroke. 
Free  from  the  clouds. 

When  they  were  big  with  humour,  and  deliver'd. 
In  thousand  spouts,  their  issues  to  the  earth : 
Oh,  there  was  none  but  silent  quiet  there ! 
Till  never-pleased  Fortune  shot  up  shrubs. 
Base  under-brambles,  to  divorce  these  branches ; 
And  for  a  while  they  did  so ;  and  did  reign 
Over  the  mountain,  and  choke  up  his  beauty 
With  brakes,  rude  thorns,  and  thistles,  till  the  sun 
Scorch'd  them,  even  to  the  roots,  and  dried  them 

there : 
And  now  a  gentle  gale  hath  blown  again. 
That  made  these  branches  meet,  and  twine  to- 
gether, 
Never  to  be  divided.     The  god,  that  sings 
His  holy  numbers  over  marriage-beds. 
Hath  knit  their  noble  hearts,  and  here  they  stand 
Tour  children,  mighty  king;  and  I  have  done. 
Ki/ig.  How,  how? 

Are.  Su",  if  you  love  it,  in  plain  truth 
(For  now  there  is  no  masking  in't)  this  gentleman, 
The  prisoner  that  you  gave  me,  is  become 
My  keeper,  and  through  all  the  bitter  throes 
Your  jealousies  and  his  ill  fate  have  wrought  him, 
Thus  nobly  hath  he  struggled,  and  at  length 
Arrived  here  my  dear  husband. 

King.  Your  dear  husband  ! 
Call  in  the  captain  of  the  citadel ; 
There  you  shall  keep  your  wedding.     FU  provide 
A  masque  shall  make  yoiir  Hymen  tiu'n  his  saffron 
Into  a  sullen  coat,  and  sing  sad  requiems 
To  yom-  departing  souls.     Blood  shall  put  out 
Your  torches ;  and,  instead  of  gaudy  ilowers 
About  your  wanton  necks,  an  axe  shall  hang 
Like  a  prodigious  meteor, 

Keady  to  crop  your  loves'  sweets.    Hear,  ye  gods ! 
From  this  time  do  I  shake  all  title  oS 
Of  father  to  this  woman,  this  base  woman  ; 
And  what  there  is  of  vengeance,  in  a  lion 

1  Sirian  star — i.e.  Sirius. 


Chaf'd  among  dogs,  or  robb'd  of  his  dear  young, 
The  same,  enforced  more  terrible,  more  mighty, 
Expect  from  me ! 

Are.  Sir,  by  that  little  life  I  have  left  to  swear  by, 
There's  nothing  that  can  stu"  me  from  myself. 
What  I  have  done,  I  have  done  without  repent- 
ance; 
For  death  can  be  no  bugbear  unto  me. 
So  long  as  Pharamond  is  not  my  headsman. 

Dion.  Sweet  peace  upon  thy  soul,  thou  worthy 
maid, 
"Whene'er  thou  diest !     For  this  time  I'll  excuse 

thee, 
Or  be  thy  prologue. 

Phi.  Sir,  let  me  speak  nest ; 
And  let  my  dying  words  be  better  with  you 
Thau  my  dull  living  actions.     If  you  aim 
At  the  dear  life  of  this  sweet  innocent. 
You  are  a  tyrant  and  a  savage  monster ; 
Your  memory  shall  be  as  foul  behind  you, 
As  you  are,  living ;  all  your  better  deeds 
Shall  be  in  water  writ,  but  this  in  marble ; 
No  chronicle  shall  speak  you,  though  your  own. 
But  for  the  shame  of  men.     No  monument 
(Though  high  and  big  as  Peliou)  shall  be  able 
To  cover  this  base  murder.     Make  it  rich 
With  brass,  with  purest  gold,  and  shining  jasper. 
Like  the  j)yramids ;  lay  on  epitaphs, 
Such  as  make  great  men  gods ;  my  little  marble 
(That  only  clothes  my  ashes,  not  my  faults) 
Shall  far  outshine  it.     And,  for  after  issues. 
Think  not  so  madly  of  the  heavenly  wisdoms, 
That  they  will  give  you  more  for  your  mad  rage 
To  cut  off,  unless  it  be  some  snake,  or  something  like 
Yourself,  that  in  his  birth  shall  strangle  you. 
Remember  my  father,  king!     There  was  a  fault, 
But  I  forgive  it.     Let  that  sin  persuade  you 
To  love  this  lady :  if  you  have  a  soul, 
Think,  save  her,  and  be  saved.    For  myself, 
I  have  so  long  expected  this  glad  hour, 
So  languish'd  under  you,  and  daily  wither'd. 
That,  Heaven  knows,  it  is  a  joy  to  die ; 
I  find  a  recreation  in't. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mes.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

King.  Here. 

Mes.  Get  you  to  your  strength, 
And  rescue  the  pi-ince  Pharamond  from  danger : 
He's  taken  prisoner  by  the  citizens. 
Fearing  ^  the  lord  Philaster. 

Dio7i.  Oh,  brave  followers ! 
Mutiny,  my  fine  dear  countrymen,  mutiny ! 
Now,    my  brave   valiant  foremen,-   show  your 
In  honour  of  your  mistresses.  [weapons 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Mes.  Arm,  arm,  arm ! 

King.  A  thousand  devils  take  'em ! 

Dion.  A  thousand  blessings  on  'em ! 

Mes.  Arm,  0  king  !     The  city  is  in  mutiny, 
Led  by  an  old  grey  ruflBan,  who  comes  on 
In  rescue  of  the  lord  Philaster.  [Exit. 

King.  Away  to  th'  citadel :  I'll  see  them  safe. 
And  then  cope  with  these  burghers.   Let  the  guard 
And  all  the  gentlemen  give  strong  attendance. 
[Exit  with  Arethusa,  Phii^vstek,  Bellario, 
guarded. 

Cle.  The  city  up !  this  was  above  our  wishes. 

Dion.  Ay,  and  the  marriage  too.     By  my  life. 
This  noble  lady  has  deceived  lis  all. 
A  plague  upon  myself,  a  thousand  plagues. 
For  having  such  unworthy  thoughts  of  her  dear 
honour ! 


1  Fearing — Fearing  for. — ^Dtce. 
^foremen — see  note  9,  col.  1,  next  page. 


26o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Oh,  I  could  beat  myself !  or,  do  you  beat  me, 
And  I'll  beat  you ;  for  we  had  all  one  thought. 

Cle.  No,  no,  'twill  but  lose  time. 

Dion.  You  say  true.  Are  your  swords  sharp  ? 
Well,  my  dear  countrymen,  What-ye-lacks,*  if 
you  continue,  and  fall  not  back  upon  the  first 
broken  skin,  I'll  have  you  chronicled  and  chro- 
nicled, and  cut  and  chronicled,  and  sung  in  all- 
to-be-praised  sonnets,  and  graved^  in  new  brave 
ballads,  that  all  tongues  shall  troule^  you  in 
sxcula  sxculovian,*  my  kind  can-carriers. 

T/ira.  What  if  a  toy^  take  'em  i'  th'  heels  now, 
and  they  run  all  away,  and  cry,  '  The  devil  take 
the  hindmost.'' 

Dion.  Then  the  same  devil  take  the  foremost 
too,  and  souse  him  for  his  breakfast !  If  they  all 
prove  cowards,  my  curses  fly  amongst  them,  and 
be  speeding !  May  they  have  muri-ains  rain  to 
keep  the  gentlemen  at  home,  unbound  in  easy 
frieze!  May  the  moths  branch"  their  velvets, 
and  their  silks  only  bo  worn  before  sore  eyes ! 
May  their  false  lights  undo  'em,  and  discover 
presses,  holes,  stains,  and  oldness  in  their  stuffs, 
and  make  them  shop-rid !  May  they  keep  whores 
and  horses,  and  break ;  and  live  mewed  up  with 
necks  of  beef  and  turnips !  May  they  have  many 
children,  and  none  like  the  father!  May  they 
know  no  language  but  that  gibberish  they  prattle 
to  their  parcels ;  unless  it  be  the  goatish '  Latin 
they  write  in  their  bonds ;  and  may  they  wi'ite 
that  false,  and  lose  their  debts ! 

Enter  the  King. 

Ki7ig.  Now  the  vengeance  of  all  the  gods  con- 
found them ;  how  they  swarm  together !  What  a 
hum  they  raise !  Devils  choke  j'our  wild  throats ! 
If  a  man  had  need  to  use  their  valours,  he  must 
pay  a  brokage  for  it,  and  then  bring  'em  on,  and 
they  will  fight  like  sheep.  'Tis  Philaster,  none 
but  Philaster,  must  allay  this  heat.  They  will  not 
hear  me  speak,  but  fling  dirt  at  me,  and  call  me 
tyrant.  Oh,  run,  dear  friend,  and  bring  the  lord 
Philaster.  Speak  him  fair;  call  him  prince;  do 
him  all  the  courtesy  you  can ;  commend  me  to 
him !    Oh,  my  wits,  my  wits !    [^Exit  Cleremont. 

Dion.  Oh,  my  brave  countrymen !  as  I  live,  I 
will  not  buy  a  pin  out  of  your  walls  for  this. 
Nay,  you  shall  cozen  me,  and  I'll  thank  you ;  and 
send  yoii  brawn  and  bacon,  and  soil '  you  eveiy 
long  vacation  a  brace  of  foremen,^  that  at  Michael- 
mas shall  come  up  fat  and  kicking. 

King.  What  they  will  do  with  this  poor  prince 
the  gods  know,  and  I  fear. 

Dion.  Why,  sir,  they'll  flay  him,  and  make 
church-buckets  on's  skin,  to  quench  rebellion  ; 
then  clap  a  rivet  in's  sconce,'"  and  hang  him  up 
for  a  sign. 

Enter  Cleremont  zvith  Philaster. 

King.  Oh,  worthy  sir,  forgive  me !  Do  not  make 
Tour  miseries  and  my  faults  meet  together, 
To  briug  a  greater  danger.     Be  yourself 
Still  sound  amongst  diseases.     I  have  wrong'd 
you, 

1  What-ye-lacks  —  i.e.  shopkeepers,  from  the  phrase 
they  used  to  passers-by. 

-  graved — Dyce  reads  bawled. 

3  troule  or  trowl — to  push  about  the  glass  in  drinking; 
here  to  sing,  or  push  about  the  song. 

*  '  To  all  eternity.' 

'  toy — whim. — Dtce. 
•*  branch — cut  into  branches  or  figures. 
''  goatish.— Gothic  is  another  reading;  goatish  means 
rank,  barbarous. 

*  soj7— fatten. 

'  foremen— Dyce  thinks  this  a  cant  term  for  geese. 

'*  sconce — head.  | 


And  though  I  find  it  last,  and  beaten  to  it. 
Let  first  your  goodness  know  it.   Calm  the  people, 
And  be  what  you  were  bom  to.    Take  your  love, 
And  with  her  my  repentance,  all  my  wishes. 
And  all  my  prayers.     By  the  gods,  my  heart 

speak  this ; 
And  if  the  least  fall  from  me  not  perform'd, 
May  I  be  struck  with  thunder ! 

Phi.  Mighty  sir, 
I  will  not  do  your  greatness  so  much  wrong, 
As  not  to  make  your  word  truth.    Free  the 

princess. 
And  the  poor  boy,  and  let  me  stand  the  shock 
Of  this  mad  sea-breach ;  which  I'll  either  turn. 
Or  perish  with  it. 

Kinrf.  Let  your  own  word  free  them. 

Phi.  Then  thus  I  take  my  leave,  kissing  your 
hand, 
And  hanging  on  your  royal  word.     Be  kingly, 
And  be  not  moved,  sir :  I  shall  bring  you  peace. 
Or  never  bring  myself  back. 

King.  All  the  gods  go  with  thee !         lExeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV. 

A  Street. 

Enter  an  old  Captain  and  Citizens,  with 
Pharamond. 

Cap.  Come,  my  brave  myrmidons,  let  us  fall  on ! 
•Let  our  caps  swarm,  my  boys,  and  your  nimble 

tongues 
Forget  your  mother  gibberish,  of  '  what  do  you 

lack,' 
And  set  your  mouths  up,  children,  till  your  palates 
Fall  frighted,  half  a  fathom  past  the  ciu'o 
Of  bay-salt  and  gross  pepper.     And  then  cry 
Philaster !  brave  Philaster !  Let  Philaster 
Be  deeper  in  request,  my  ding-dongs. 
My  pairs  of  dear  indentures,  kings  of  clubs,' 
Than  your  cold  water-camlets,  or  your  paintings 
Spitted  -  with  copper.    Let  not  your  hasty  silks. 
Or  your  branch'd  cloth  of  bodkin,^  or  your  tissues. 
Dearly  beloved  of  spiced  cake  and  custard. 
Your  Eobinhoods,  Scarlets  and  Johns,*  tie  your 

affections 
In  darkness  to  your  shops.     No,  dainty  duckers,5 
Up  with  your  three-piled  ^  spirits,  your  wrought 

valours ; 
And  let  your  uncut  choler  make  the  king  feel 
The  measure  of  your  mightiness.     Philaster! 
Cry,  my  rose-nobles,'  cry! 
All.  Philaster!  Philaster! 
Cap.  How  do  you  like  this,  my  lord  prince  ? 
These  are  mad  boys,  I  tell  you :  these  are  things 
That  will  not  strike  their  top-sails  to  a  foist ;  ^ 
And  let  a  mau-of-war,  an  argosy, 
Hull  and  cry  cockles. 


1  chihs — the  favourite  weapons  of  the  apprentices. 

2  Sjntted — grossly  stitched. — Cotgkave. 

3  cloth  of  bodkin  (or  bandkin)—W\e.  richest  kind  of  stuff, 
the  web  being  gold,  and  the  woof  silk,  with  embroidery. 
— Nakes,  who  derives  it  from  Bagdad. 

*  Scarlet  and  John  were  two  of  Kobin  Hood's  favourite 
dependents. 

^  duckers — those  who  duck  or  bow,  cringers. 

8  three-piled — applied  originally  to  velvet,  and  used 
metaphorically  for  anj'thing  of  superior  quality. 

'  A  rose-noble  was  a  gold  coin,  originally  struck  in 
Edward  in's  reign,  and  stamped  with  a  rose,  worth 
6s.  8d. ;  in  our  author's  time  worth  far  more. — Weber. 

^ foist — a  small  vessel  with  sails  and  oars;  fuste  in 
French.  The  text  evidently  alludes  to  the  Lord  Mayor's, 
or  any  other  barge  gorgeously  painted,  in  reference  to 
the  gaudy  apparel  and  eflfeminacy  of  Pharamond.  To 
cry  cockles,  according  to  Grose,  is  to  be  hanged.  SuU 
means  to  float. 


BE  A  UMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


261 


Pha.  Why,  yon  rude  slave,  do  you  know  what 

you  do  ? 

Cap.  My  pretty  prince  of  puppets,  we  do  know ; 

And  give  j'our  greatness  warning,  that  you  talk 

No  more  such  bug-words,^  or  that  soldered  crown 

Shall  be  scratch'd  -with  a  musquet.     Dear  prince 

Pippin, 
Down  with  your  noble  blood ;  or,  as  I  live, 
I'll  have  you  coddled. — Let  him  loose,  my  spirits ! 
Make  us  a  round  ring  with  your  bills,"  my  Hectors, 
And  let  us  see  what  this  trim  man  dares  do. 
Now,  sir,  have  at  you!     Here  I  lie, 
And  with  this  swashing  blow  (do  you  see,  sweet 

prince  ?) 
I  could  hock  your  grace,  and  bang  you  up  cross- 

legg'd. 
Like  a  hare  at  a  poulter's,  and  do  this  with  this 

wiper. 
Pha.  You  will  not  see  me  murder'd,  wicked 

villains .' 

1  Clt.  Yes,  indeed,  will  we,  sir.    We  have  not 
seen  one  for  a  great  while. 

Cap.  He  would  have  weapons,  would  he  ? 
Give  him  a  broadside,  my  brave  boys,  with  your 

pikes ; 
Branch  me  bis  skin  in  flowers  like  a  sattin, 
And  between  every  flower  a  mortal  cut. 
Your  royalty  shall  ravel !     Jag  him,  gentlemen  : 
I'll  have  him  cut  to  the  kell,3  then  down  the  seams. 
Oh,  for  a  whip  to  make  him  galloon-laces ! 
I'll  have  a  coach-whip. 

Pha.  Oh,  spare  me,  gentlemen! 

Cap.  Hold,  hold; 
The  man  begins  to  fear,  and  know  himself; 
He  shall  for  this  time  only  be  seel'd  *  up, 
With  a  feather  through  his  nose,  that  he  may  only 
See  heaven,  and  think  whither  he's  going.    Nay, 
My  beyond-sea  sir,  we  will  proclaim  you.     You 

would  be  king ! 
Thou  tender  heir-apparent  to  a  church-ale,3 
Thou  slight  prince  of  single  sarcenet; 
Thou  royal  ring-tail,*^  fit  to  fly  at  nothing 
Bill  poor  men's  poultry,  and  have  every  boy 
Beat  thee  from  that  too  with  his  bread  and  butter ! 

Pha.  Gods  keep  me  from  these  hell-hounds ! 

2  Cit.  Shall's  geld  him,  captain." 

Cap.  No,  you  shall  spare  his  dowcets,  my  dear 
donsels.' 
As  you  respect  the  ladies,  let  them  flourish  : 
The  curses  of  a  longing  woman  kill 
As  speedy  as  a  plague,  boys. 

1  CH.  I'll  have  a  leg,  that's  certain. 

2  Cit.  I'll  have  an  arm. 

3  Cit.  I'll  have  his  nose,  and  at  mine  own  charge 
build 

A  college,  and  clap  it  upon  the  gate. 

4  Cit.  I'll  have  his  little  gut  to  string  a  kit  *  with ; 
For,  certainly,  a  royal  gut  will  sound  like  silver. 

Pha.  'Would  they  were  in  thy  bellj-,  and  I  past 
My  pain  once ! 

6  Cit.  Good  captain,  let  me  have  his  liver  to  feed 

ferrets. 
Cap-  Who  will  have  parcels  else  ?  speak. 


1  bug-words — ugly  words,  calculated  to  frighten  and 
disgust;  same  as  bug  in  bug-bear. 

-  bills — pikes  or  lialberds. 

2  kell — caul. 

<  seel'd— a,  term  in  falconry.  When  a  hawk  is  first  taken, 
a  thread  is  run  through  its  eyelids,  so  that  she  may  see 
very  little,  to  make  her  the  better  endure  the  hood. — 
Theobald. 

^  church-ale — a  church  festival. 

*  ring-tail — a  sort  of  kite  with  a  whitish  tail. — Theo- 
bald 

'  donsels — yoitths ;  old  Fr.  damoisel,  low  Lat.  domi- 
cellus. 

*  i:it — a  small  violin. 


Pha.  Good  gods,  consider  me  I  I  shall  be  tor- 
tured. 

1  Cit.  Captain,  I'll  give  you  the  trimmings  of 
your  two-hand  sword, 

And  let  me  have  his  skin  to  make  false  scabbards. 

2  Cit.  He  has  no  horns,  sir,  has  he? 

Cap.  No,  sir,  he's  a  pollard.      What  wouldst 
thou  do 
With  horns  ? 

1  Cit.  Oh,  if  lie  had,  I  would  have  made 
Bare  hafts  and  whistles  of  'em ;  but  his  shin-bones, 
If  they  be  sound,  shall  serve  me. 

Enter  Philaster. 

All.  Long  live  Philaster,  the  brave  prince  Phi- 
laster ! 

Phi.  I  thank  you,  gentlemen.  But  why  are  these 
Rude  weapons    brought  abroad,  to  teach  your 

hands 
Uncivil  trades  ? 

Cap.  My  royal  Eosiclear,i 
We  are  thy  myrmidons,  thy  guard,  thy  roarers! 
And  when  thy  noble  body  is  in  durance. 
Thus  do  we  clap  our  musty  murrions*  on. 
And  trace  the  streets  in  terror.     Is  it  peace. 
Thou  Mars  of  men  ?  is  the  king  sociable. 
And  bids  thee  live  ?  art  thou  above  thj'  foemen, 
And  free  as  Phoebus  ?    Speak.    If  not,  this  stand 
Of  royal  blood  shall  be  abroach,  a-tilt, 
And  run  even  to  the  lees  of  honour. 

Phi.  Hold,  and  be  satisfied ;  I  am  myself ; 
Free  as  my  thoughts  are.     By  the  gods.  I  am. 

Cap.  Art  thou  the  dainty  darling  of  the  king? 
Art  thou  the  Hylas  to  our  Hercules  ? 
Do  the  lords  bow,  and  the  regarded  scarlets 
Kiss  their  gumm'd  golls,^  and  cry,  '  We  are  your 

servants  ? ' 
Is  the  court  navigable,  and  the  presence  stuck 
With  flags  of  friendship?    If  not,   wa  are  thy 

castle. 
And  this  man  sleeps. 

Phi.  1  am  what  I  do  desire  to  be,  your  friend ; 
I  am  what  I  was  born  to  be,  your  prince. 

Pha.  Sir,  there  is  some  humanity  in  you  ; 
You  have  a  noble  soul ;  forget  my  name. 
And  know  my  misery.    Set  me  safe  abroad 
From  these  wild  cannibals,  and,  as  I  live, 
I'll  quit  this  land  for  ever.     There  is  nothing, 
Perpetual  imprisonment,  cold,  hunger,  sickness 
Of  all  sorts,  of  all  dangers,  and  all  together. 
The  worst  company  of  the  worst  men,  madness, 

age. 
To  be  as  many  creatures  as  a  woman. 
And  do  as  all  they  do ;  nay,  to  despair ; 
But  I  would  rather  make  it  a  new  nature, 
And  live  with  all  those,  than  endure  one  hour 
Amongst  these  wild  dogs. 

Phi.  I  do  pity  you. — Friends,  discharge  your 
fears ; 
Deliver  me  the  prince:  I'll  warrant  you, 
I  shall  be  old  enough  to  find  my  safety. 

3  Cit.  Good  sir,  take  heed  he  does  not  hurt  you : 
He  is  a  fierce  man,  I  can  tell  you,  sir. 

Cap.  Prince,  by  your  leave,  I'll  have  a  sur- 
cingle,* 
And  mail  you  like  a  hawk. 


'  Rosiclear  was  a  knight  of  romance,  brother  to  the 
Knight  of  the  Sun. 

-  murrions  or  morions  —  steel  caps  or  plain  open 
helmets. — Nakes. 

3  jro/Zs— hands  or  paws,  which  they  gummed  with  some 
kind  of  perfume. 

*  surctngle  generally  means  the  cincture  or  girdle  of 
a  cassock,  but  Weber  tliinks  it  here  means  the  hood  in 
which  the  hawk  was  mailed  or  shrouded;  Dyce  thinks 
the  Captain  merely  means  to  say  he  would  pinion  him. 


262 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TLSTS. 


Phi.  Away,  away;  there  is  no  danger  in  liim: 
Alas,  he  had  rather  sleep  to  shake  his  fit  off. 
Look  ye,  friends,  how  gently  he  leads.     Upon 

my  word. 
He's  tame  enough,  he  needs  no  further  watching. 
Good  my  friends,  go  to  your  houses. 
And  by  me  have  yoin-  pardons,  and  my  love; 
And  know  there  shall  be  nothing  in  my  power 
You  may  deserve,  but  you  shall  have  your  wishes. 
To  give  you  more  thanks,  were  to  flatter  you. 
Continue  still  your  love ;  and,  for  an  earnest, 
Drink  this. 

All.  Long  may'st  thou  live,  brave  prince !  brave 

prince  !  brave  prince ! 

\_Exeunt  Philaster  and  Pharajiond. 
Cap.  Go  thy  ways!      Thou  art  the  king  of 

courtesy ! — 
Fall  off  again,  my  sweet  youths.     Come, 
And  every  man  trace  to  his  house  again, 
And  hang  his  pewter  up  ;  then  to  the  tavern, 
And  bring  your  wives  in  muffs.     We  will  have 

music ; 
And  the  red  grape  shall  make  us  dance,  and  rise, 

boys.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  V. 
The  Palace. 

Enter  King,  Akethusa,  Galatea,  Megra, 
Cleremont,  Dion,  Thrasiline,  Bellario, 
and  Attendants. 

King.  Is  it  appeas'd  ? 

Dion.  Sir,  all  is  quiet  as  the  dead  of  night, 
As  peaceable  as  sleep.     My  lord  Philaster 
Brings  on  the  priuce  himself. 

King.  Kind  gentlemen ! 
I  will  not  break  the  least  word  I  have  given 
In  promise  to  him :  I  have  heap'd  a  world 
Of  grief  upon  his  head,  which  yet  I  hope 
To  wash  away. 

Enter  Philaster  and  Phakamohd. 

Cle.  My  lord  is  come. 

King.  My  son ! 
Blest  be  the  time,  that  I  have  leave  to  call 
Such  virtue  mine !     Now  thou  art  in  mine  arms, 
Methinks  I  have  a  salve  unto  my  breast, 
For  all  the  stings  that  dwell  there.     Streams  of 

grief 
That  I  have  wrong'd  thee,  and  as  much  of  joy 
That  I  repent  it,  issue  from  mine  eyes : 
Let  them  appease  thee.     Take  thy  right;  take 

her; 
She  is  thy  right  too ;  and  forget  to  urge 
My  vexed  soul  with  that  I  did  before. 

Phi.  Sir,  it  is  blotted  from  my  memory, 
Past  and. forgotten. — For  you,  prince  of  Spain, 
Whom  I  have  thus  redeem'd,  you  have  full  leave 
To  make  an  honourable  voyage  home. 
And  if  you  would  go  furnish'd  to  your  realm 
With  fair  provision,  I  do  see  a  lady, 
Methinks,  would  gladly  bear  you  company : 
How  Uke  you  this  piece .'' 

Meg.  Sir,  he  likes  it  well; 
For  he  hath  tried  it,  and  found  it  worth 
His  princely  liking. 

I  know  your  meaning.     I  am  not  the  first 
That  Nature  taught  to  seek  a  fellow  forth : 
Can  shame  remain  perpetually  in  me, 
And  not  in  others  ?  or,  have  princes  salves 
To  cure  ill  names,  that  meaner  people  want  ? 

Phi.  What  mean  you  ? 

Meg.  You  must  get  another  ship. 
To  bear  the  princess  and  her  boy  together. 

Dion.  How  now ! 


Meg.  Others  took  me,  and  I  took  her  and  him 
At  that  all  women  may  be  ta'en  some  time. 
Ship  us  all  four,  my  lord ;  we  can  endui-e 
Weather  and  wind  alike. 

King.  Clear  thou  thyself,  or  know  not  me  for 
father. 

Are.  This  earth,  how  false  it  is !    What  means 
is  left  for  me 
To  clear  myself?     It  lies  in  your  belief. 
My  lords,  believe  me ;  and  let  all  things  else 
Struggle  together  to  dishonour  me. 

Bd.  Oh,  stop  your  ears,  great  king,  that  I  may 
speak 
As  freedom  would ;  then  I  will  call  this  lady 
As  base  as  are  her  actions !     Hear  me,  sir  : 
Believe  your  heated  blood  when  it  rebels 
Against  your  reason,  sooner  than  this  lady. 

Meg.  By  this  good  light,  he  bears  it  hand- 
somely. 

Phi.  This  lady  ?     I  will  sooner  trust  the  wind 
With  feathers,  or  the  troubled  sea  with  pearl, 
Than  her  with  any  thing.     Believe  her  not ! 
Why,  think  you,  if  I  did  believe  her  words, 
I  would  outlive  'em  ?     Honour  cannot  take 
Eevenge  on  you ;  then,  what  were  to  be  knowu 
But  death  ? 

King.  Forget  her,  sir,  since  all  is  knit 
Between  us.  But, I  must  request  of  you 
One  favour,  and  will  sadly  be  denied.^ 

Phi.  Command,  whate'er  it  be. 

King.  Swear  to  be  true 
To  what  you  promise. 

Phi.  By  the  powers  above, 
Let  it  not  be  the  death  of  her  or  him. 
And  it  is  granted. 

King.  Bear  away  that  boy 
To  torture  :  I  will  have  her  clear'd  or  buried. 

Phi.  Oh,  let  me  call  my  Avords  back,  worthy 
sir ! 
Ask  something  else  !    Bui-y  my  life  and  right 
In  one  poor  grave ;  but  do  not  take  away 
My  life  and  fame  at  once. 

King.  Away  with  him  !     It  stands  irrevocablo. 

Phi.  Turn  all  your  eyes  on  me :     Here  stands 
a  man. 
The  falsest  and  the  basest  of  this  world. 
Set  swords  against  this  breast,  some  honest  man, 
For  I  have  lived  till  I  am  pitied ! 
My  former  deeds  were  hateful,  but  this  last 
Is  pitiful ;  for  I,  unwillingly. 
Have  given  the  dear  preserver  of  my  life 
Unto  his  torture  !     Is  it  in  the  power 
Of  flesh  and  blood  to  carry  this,  and  live  ? 

[Ojfers  to  Mil  himself. 

Are.  Dear  sir,  be  patient  yet!     Oh,  stay  that 
hand. 

King.  Sirs,  strip  that  boy. 

Dion.  Come,  sir;  your  tender  flesh 
Will  try  your  constancy. 

Bel.  Oh,  kill  me,  gentlemen! 

Dion.  No! — Help,  sirs. 

Bel.  Will  you  torture  me  ? 

King.  Haste  there ! 
Why  stay  you  ? 

Bel.  Then  I  shall  not  break  my  vow. 
You  know,  just  gods,  though  I  discover  aU. 

King.  How's  that  ?     Will  he  confess  ? 

Dion.  Sir,  so  he  says. 

King.  Speak  then. 

Bel.  Great  king,  if  you  command 
This  lord  to  talk  with  me  alone,  my  tongue. 
Urged  by  my  heart,  shall  utter  all  the  thoughts 


1  will  sadly  he  denied— ihsiW  be  very  sorry  to  be  deaied. 
— Theobald. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


263 


My  youth  hath  known ;  and  stranger  things  than 

these 
You  hear  not  often. 

King.  Walk  aside  with  him. — 

Dion.  Why  speak'st  thou  not  ? 

Bd.  Know  you  this  face,  my  lord? 

Dion.  No. 

Bel.  Have  you  not  seen  it,  nor  the  like  1 

Dion.  Yes,  I  have  seen  the  like,  but  readily 
I  know  not  where. 

Bel.  I  have  been  often  told 
In  court  of  one  Euphrasia,  a  lady. 
And  daughter  to  you  ;  betwixt  whom  and  me 
They,  that  would  flatter  my  bad   face,  would 

swear 
There  was  such  sti"ange  resemblance,  that  we 

two 
Could  not  be  known  asunder,  di'ess'd  alike. 

Dion.  By  heaven !  and  so  there  is. 

Bel.  For  her  fair  sake. 
Who  now  doth  spend  the  springtime  of  her  life 
In  holy  pilgrimage,,  move  to  the  king 
That  I  may  'scape  this  torture. 

Dion.  But  thou  speak'st 
As  like  Euphrasia,  as  thou  dost  look. 
How  came  it  to  thy  knowledge  that  she  lives 
lu  pilgrimage .' 

Bel.  I  know  it  not,  my  lord ; 
But  I  have  heard  it ;  and  do  scarce  believe  it. 

Dicni.  Oh,  my  shame  !     Is  it  possible .'     Draw 
near, 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  thee.     Art  thou  she, 
Or  else  her  murderer  ?     Where  wert  thou  bom  ? 

Bel.  In  Siracusa. 

Dion.  What's  thy  name  ? 

Bel.  Euphrasia. 

Dion.  Oh,  'tis  just,  'tis  she! 
Now  I  do  know  thee.     Oh  that  thou  hadst  died, 
And  I  had  never  seen  thee  nor  my  shame ! 
How  shall  I  own  thee  ?      Shall  this  tongue  of 

mine 
E'er  call  thee  daughter  more  ? 

Bel.  'Would  I  had  died  indeed  ;  I  wish  it  too : 
And  so  I  must  have  done  by  vow,  ere  published 
What  I  have  told,  but  that  there  was  no  means 
To  hide  it  longer.     Yet  I  joy  in  this, 
The  princess  is  all  clear. 

Ki7ig.  What  have  you  done  ? 

Dion.  All  is  discover'd. 

Phi.  Why  then  hold  you  me  ? 

[Se  offers  to  stab  himself. 
All  is  discover'd !     Pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Ki7ig.  Stay  him. 

Ai'e.  What  is  discover'd  ? 

Dion.  Why,  my  shame  ! 
It  is  a  woman.    Let  her  speak  the  rest. 

Pki.  How  ?     That  again  ! 

Dion.  It  is  a  woman. 

Phi.  Bless'd  be  you  powers  that  favour  inno- 
cence ! 

King.  Lay  hold  upon  that  lady. 

[Megka  is  seized. 

Phi.  It  is  a  woman,  sir !     Hark,  gentlemen ! 
It  is  a  woman !     Arethusa,  take 
My  soul  into  thy  breast,  that  would  be  gone 
With  joy.     It  is  a  woman  !     Thou  art  fair, 
And  virtuous  stiU  to  ages,  in  despite 
Of  malice. 

KiJig.  Speak  you,  where  lies  his  shame  ? 

Bel.  I  am  his  daughter. 

Phi.  The  gods  are  just. 

Dion.  I  dare  accuse  none ;  but,  before  you  two, 
The  virtue  of  our  age,  I  bend  my  knee 
For  mercy. 

Phi.  Take  it  freely ;  for,  I  know, 
Though  what  thou  didst  were  indiscreetly  done, 
'Twas  meant  well. 


Are.  And  for  me, 
I  have  a  power  to  pardon  sins,  as  oft 
As  any  man  has  power  to  wrong  me. 

Cle.  Noble  and  worthy ! 

Phi.  But,  Bellario, 
(For  I  must  call  thee  still  so)  tell  me  why 
Though  didst  conceal  thy  sex  ?     It  was  a  fault; 
A  faiilt,  Bellario,  though  thy  other  deeds 
Of  truth  outweigh'd  it.     All  these  jealousies 
Had  flown  to  nothing,  if  thou  hadst  discover'd 
What  now  we  know. 

Bel.  My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue ;  and,  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,*  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised ;  but  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found ;  till  sitting  in  my  window. 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 
I  thought  (but  it  was  you),  enter  our  gates. 
My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast, 
As  I  had  puff'd  it  forth,  and  suck'd  it  in 
Like  breath.     Then  was  I  call'd  away  in  haste 
To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man. 
Heaved  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre,  raised 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I.    You  left  a  kissj 
Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 
From  you  for  ever.     I  did  hear  you  talk. 
Par  above  singing !     After  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  search'd 
What  stirr'd  it  so.     Alas !  I  found  it  love ; 
Yet  far  from  lust ;  for  could  I  but  have  lived 
In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 
For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 
With  a  feign'd  pilgrimage,  and  dress'd  myself 
In  habit  of  a  boy ;  and,  for  I  knew 
My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 
Of  having  you ;  and  understanding  well, 
That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex, 
I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow, 
By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 
Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known, 
Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's 

eyes. 
For  other  than  I  seem'd,  that  I  might  ever 
Abide  with  you.     Then  sat  I  by  the  fount. 
Where  first  you  took  me  up. 

King.  Search  out  a  match    . 
Within  our  kingdom,  where  and  when  thou  wilt, 
And  I  will  pay  thy  dowry ;  and  thyself 
^^ilt  well  deserve  him. 

Bel.  Never,  sir,  will  I 
Marry ;  it  is  a  thing  within  my  vow. 
But  if  I  may  have  leave  to  serve  the  princess, 
To  see  the  virtues  of  her  lord  and  her, 
I  shall  have  hope  to  Hve. 

Are.  I,  Philaster, 
Cannot  be  jealous,  though  you  had  a  lady 
Dress'd  like  a  page  to  serve  you ;  nor  will  I 
Suspect  her  living  here. — Come,  live  with  me  ; 
Live  free  as  I  do.     She  that  loves  my  lord, 
Curst  be  the  wife  that  hates  her ! 

Phi.  I  grieve  such  vii'tue  should  be'  laid  in 
earth 
Without  an  heir.     Hear  me,  my  royal  father : 
Wrong  not  the  freedom  of  oiu*  souls  so  much, 
To  think  to  take  revenge  of  that  base  woman; 
Her  malice  cannot  hurt  us.     Set  her  free 
As  she  was  born,  saving  from  shame  and  sin. 

King.  Set  her  at  liberty ;  but  leave  the  court ; 
This  is  no  place  for  such !     You,  Pharamond, 
Shall  have  free  passage,  and  a  conduct  home 
Worthy   so   great  a  prince. — ^When  you  come 
there. 


1  apprehensive — quick  to  apprehend  or  understand.^ 

^YEBliB. 


264 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Eemember,  'twas  your  faults  that  lost  you  her, 
And  not  my  purposed  will. 

Pha.  I  do  confess, 
Ken  owned  sir. 

Kin(].  Last,  join  your  hands  in  one.     Enjoy, 
Philaster, 
This  kingdom,  which  is  yours,  and  after  me 
Whatever  I  call  mine.     My  blessing  on  you ! 


All  happy  hours  be  at  your  marriage-joys, 
That  you  may  grow  yourselves  over  all  lands. 
And  live  to  see  your  plenteous  branches  spring 
Wherever  there  is  sun  !     Let  princes  learn 
By  this,  to  rule  the  passions  of  their  blood. 
For  what  Heaven  wills  can  never  be  withstood. 

\_ExQunt  omnea. 


A   KING   AND    NO    KING. 

ACTED  AT  THE  GLOBE  BY  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 

WEITTEN  BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHEE. 

At  London,  printed  for  Thomas  Walkley.     1619. 


^rEmatis  ^£rsairrc. 


Arbaces,  King  of  Iberia. 

TiGRANES,  King  of  Armenia. 

GoBRiAS,  Lord-Protector,  and  Father  of  Arlaces. 

Bacueius,  a  Lord. 

Mardonius,  >  ^^^  Captains. 

Bessus,  >  -' 

Lygones,  Father  of  Spaconia. 

Three  Gentlemen. 

Two  Swordmen. 

Three  Men. 

Philip,  a  Servant. 


A  Messenger. 

A  Servant  to  Bacurius. 

A  Boy. 

Arane,  the  Queen-Mother. 
Panthea,  her  Daughter. 
Spaconia,  a  La'hj,  Daughter  of  Lygones. 
LIandane,  a  Waiting-icoman ;  and  other  Attend- 
ants. 
Two  Citizen's  Wives,  and  another  Woman. 


Scene — During  the  First  Act.,  on  the  Frontiers  of  Armenia;  afterioards  in  the 
Metropolis  of  Iberia. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

The.  Camp  of  Arbaces,  on  the  Frontiers  of 
Armenia. 

Enter  Mardonius  and  Bessus.' 

Mar.  Bessus,  the  king  has  made  a  fair  hand 
on't ;  he  has  ended  the  wars  at  a  blow.  'Would 
my  sword  had  a  close  basket  hilt,  to  hold  wine, 
and  the  blade  would  make  knives  ;  for  we  shall 
have  nothing  but  eating  and  drinking. 

Bes.  We,  that  are  commanders,  shall  do  well 
enough. 

Mar.  'Faith,  Bessus,  such  commanders  as  thou 
may.  I  had  as  lieve  set  thee  perdu  ^  for  a  pudding 
i'  th'  dark,  as  Alexander  the  Great. 

Bes.  1  love  these  jests  exceedingly. 

Mar.  1  think  thou  lov'st  'em  better  than  quar- 
relling, Bessus ;  I'll  say  so  much  in  thy  behalf. 
And  yet  thou'rt  valiant  enough  upon  a  retreat :  I 
think  thou  would'st  kill  any  man  that  stopp'd 
thee,  an  '  thou  couldst. 

Bes.  But  was  not  this  a  brave  combat,  Mar- 
donius ? 

Mar.  Why,  didst  thou  see  it  ? 


1  Bessus  is  ty  Theobald  considered   a  tine  copy  of 
Shakespeare's  inimitable  Falstaff. 

2  perdu — from  the   French   enfans  perdus,   '  forlom 
hope.'    Here  it  means  in  ambush. 

«  o»i— if. 


Bes.  You  stood  with  me. 

Mai:  I  did  so  ;  but  methought  thou  wink'd'st 
every  blow  they  strake.' 

Bes.  Well,  I  believe  there  are  better  soldiers 
than  I,  that  never  saw  two  princes  fight  in  lists. 

3far.  By  my  troth,  I  think  so  too,  Bessus ; 
many  a  thousand.  But,  certainly,  all  that  are 
worse  than  thou  have  seen  as  much. 

Bes.  'Twas  bravely  done  of  our  king. 

Mar.  Yes,  if  he  had  not  ended  the  wars.  I'm 
gla  d  thou  dar'st  talk  of  such  dangerous  businesses. 

Bes.  To  take  a  prince  prisoner  in  the  heart  of 
his  own  country,  in  single  combat ! 

3far.  See  how  thy  blood  cruddles  *  at  this !  I 
think  thou  couldst  be  contented  to  be  beaten  i' 
this  passion. 

Bes.  Shall  I  tell  you  truly? 

Mar.  Ay. 

Bes.  I  could  willingly  venture  for  it. 

Ma7:  Hum  !  no  venture  neither,  good  Bessus. 

Bes.  Let  me  not  live,  if  I  do  not  think  it  is  a 
braver  piece  of  service  than  that  I'm  so  famed 
for. 

Mar.  Why,  art  thou  famed  for  any  valour  ? 

Bes.  I  famed  ?  Ay,  I  warrant  you. 

Mar.  I  am  very  heartily  glad  on't.  I  have  been 
with  thee  ever  since  thou  cam'st  to  the  wars,  and 
this  is  the  first  word  that  ever  I  heard  on't.  JPr'y- 
thee,  who  fames  thee  ? 


1  strafe— o\d  past  tense  ofstri/ce. 
*  cruddles — curdles. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


265 


Bes.  The  Christian  world, 
r   Mar.  'Tis  heathenishly  done  of  'em;  in  my 
conscience,  thou  deserv'st  it  not. 

Bes.  I  ha'  done  good  service. 

Mar.  I  do  not  know  how  thou  may'st  wait 
of  '  a  man  in's  chamber,  or  thy  agility  in  shifting 
a  trencher;  but  otherwise  no  service,  good  Bessus. 

Bes.  You  saw  me  do  the  service  yourself. 

Mar.  Not  so  hasty,  sweet  Bessus !  Where  was 
it  ?  is  the  place  vanish'd  ? 

Bes.  At  Bessus'  Desperate  Kedemption. 

Mar.  Bessus'  Desperate  Eedemption !  where's 
that? 

Bes.  There,  where  I  redeem'd  the  day;  the 
place  bears  my  name. 

Mar.  Pr'ythee,  who  christen'd  it  ? 

Bes.  The  soldier.^ 

Mar.  If  I  were  not  a  very  merrily  disposed 
man,  what  would  become  of  thee .'  One  that  had 
but  a  grain  of  choler  in  the  whole  composition  of 
Lis  body,  would  send  thee  of  an  errand  to  the 
worms,  for  putting  thy  name  upon  that  field. 
Did  not  I  beat  thee  there,  1'  th'  head  o'  th'  troops, 
with  a  truncheon,  because  thou  wouldst  needs 
run  away  with  thy  company,  when  we  should 
charge  the  enemy  "i 

Bes.  True ;  but  I  did  not  rixn. 

Mar.  Right,  Bessus :  I  beat  thee  out  on't. 

Bes.  But  came  not  I  up  when  the  day  was  gone, 
and  redeem'd  all .' 

Mar.  Thou  knowest,  and  so  do  I,  thou  meant'st 
to  fly,  and  thy  fear  making  thee  mistake,  thou 
j-an'st  upon  the  enemy ;  and  a  hot  charge  thou 
gavest ;  as,  I'll  do  thee  right,  thou  art  furious  in 
running  away;  and,  I  think,  we  owe  thy  fear  for 
our  victory.  If  I  were  the  king,  and  were  sure 
thou  wouldst  mistake  always,  and  run  away  upon 
the  enemy,  thou  shouldst  be  general,  by  this  light. 

Bes.  You'll  never  leave  this  till  I  fall  foul. 

Mar.  No  more  such  words,  dear  Bessus ;  for 
though  I  have  ever  known  thoe  d  coward,  and 
therefore  durst  never  strike  thee,  yet  if  thou  pro- 
ceed'st,  I  will  allow  thee  valiant,  and  beat  thee. 

Bes.  Come,  come,  our  king's  a  bravo  fellow. 

Mar.  He  is  so,  Bessus;  I  wonder  how  thou 
com'st  to  know  it.  But,  if  thou  wert  a  man  of 
understanding,  I  would  tell  thee,  he  is  vainglo- 
rious and  humble,  and  angry  and  patient,  and 
meri-y  and  dull,  And  joj'ful  and  son-owful,  in 
extremities,  in  an  hour.  Do  not  think  me  thy 
friend  for  this  ;  for  if  I  cared  who  knew  it,  thou 
shouldst  not  hear  it,  Bessus.  Here  he  is,  with 
the  prey  in  his  foot. 

Enter  Akbaces,  Tigranes,  two  Gentlemen,  and 
Attendants. 

Arh.  Thy  sadness,  brave  Tigranes,  takes  away 
From  my  full  victory.     Am  I  become 
Of  so  small  fame,  that  any  man  should  grieve 
When  I  o'ercome  him  ?  They  that  placed  me  here, 
Intended  it  an  honour,  large  enough 
For  the  most  valiant  living,  but  to  dare 
Oppose  me  single,  though  he  lost  the  day. 
What  should  afflict  you  ?  You  ai-e  free  as  I. 
To  be  my  prisoner,  is  to  be  more  free 
Than  you  were  formerly.     And  never  think, 
The  man  I  held  worthy  to  combat  me 
Shall  be  used  servilely.     Thj-  ransom  is 
To  take  my  only  sister  to  thy  wife : 
A  heavy  one,  Tigranes ;  for  she  is 
A  lady,  that  the  neighbour  princes  send 
Blanks  ^  to  fetch  home.     I  have  been  too  unkind 


1  0/— on. 

2  The  soldier — i.e.  soldiers  or  soliliery. 

2  Blanks — i.e.  blank  bonds  to  fill  up  with  whatever 
conditions  Arbaces  may  please  to  invent. — Webee. 


To  her,  Tigranes.     She,  but  nine  years  old, 
I  left  her,  and  ne'er  saw  her  since.     Your  wars 
Have  held  me  long,  and  taught  me,  though  a  youth, 
The  way  to  victory.     She  was  a  pretty  child; 
Then,  I  was  little  better;  but  now  fame 
Cries  loudly  on  her,  and  my  messengers 
j\Iake  me  believe  she  is  a  miracle. 
She'll  make  you  shrink,  as  I  did,  with  a  stroko 
But  of  her  ej'e,  Tigranes. 

Tigr.  Is  it  the  course  of 
Iberia  to  use  their  prisoners  thus  ? 
Had  fortune  thrown  my  name  above  Arbaces', 
I  should  not  thus  have  talk'd  ;  for  in  Armenia, 
We  hold  it  base.     You  should  have  kept  your 

temper 
Till  you  saw  home  again,  where  'tis  the  fashion, 
Perhaps,  to  brag. 

Arb.  I5e  you  my  witness,  earth, 
Need  I  to  brag?     Doth  not  this  captive  prince 
Speak  me  sufficiently,  and  all  the  acts 
That  I  have  wrought  upon  his  suffering  land  ? 
Should  I  then  boast?     Where  lies  that  foot  of 

ground 
Within  his  whole  realm,  that  I  have  not  past, 
Fighting  and  conquering.     Far  then  from  me 
Be  ostentation.     I  could  tell  the  world. 
How  I  have  laid  his  kingdom  desolate, 
By  this  sole  arm,  propp'd  by  divinity ; 
Stript  him  out  of  his  glories  ;  and  have  sent 
The  pride  of  all  his  j'outh  to  people  graves  ; 
And  made  his  vii'gins  languish  for  their  loves; 
If  I  would  brag.     Should  I,  that  have  the  power 
To  teach  the  neighbour  world  humility. 
Mix  with  vainglory  ? 

Mar.  Indeed,  this  is  none !  [Aside. 

Arb.  Tigranes,  no  ;  did  I  but  take  delight 
To  stretch  my  deeds  as  others  do,  on  words, 
I  could  amaze  my  hearers. 

Mar.  So  you  do.  [_Aside. 

Arb.  But  he  shall  ■^vrong  his  and  my  modooty. 
That  thinks  me  apt  to  boast.     After  an  act 
Fit  for  a  god  to  do  upon  his  foe, 
A  little  glory  in  a  soldier's  mouth 
Is  well  becoming;  be  it  far  from  vain. 

Mar.  'Tis   pity  that  valour  should  be  thus 
drunk.  \_Aside. 

Arb.  I  offer  you  my  sister,  and  you  answer, 
I  do  insult.    A  lady  that  no  suit, 
Nor  treasure,  nor  thy  crown,  could  purchase  thee. 
But  that  thou  fought'st  with  me. 

Tigr.  Though  this  be  worse 
Than  that  you  spoke  before,  it  strikes  not  me  ; 
But,  that  you  think  to  over-grace  me  with 
The  marriage  of  your  sister,  troubles  me. 
I  would  give  worlds  for  ransoms,  were  they  mine, 
Rather  than  have  her. 

Arb.  See,  if  I  insult 
That  am  the  conqueror,  and  for  a  ransom 
Offer  rich  treasure  to  the  conquered. 
Which  he  refuses,  and  I  bear  his  scorn ! 
It  cannot  be  self-tlattery  to  say. 
The  daughters  of  your  country,  set  by  her, 
Would  see  their  shame,  run  home,  and  blush  to 

death 
At  their  own  foulness.'     Yet  she  is  not  fair, 
Nor  beautiful ;  those  words  express  her  not : 
They  say,  her  looks  have  something  excellent, 
That  wants  a  name.     Yet  were  she  odious. 
Her  birth  deserves  the  empire  of  the  world. 
Sister  to  such  a  brother ;  that  hath  ta'en 
Victory  prisoner,  and  throughout  the  earth 
Carries  her  bound,  and  should  he  let  her  loose. 
She  durst  not  leave  him.    Natiu-e  did  her  wrong. 
To  print  continual  conquest  on  her  cheeks. 


^foulness — ugliness. — Drcs. 


266 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


And  make  no  man  worthy  for  her  to  take, 
But  me,  that  am  too  near  her ;  and  as  strangely 
She  did  for  me.    But  you  will  think  I  brag. 

Mar.  I  do,  I'll  be  sworn.  Thy  valour  and  thy 
passions  severed,  would  have  made  two  excellent 
fellows  in  their  kinds.  I  know  not,  whether  I 
should  be  sorry  thou  art  so  valiant,  or  so  passion- 
ate.    'Would  one  of  'em  were  away !  \Aside. 

Tigr.  Do  I  refuse  her,  that  I  doubt  her  worth  ? 
Were  she  as  virtuous  as  she  would  be  thought ; 
So  perfect,  that  no  one  of  her  own  sex 
Could  find  a  want ;  had  she  to  tempting  fair,* 
That  she  could  wish  it  off,  for  damning  souls  ; 
I  would  pay  any  ransom,  twenty  lives, 
Eather  than  meet  her  married  in  my  bed. 
Perhaps,  I  have  a  love,  where  I  have  fix'd 
Mine  eyes,  not  to  be  moved,  and  she  on  me ; 
I  am  not  fickle. 

Arh.  Is  that  all  the  cause  ? 
Think  you,  you  can  so  knit  yourself  in  love 
To  any  other,  that  her  searching  sight 
Cannot  dissolve  it  ?  So,  before  you  tried, 
Tou  thought  yourself  a  match  for  me  in  fight. 
Trust  me,  Tigranes,  she  can  do  as  much 
In  peace,  as  I  in  war  ;  she'll  conquer  too. 
Tou  shall  see,  if  you  have  the  power  to  stand 
The  force  of  her  swift  looks.     If  yo\x  dislike, 
I'U  send  youjhome  with  love,  and  name  your 

ransom 
Some  other  way ;  but  if  she  be  your  choice, 
She  frees  you.     "To  Iberia  you  must. 

Tigr.  Sir,  I  have  learn'd  a  prisoner's  sufferance, 
And  will  obey.     But  give  me  leave  to  talk 
In  private  with  some  friends  before  I  go. 

Ari.  Some  two  await  him  forth,  and  see  him 
safe; 
But  let  him  freely  send  for  whom  he  please, 
And  none  dare  to  disturb  his  conference  ; 
I  will  not  have  him  know  what  bondage  is, 
Till  he  be  free  from  me. 

[Exit  TiGEANES  with  Attendants. 

This  prince,  Mardonius, 
Is  fuU  of  wisdom,  valout,  all  the  graces 
Man  can  receive. 

Mar.  And  yet  you  conquer'd  him. 

Arh.  And  yet  I  conquer'd  him,  and  could  have 
done, 
Hadst  thou  joined  with  him,  though  thy  name  in 

arms 
Be  great.    Must  aU  men,  that  are  virtuous, 
Think  suddenly  to  match  themselves  with  me  ? 
I  conquer'd  him,  and  bravely  ;  did  I  not  ? 

Bes.  An'  please  your  majesty,  I  was  afi'aid  at 
first — 

Mar.  When  wert  thou  other  ? 

Arl.  Of  what  ? 

Bes.  That  you  would  not  have  spied  your  best 
advanta.ges;  for  your  majesty,  in  my  opinion,  lay 
too  high;  methinks,  under  favour,  you  should 
have  lain  thus. 

Mar.  Like  a  tailor  at  a  wake. 

Bes.  And  then,  if't  please  your  majesty  to  re- 
member, at  one  time — by  my  troth,  I  wish'd 
myself  wi'  you. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  thou  wouldst  ha'  stunk 
'em  both  out  o'  th'  Hsts. 

Arl.  What  to  do? 

Bes.  To  put  your  majesty  in  mind  of  an  occa- 
sion :  you  lay  thus,  and  Tigranes  falsified  a  blow 
at  your  leg,  which  you,  by  doing  thus,  avoided  ; 
but,  if  you  had  whipped  up  your  leg  thus,  and 
reach'd  him  on  the  ear,  you  had  made  the  blood- 
royal  run  about  his  head. 


''■fair — Ijeauty. 


Mar.  What  country  fence-school  didst  thou 
learn  that  at  ? 

Arh.  Puff !    Did  not  I  take  him  nobly  ? 

3Iar.  Why,   you  did,    and  you  have   talk'J 
enough  on't. 

Arh.  Talk  enough! 
Will  you  confine  my  words?     By  heav'n  and 

earth, 
I  were  much  better  be  a  king  of  beasts 
Than  such  a  people !     If  I  had  not  patience 
Above  a  god,  I  should  be  call'd  a  tyrant 
Throughout  the  world!     They  will  offend  to 

death 
Each  minute.     Let  me  hear  thee  speak  again. 
And  thou  art  earth  again.    Why,  this  is  like 
Tigranes'     speech,    that    needs    would    say    I 

bragg'd. — 
Bessus,  he  said  I  bragg'd. 

Bes.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Arh.  Wiay  dost  thou  laugh  ? 
By  all  the  world,  I'm  grown  ridiculous 
To  my  own  subjects.     Tie  me  to  a  chair. 
And  jest  at  me  !     But  I  shall  make  a  start, 
And  punish  some,  that  others  may  take  heed    , 
How  they  are  haughty.     Who  will  answer  me  ? 
He  said  I  boasted  :  speak,  Mardonius, 
Did  I  ?-^He  will  not  answer.     Oh,  my  temper  ! 
I  give  you  thanks  above,  that  taught  my  heart 
Patience  ;  I  can  endure  his  silence.     What,  will 

none 
Vouchsafe  to  give  me  answer  ?     Am  I  grown 
To  such  a  poor  respect  ?  or  do  you  mean 
To  break  my  wind?     Speak,  speak,  some  one  of 

you. 
Or  else,  by  heaven — 

1  Gent.  So  please  your — 

Arh.  Monstrous ! 
I  cannot  be  heard  out ;  they  cut  me  off, 
As  if  I  were  too  saucy.     I  will  live 
In  woods,  and  talk  to  trees ;  they  will  allow  me 
To  end  what  I  begin.     The  meanest  subject 
Can  find  a  freedom  to  discharge  his  soul, 
And  not  I.    Now  it  is  a  time  to  speak ; 
I  hearken. 

1  Gent.  May  it  please — 
Arh.  I  mean  not  you  ; 

Did  not  I  stop  you  once  ?     But  I  am  growu 
To  talk  but  idly  :  let  another  speak. 

2  Gent.  I  hope  your  majesty — 
Arh.  Thou  drawl'st  thy  words, 

That  I  must  wait  an  houi",  where  other  men 
Can  hear  in  instants.     Throw  your  words  away, 
Quick,  and  to  purpose ;  I  have  told  you  this. 

Bes.  An't  please  your  majesty — 

Arh.  Wilt  thou  devour  me  ?     This  is  such  a 
rudeness 
As  yet  you  never  show'd  me.     And  I  want 
Power  to  command  too  ;  else,  Mardonius 
Would  speak  at  my  request.    Were  you  my  king, 
I  would  have  answer'd  at  your  word,  Mardonius. 
I  pray  you  speak,  and  truly,  did  I  boast  ? 

Mar.  Truth  will  offend  you. 

Arh.  You  take  all  great  care  what  will  offend 
me. 
When  you  dare  to  utter  such  things  as  these. 

Mar.  You  told   Tigranes,  you  had  won  his 
land 
With  that  sole  arm,  propp'd  by  divinity : 
Was  not  that  bragging,  and  a  wrong  to  us 
That  daily  ventured  lives  ? 

Arh.  Oh  that  thy  name 
Were   great  as  mine !   'would  I  had  paid  my 

wealth 
It  were  as  great,  as  I  might  combat  thee  ! 
I  would,  through  all  the  regions  habitable, 
Search  thee,  and,  having  found  thee,  with  my 
sword, 


BE  A  UMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


267 


Drive  thee  about  the  -world,  'till  I  had  met 
Some  place  that  yet  man's  curiosity- 
Hath  miss'd  of.    There,  there  -would  I  strike  thee 

dead : 
Forgotten  of  mankind,  such  funeral  rites 
As  beasts  -would  give  -thee,  thou  shouldst  have. 
Bes.  The  king   rages    extremely:    shall    -n'e 

slink  a-way  ? 
He'll  strike  us. 
2  Gent.  Content. 
Arh.  There  I  -would  make  you  know,  't-was 

this  sole  arm. 
I  grant,  you  -were  my  instruments,  and  did 
As  I  commanded  you  ;  but  't-was  this  anH 
Moved  you  like   -wheels;    it  moved  you  as  it 

pleased. — 
Whither  slip  you  no-w?      What,    are  you  too 

good 
To  wait  on  me  ?    Puff !    I  had  need  have  temper, 
That  rule  such  people :  I  have  nothing  left 
At  my  o-wn  choice  !  I  -would  I  might  be  private  : 
Mean  men  enjoy  themselves ;  but  'tis  our  curse 
To  have  a  tumult,  that,  out  of  their  loves. 
Will  -wait  on  us,  -whether  we  will  or  no. 
Go,  get  you  gone !    Why,  here  they  stand  like 

death : 
My  words  move  nothing. 
1  Gent.  Must  we  go  "i 
Bes.  I  know  not. 
Arh.  I  pray  you,  leave  me,  sirs.    I'm  proud 

of  this. 
That  you  -will  be  entreated  from  my  sight. 

\_Exeunt  all  hut  AEBACEsanfi!  Mardonius. 

Why,  now  they  leave  me  all.    Mardonius ! 

Mar.  Sir. 

Arh.  Will  you  leave  me  quite  alone  ?     Me- 
thinks 
CiviHty  should  teach  you  more  than  this. 
If  I  were  but  your  friend.     Stay  here,  and  wait. 

Mar.  Sir,  shall  I  speak  ? 

Arh.  Why,  you  would  now  think  much 
To  be  denied ;  but  I  can  scarce  entreat 
What  I  would  have.     Do,  speak. 

Mar.  But  will  you  hear  me  out  ? 

Arh.  With  me  you  article,  to  talk  thus.  Well, 
I  -will  hear  you  out. 

Mar.  ^kneels.']  Sii",  that  I  have  ever  loved 
you,  my  sword  hath  spoken  for  me ;  that  I  do,  if 
it  be  doubted,  I  dare  call  an  oath,  a  great  one,  to 
my  witness ;  and  were  you  not  my  king,  from 
amongst  men  I  should  have  chose  you  out,  to 
love  above  the  rest.  Nor  can  this  challenge 
thanks ;  for  my  own  sake  I  should  have  done  it, 
because  I  would  have  loved  the  most  deser-\;^ng 
man  ;  for  so  you  are. 

Arh.  Alas,  Mardonius,    rise !    you   shall    not 
kneel : 
We  all  are  soldiers,  and  all  venture  lives ; 
And  where    there    is    no    difference  in    men's 

worths, 
Titles  are  jests.     Who  can  outvalue  thee  ? 
Mardonius,  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  hast  -wrong ; 
Thy  love  is  not  rewarded ;  but,  believe, 
It  shall  be  better.    More  than  friend  in  arms, 
My  father,  and  my  tutor,  good  Mardonius ! 

Mar.  Sir,  you  did  promise  you  would  hear  me 
out. 

Arh.  And  so  I  will :   speak  freely,  for  from 
thee 
Nothing  can  come,  but  worthy  things  and  true. 

Mar.  Though  you  have  all  this  worth,  you 
hold  some  qualities  that  do  eclipse  your  -virtues. 

Arh.  Eclipse  my  virtues  ? 

Mar.  Tes,  your  passions,  which  are  so  mani- 
fold, that  they  appear  even  in  this.  When  I 
commend  you,  you  hug  me  for  that  truth ;  when 


I  speak  your  faults,  you  make  a  start,  and  fly  the 
hearing.    But — 

Arh.  When  you   commend  me !      Oh  that 
should  live 
To  need  such  commendations!     If  my  deeds 
Blew  not  my  praise  themselves  about  the  earth, 
I  were  most  wretched !    Spare  your  idle  praise : 
If  thou  didst  mean  to  flattei-,  and  shouldst  utter 
Words  in  my  praise,  that  thou  thought'st  impu- 
dence. 
My  deeds  should  make  'em  modest.    When  you 

praise, 
I    hug    you!     'Tis    so   false,   that,   wert    thou 

worthy, 
Thou  shouldst  receive  a  death,  a  glorious  death 
From  me!  But  thou  shalt  understand  thy  lies. 
For  shouldst  thou  praise  me  into  heaven,  and 

there 
Leave    me  enthroned,    I    would    despise    thee 

though 
As  much  as  now,  which  is  as  much  as  dust, 
Because  I  see  thy  envy. 

Mar.  However  you  will  iise  me  after,  yet,  for 
your  own  promise  sake,  hear  me  the  rest. 

Arh.  I  will,  and  after  call  imto  the  winds ; 
For  they  shall  lend  as  large  an  ear  as  I 
To  what  you  utter.     Speak ! 

Mar.  Would  you  but  leave  these  hasty  tem- 
pers, which  I  do"  not  say  take  from  you  all  your 
worth,  but  darken  'em,  then  you  would  shine 
indeed. 
Arh.  Well. 

3Iar.  Yet  I  would  have  you  keep  some  pas- 
sions, lest  men  should  take  you  for  a  god,  your 
virtues  are  such. 

Arh.  Why,  now  you  flatter. 
Mar.  I  never  understood  the  word.      Were 
you  no  king,  and  free  from  these  wild  moods, 
should  I  chuse  a  companion  for  wit  and  pleasure, 
it  should  be  you ;  or  for  honesty  to  interchange 
my  bosom  with,  it  should  be  you  ;  or  wisdom  to 
give  me   counsel,   I   woidd  pick   out  you ;    or 
valour  to  defend  my  reputation,   still  I  would 
find  you  out ;  for  you  ai-e  fit  to  fight  for  all  the 
world,  if  it  could  come  in  question.    Now  I  have 
spoke.     Consider  to  yoiu-self  ;  find  out  a  use  ;  if 
so,  then  what  shall  fall  to  me  is  not  material. 
Arh.  Is  not  material !    more  than  ten  such 
lives 
As  mine,  Mardonius.    It  was  nobly  said ; 
Thou  hast  spoke  truth,  and  boldly  such  a  truth 
As  might  offend  another.     I  have  been 
Too  passionate  and  idle  ;  thou  shalt  see 
A  swift  amendment.     But  I  want  those  parts 
You  praise  me  for :  I  fight  for  all  the  world  ! 
Give  thee  a  sword,  and  thou  wilt  go  as  far 
Beyond  me,  as  thou,  art  beyond  in  years  ; 
I  know  thou  dar'st  and  wilt.     It  troubles  me 
That  I  should  use  so  rough  a  phrase  to  thee : 
Impute  it  to  my  folly,  what  thou  wilt. 
So  thou  wilt  pardon  me.     That  thou  and  I 
Should  differ  thus  ! 
Mar.  Why,  'tis  no  matter,  su*. 
Arh.  'Faith,  but  it  is.     But  thou  dost  ever 
take 
All  things  I  do  thus  patiently  ;  for  which 
I  never  can  requite  thee,  but  with  Jove ; 
And  that  thou  shalt  be  sure  of.     Thou  and  I 
Have  not  been  merry  lately.     Pr'ythee  tell  me. 
Where  hadst  thou  that  same  jewel  in  thine  ear  ? 
Mar.  Why,  at  the  taking  of  a  town. 
Arh.  A  wench,  upon  my  life,  a  wench,  Mar- 
donius, 
Gave  thee  that  jewel. 

Mar.  Wench  !  They  respect  not  me  ;  I'm  old 
and  rough,  and  every  limb  about  me,  but  that 
which  should,  grows  stiff er.     1'  those  businesses. 


268 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


1  may  swear  I  am  truly  honest ;  for  I  pay  justly 
for  what  I  take,  aud  would  be  glad  to  be  at  a 
certainty. 

Arh.  Why,  do  the  wenches  encroach  upon 
thee  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  by  this  light,  do  they. 

Arh.  Didst  thou  sit  at  an  old  rent  with  'em ? 

Mar.  Yes,  'faith. 

Arh.  And  do  they  improve  themselves  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  ten  shillings  to  me,  every  new 
young  fellow  they  come  acquainted  with. 

Arh.  How  canst  live  on't .-" 

Mar.  Why,  I  think,  I  must  petition  to  you. 

Arh.  Thou  shalt  take  'm  up  at  my  price. 

Enter  two  Gentlemen  and  Bessus. 

Mar.  Your  price  "i 

Arh.  Ay,  at  the  king's  price. 

Mar.  That  may  be  more  than  I'm  worth. 

2  Ge7it.  Is  he  not  merry  now  ? 

1  Gent.  I  think  not. 

Bes.  He  is,  he  is.     We'll  show  ourselves. 

Arh.  Bessus  !  I  thought  you  had  been  in  Iberia 
by  this ;  I  bade  you  haste.  Gobrias  will  want 
entertainment  for  me. 

£es.  An't  please  your  majesty,  I  have  a  suit. 

Arh.  Is't  not  lousy,  Bessus  ?  what  is"t  ? 

Bes.  I  am  to  carry  a  lady  with  me. 

Arh.  Then  thou  hast  two  suits. 

Bes.  And  if  I  can  prefer  her  to  the  lady  Pan- 
thea,  your  majesty's  sister,  to  learn  fashions,  as 
her  friends  term  it,  it  will  be  worth  something 
to  me. 

Arh.  So  many  nights'  lodgings  as  'tis  thither  ; 
will't  not  ? 

Bes.  I  know  not  that,  sir ;  but  gold  I  shall  be 
sure  of. 

Arh.  Why,  thou  shalt  bid  her  entertain  her 
from  me,  so  thou  wilt  resolve  me  one  thing. 

Bes.  If  I  can. 

Arh.  'Faith,  'tis  a  very  disputable  question ; 
and  yet,  I  think,  thou  canst  decide  it. 

Bes.  Your  majesty  has  a  good  opinion  of  my 
tmderstanding. 

Arb.  I  have  so  good  an  opinion  of  it ;  'tis 
whether  thou  be  valiant. 

Bes.  Somebody  has  traduced  me  to  you.  Do 
you  see  this  sword,  sir  ?  [^Draws. 

Arh.  Yes. 

Bes.  If  I  do  not  make  my  backbiters  eat  it  to 
a  knife  ■within  this  week,  sa}'  I  am  not  valiant. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mes.  Health  to  your  majesty ! 

[Delivers  a  letter. 
■    Arh.  From  Gobrias  ? 

Mes.  Yes,  sir. 

Arb.  How  does  he  ?  is  he  well  ? 

3fes.  In  perfect  health. 

Arb.  Take  that  for  thy  good  news. 

[Gives  money. 
A  trustier  servant  to  his  prince  there  lives  not, 
Than  is  good  Gobrias.  [Reads. 

1  Gent.  The  king  starts  back. 
Ma)\  His  blood  goes  back  as  fast. 

2  Gent.  And  now  it  comes  again. 
Mar.  He  alters  strangely. 

Ai-h.  The  hand  of  Heaven  is  on  me.     Be  it  far 
Fi-om  me  to  struggle!     If  my  secret  sins 
Have  puU'd  this  curse  upon  me,  lend  me  tears 
Enow  to  wash  me  white,  that  I  may  feel 
A  child-like  innocence  within  my  breast ; 
Which,  once  perform'd,  oh !    give  me  leave  to 

stand 
As  fix'd  as  constancy  herself  ;  my  ej-es 
Set  here  unmoved,  regardless  of  the  world, 
Though  thousand  miseiies  encompass  me  ! 


3far.  This  is  strange  ! — Sir,  how  do  you  ? 

Arh.  Mardonius  !  my  mother — 

3far.  Is  she  dead? 

Arb.  Alas !   she's  not  so   happy.     Thou   dost 
know 
How  she  hath  labour'd,  since  my  father  died, 
To  take  by  treason  hence  this  loathed  life. 
That  -would  but  be  to  serve  her.   I  have  pardon'd, 
And  pardon'd,  and  by  that  have  made  her  fit 
To  practise  new  sins,  not  repent  the  old. 
She  now  had  hired  a  slave  to  come  from  thence, 
And  strike  me  here  ;  whom  Gobrias,  sifting  ou^ 
Took,  and  condemn'd,  and  executed  there. 
The  careful'st  servant !     Heaven,  let  me  but  live 
To  pay  that  man  !     Nature  is  poor  to  me, 
That  will  not  let  me  have  as  many  deaths 
As  are  the  times  that  he  hath  saved  my  life. 
That  I  might  die  'em  over  all  for  him. 

Mar.  Sir,  let  her  bear  her  sins  on  her  own 
head; 
Vex  not  yourself. 

Arb.  What  will  the  world 
Conceive  of  me  ?  with  what  unnatural  sins 
AVill  they  suppose  me  laden,  when  my  life 
Is  sought  bj'  her  that  gave  it  to  the  world  ? 
But  yet  he  writes  me  comfort  here.     My  sister, 
He  says,  is  grown  in  beauty  and  in  grace  ; 
In  all  the  innocent  virtues  that  become 
A  tender,  spotless  maid.     She  stains  her  cheeks 
With  mourning  tears,  to  purge  her  mother's  ill ; 
And  'mongst  that  sacred  dew  she  mingles  prayers 
Her  pure  oblations,  for  my  safe  return. — 
If  I  have  lost  the  duty  of  a  son ; 
If  any  pomp  or  vanity  of  state 
Made  me  forget  mj^  natural  offices  ; 
Nay,  further,  if  I  have  not  every  night 
Expostulated  with  my  wand'ring  thoughts. 
If  aught  unto  my  parent  they  have  err'd, 
And  call'd  'em  back ;  do  you  ^  direct  her  arm 
Unto  this  foul  dissembling  heart  of  mine. 
But  if  I  have  been  just  to  her,  send  out 
Your  power  to  compass  me,  and  hold  me  safe 
From  searching  treason  ;  I  will  use  no  means 
But  prayer.     For,  rather  suffer  me  to  see 
From  mine  own  veins  issue  a  deadly  flood. 
Than  wash  my  dangei's  off  with  mother's  blood. 

Mar.  I  ne'er  saw  such  sudden  extremities. 

\_£xeunt. 

ACT  I.— SCENE  11. 

Another  part  of  the  same. 
Enter  Tigkanes  and  Spaconia. 

Tl;;r.  Why,  wilt  thou  have  me  fly,  Spaconia  ? 
What  should  I  do  ? 

Spa.  Nay,  let  me  stay  alone ; 
And  when  you  see  Armenia  again, 
You  shall  behold  a  tomb  more  worth  than  I. 
Some  friend,  that  either  loves  me  or  my  cause, 
Will  build  me  something  to  distinguish  me 
From  other  women  ;  many  a  weeping  verse 
He  will  lay  on,  and  much  lament  those  maids 
That  place  their  loves  unfortunately  high. 
As  I  have  done,  where  they  can  never  reach. 
But  why  should  you  go  to  Iberia  ? 

Tigr.  Alas,  that  thou  wilt  ask  me !     Ask  the 
man 
That  rages  in  a  fever,  why  he  lies 
Distemper'd  there,  when  all  the  other  youths 
Are  coursing  o'er  the  meadows  with  their  loves  ? 
Can  I  resist  it .'  am  I  not  a  slave 
To  him  that  conquer'd  me  ? 


•  you — i.e.  you  gods. 


BE  A  UMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


269 


Spa.  That  conquer'd  thee, 
Tigranes  !     He  has  wou  but  half  of  thee, 
Thy  body  ;  but  thy  mind  may  be  as  free 
As  his.     His  will  did  never  combat  thine, 
And  take  it  prisoner. 

Tigr.  But  if  he  by  force 
Convey  my  body  hence,  what  helps  it  me, 
Or  thee,  to  be  unwilling  ? 

Spa.  Oh,  Tigranes! 
I  know  you  are  to  see  a  lady  there  ; 
To  see  and  like,  I  fear.     Perhaps  the  hope 
Of  her  makes  you  forget  me,  ere  we  part. 
Be  happier  than  you  know  to  wish  !  farewell ! 

Tigr.  Spaconia,  stay,  and  hear  me  what  I  say. 
In  short,  destruction  meet  me,  that  I  may 
See  it,  and  not  avoid  it,  when  I  leave 
To  be  thy  faithful  lover !     Part  with  me 
Thou  shalt  not ;  there  are  none  that  know  our 

love ; 
And  I  have  given  gold  unto  a  captain, 
That  goes  unto  Iberia  froni  the  king, 
That  he  would  place  a  lady  of  our  land 
With  the  king's  sister  that  is  offered  me. 
Thither  shall  you,  and,  being  once  got  in, 
Persuade  her,  by  what  subtle  means  you  can, 
To  be  as  backward  in  her  love  as  I. 

Spa.  Can  you  imagine  that  a  longing  maid, 
When  she  beholds  you,  can  be  pull'd  away 
With  words  from  loving  you  ? 

Tigr.  Dispraise  my  health. 
My  honesty,  and  tell  her  I  am  jealous. 

Spa.  Why,  I  had  rather  lose  you.     Can  my 
heart 
Consent  to  let  my  tongue  throw  out  such  words  ? 
And  I,  that  ever  yet  spoke  what  I  thought, 
Shall  find  it  such  a  thing  at  first  to  lie ! 

Tigr.  Yet,  do  thy  best. 

Enter  Bessus. 

Bes.  What,  is  your  majesty  ready  ? 

Tigr.  There  is  the  lady,  captain. 

Bes.  Sweet  lady,  by  your  leave.  I  could  wish 
myself  more  full  of  courtship'  for  your  fair  sake. 

Spa.  Sir,  I  shall  feel  no  want  of  that. 

Bes.  Lady,  you  must  haste ;  I  have  received 
new  letters  from  the  king,  that  require  more 
haste  than  I  expected.  He  will  follow  me  sud- 
denly himself ;  and  begins  to  call  for  your  majesty 
already. 

Tigr.  He  shall  not  do  so  long. 

Bes.  Sweet  lady,  shall  I  call  you  my  charge 
hereafter  "i 

Spa.  I  will  not  take  upon  me  to  govern  your 
tongue,  sir ;  you  shall  call  me  what  you  please. 

\_Extunt. 


ACT  IL— SCENE  I. 

The  Capital  of  Iberia.     An  Apartment  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  Gobrias,  Bacurius,  Arane,  Panthea, 
and  Mandane,  Waiting-women  and  Attend- 
ants. 

Gob.  My  lord  Bacurius,  you  must  have  regard 
Unto  the  queen  ;  she  is  your  prisoner ; 
'Tis  at  your  peril  if  she  make  escape. 

Bac.  My  lord,  I  know't ;  she  is  my  prisoner, 
From  you  committed.    Yet  she  is  a  woman ; 
And,  so  I  keep  her  safe,  you  will  not  urge  mo 
To  keejj  her  close.     I  shall  not  shame  to  say, 
I  sorrow  for  her. 


^courtship  —  courtly  breeding,  the  behaviour  of  a 
courtier. — Webeb. 


Gob.  So  do  I,  my  lord. 
I  sorrow  for  her,  that  so  little  grace 
Doth  govern  her,  that  she  should  stretch  her  arm 
Against  her  king  ;  so  little  womanhood 
And  natural  goodness,  as  to  think'  the  death 
Of  her  own  son. 

Ara.  Thou  know'st  the  reason  why, 
Dissembling  as  thou  art,  and  wilt  not  speak. 
Gob.  There  is  a  lady  takes  not  after  you  ; 
Her  father  is  within  her ;  that  good  man, 
Whose  tears  paid  down  his  sins.''^    Mark  how  she 

weeps ; 
How  well  it  does  become  her  !     And  if  you 
Can  find  no  disposition  in  yourself 
To  sorrow,  yet,  by  gracefulness  in  her, 
Find  out  the  way,  and  by  your  reason  weep. 
All  this  she  does  for  you,  and  more  she  needs, 
When  for  yourself  you  will  not  lose  a  tear. 
Think  how  this  want  of  grief  discredits  you, 
And  you  will  weep,  because  you  cannot  weep. 

Ara.  You  talk  to  me,  as  having  got  a  time 
Fit  for  your  purpose  ;  but  you  know,  I  know 
You  speak  not  what  you  think. 

Pan.  I  would  my  heart 
Were  stone,  before  my  softness  should  be  urged 
Against  my  mother  !     A  more  troubled  thought 
No  virgin  bears  about  lier.     Should  I  excuse 
My  mother's  fault,  I  should  set  light  a  life, 
In  losing  which  a  brother  and  a  king 
Were  taken  from  me.     If  I  seek  to  save 
That  life  so  loved,  I  lose  another  life. 
That  gave  me  being  ;  I  should  lose  a  mother ; 
A  word  of  such  a  sound  in  a  child's  eai", 
That  it  strikes  reverence  through  it.     May  the 

will 
Of  Heaven  be  done,  and  if  one  needs  must  fall. 
Take  a  poor  virgin's  life  to  answer  all ! 
Ara.  But,   Gobrias,  let  us  talk.     You  know 
this  fault 
Is  not  in  me  as  in  another  woman. 

[They  walh  apart. 
Gob.  I  know  it  is  not. 
Ara.  Yet  you  make  it  so. 
Gob.  Why,  is  not  all  that's  past  beyond  your 

help? 
Ara.  I  know  it  is. 
Gob.  Nay,  should  you  publish  it 
Before  the  world,  think  you  'twould  be  believed  ? 
Ara.  I  know  it  would  not. 
Gob.  Nay,  should  I  join  with  you, 
Should  we  not  both  be  torn,*  and  yet  both  die 
Uncredited  ? 
Ara.  I  think  we  should. 
Gob.  Why,  then. 
Take  you  such  violent  courses  ?     As  for  me, 
I  do  but  right  in  saving  of  the  king 
From  all  your  plots. 
Ara.  The  king ! 
Gob.  I  bade  you  rest 
With  patience,  and  a  time  would  come  for  me 
To  reconcile  all  to  your  own  content : 
But,  by  this  way,  you  take  away  my  power. 
And  what  was  done,  unknown,  was  not  by  me, 
But  you  ;  your  urging.     Being  done, 
I  must  preserve  mine  own ;  *  but  time  may  bring 
All  this  to  light,  and  happily  for  all. 

Ara.  Accursed  be  this  over-curious  brain, 
That  gave  that  plot  a  birth  !   Accurs'd  this  womb, 
That  after  did  conceive,  to  my  disgrace  ! 
Bac.  My  lord-protector,   they  say   there   are 


1  think — intend. 

"^  paid  down  his  sins — i.e.  paid  the  forfeit  of  his  sins, 
were  sufficient  to  balance  them. — Webeb. 
3  torn — i.e.  torn  to  death,  racked. 
^  mine  own — i.e.  Arbaces. 


2  70 


TFIE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


divers  letters  come  from  Armenia,  that  Bessus 
has  done  good  service,  and  brought  again  a  day 
by  his  particular  valour.  Eeceived  you  any  to 
that  effect  ? 

Gob.  Yes ;  'tis  most  certain. 

Bac.  I  am  sorry  f or't ;  not  that  tho  day  "was 
■won,  but  that  'twas  won  by  him.  We  held  him 
here  a  coward.  He  did  me  wi'ong  once,  at  which 
I  laughed,  and  so  did  all  the  world ;  for  nor  I, 
nor  any  other,  held  him  worth  my  sword. 

EnUr  Bessus  and  Spaconia. 
Bes.  Health  to  my  lord-protector !     From  the 
king  these  letters ;  and  to  yom-  gracej  madam, 
these. 

Gob.  How  does  his  majesty  ? 
Bes.  As  well  as  conquest,  by  his  own  means 
and  his  valiant    commanders,   can  make  him. 
Your  letters  will  tell  you  all. 

Pan.  I  will  not  open  mine,  till  I  do  know 
My  brother's  health.     Good  captain,  is  he  well  ? 
Bes.  As  the  rest  of  us  that  fought  are. 
Pan.  But  how's  that  ?  is  he  Jiurt  ? 
Bes.  He's  a  strange   soldier  that  gets  not  a 
knock. 

Pan.  I  do  not  ask  how  strange  that  soldier  is 
That  gets  no  hurt,  but  whether  he  have  one. 
Bes.  He  had  divers. 
Pan.  And  is  he  well  again  ? 
Bes.  Well    again,   an't    please    your    grace  ? 
Why,  I  was  run  twice  through  the  body,  and 
shot  i'  th'  head  with  a  cross  arrow,  and  yet  am 
well  again. 
Pan.  I  do  not  care  how  thou  do'st :  is  he  well  ? 
Bes.  Not  care  how  I  do  ?     Let  a  man,  out  of 
the    mightiness   of    his   spirit,   fructify   foreign 
countries  with  his  blood,  for  the   good  of  his 
own,  and  thus  he  shall  be  answered*     Why,  I 
may  live  to  relieve,  with  spear  and  shield,  such 
a  lady  as  you  distressed. 

Pan.  AVhy,  I  will  care ;  I'm  glad  that  thou  art 
I  pr'ythee  is  he  so  ?  [well ; 

Goh.  The  king  is  well,  and  will  be  here  to- 
morrow. 
Pan.  My  prayer  is  heard.     Now  will  I  open 
mine.  {Reads. 

Gob.  Bacurius,  I  must  ease  you  of  your  charge. — 
Madam,  the  wonted  mercy  of  the  king, 
That  overtakes  your  faults,  has  met  with  this, 
And  struck  it  out;  he  has  forgiven  you  freely. 
Your  own  will  is  your  law ;  be  where  you  please. 
Ara.  I  thank  him. 
Gob.  You  will  be  ready 
To  wait  upon  his  majesty  to-morrow  ? 
Ara.  I  will. 

Bac.  Madam,  be  wise  hereafter.    I  am  glad 
I  have  lost  this  office.  \Exit  Arane. 

Gob.  Good  Captain  Bessus,  tell  us  the  discourse^ 
Betwixt  Tigranes  and  our  king,  and  how 
We  got  the  victory. 

Pan.  I  pr'ythee  do  ; 
And  if  my  brother  were  in  any  danger, 
Let  not  thy  tale  make  him  abide  there  long. 
Before  thou  bring  him  off ;  for  all  that  while 
My  heart  will  beat. 

Bes.  Madam,  let  what  wUl  beat,  I  must  tell 
truth,  and  thus  it  was:  they  fought  single  in 
lists,  but  one  to  one.  As  for  my  own  part,  I  was 
dangerously  hurt  but  three  days  before;  else, 
perhaps,  we  had  been  two  to  two  ;  I  cannot  tell, 
some  thought  we  had.  And  the  occasion  of  my 
hurt  was  this :  the  enemy  had  made  trenches — 


1  discourse  was  formerly  used  with  great  latitude. 
Weber  says  it  here  means  transaction ;  but  Dyce  thinks 
it  is  equal  to  story,  full  particulars  of  what  took  place. 


Gob.  Captain,  without  the  manner  of  your  hurt, 
Be  much  material  to  this  business. 
We'll  hear't  some  other  time. 
Pan.   I  pr'ythee,  leave  it,  and  go  on  with  my 

brother. 
Bes.  I  will ;  but  'twould  be  worth  your  hearing. 
To  the  lists  they  came,  and  single  sword   and 
gauntlet  was  their  fight. 
Pan.  Alas ! 

Bes.  Without  the  lists  there  stood  some  dozen 
captains  of  either  side  mingled,  all  which  were 
sworn,  and  one  of  those  was  I :  and  'twas  my 
chance  to  stand  next  a  captain  of  the  enemies' 
side,  call'd  Tii-ibasus ;  valiant,  they  said,  he  was. 
Whilst  these  two  kings  were  stretching  them- 
selves, this  Tiribasus  cast  something  a  scornful 
look  on  me,  and  ask'd  me,  whom  I  thought  would 
overcome .'  I  smiled,  and  told  him,  if  he  would 
fight  with  me,  he  should  perceive  by  the  event  of 
that  whose  king  would  win.  Something  he  an- 
swer'd,  and  a  scuffle  was  like  to  grow,  when  one 
Zipetus  offered  to  help  him :  I — 

Pan.  All  this  is  of  thyself ;  I  pr'ythee,  Bessus, 
Tell  something  of  my  brother  ;  did  he  nothing? 
Bes.  Why,  yes  ;  I'll  tell  your  grace.  They  were 
not  to  fight  tin  the  word  given ;  which,  for  my 
own  part,  by  my  troth,  I  confess,  I  was  not  to 
give. 

Pan.  See,  for  his  own  part ! 
Bac.   I  fear,  yet,  this  fellow's  abused  with  a 
good  report. 
Bes.  Ay,  but  I — 
Pan.  Still  of  himself  ! 

Bes.  Cried,  'Give  the  word;'  when,  as  some 
of  them  say,  Tigranes  was  stooping  :   but  the 
word  was  not  given  then ;  yet  one  Cosroes,  of 
the  enemies'  part,  held  up  his  finger  to  me,  which 
is  as  much  with  us  martialists,  as,  '  I  will  fight 
with  you.'     I  said  not  a  word,  nor  made  sign 
during  the  combat ;  but  that  once  done — 
Pan.  He  slips  over  all  the  fight. 
Bes.  I  call'd  him  to  me :  '  Cosroes,'  said  I — 
Pan.  I  will  hear  no  more. 
Bes.  No,  no,  I  lie. 
Bac.  I  dare  be  sworn  thou  dost. 
Bes.  '  Captain,'  said  I ;  so  'twas. 
Pan.  I  tell  thee,  I  will  hear  no  further. 
Bes.  No  ?     Your  grace  will  wish  you  had. 
Pan.  I  will  not  wish  it.     What,  is  this  the  lady 
My  brother  writes  to  me  to  take  ? 

Bes.  An't  please  your  grace,   this   is    she 

Charge,  will  you  come  nearer  the  princess  ? 
Pan.  You  are  welcome  from  your  country  ; 
and  this  land 
Shall  show  unto  you  all  the  kindnesses 
That  I  can  make  it.    What's  your  name  ? 
Spa.  Thalestris. 

Pan.  You're  very  welcome.     You  have  got  a 
letter 
To  put  you  to  me,  that  has  power  enough 
To  place  mine  enemy  here ;  then  much  more  you, 
That  are  so  far  from  being  so  to  me, 
That  you  ne'er  saw  me. 
Bes.  Madam,  I  dare  pass  my  word  for  her  truth. 
Spa.  My  truth? 

Pan.  AVhy,  captain,  do  you  think  I  am  afraid 
she'll  steal. 

Bes.  I  cannot  teU ;  servants  are  slippery ;  but 
I  dare  give  my  word  for  her,  and  for  her  honesty. 
She  came  along  with  me,  and  many  favours  she 
did  me  by  the  way;  but,  by  this  light,  none  but 
what  she  might  do  with  modesty,  to  a  man  of 
my  rank. 

Pan.  Why,  captain,  here's  nobody  thinks  other- 
wise. 

Bes.  Nay,  if  you  should,  your  gi-ace  may  think 
your  pleasure ;  but  I  am  sure  I  brought  her  from 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


271 


Armenia,  and  in  all  that  way,  if  ever  I  touched 
any  bare  of  her  above  her  knee,  I  pray  God  I 
may  sink  where  I  stand. 

Spa.  Above  my  knee? 

Bas.  No,  you  know  I  did  not ;  and  if  any  man 
will  say  I  did,  this  sword  shall  answer.  Nay, 
I'll  defend  the  reputation  of  my  charge  whilst  I 
live.  Your  grace  shall  understand  I  am  secret 
in  these  businesses,  and  know  how  to  defend  a 
lady's  honoiu". 

Spa.  I  hope  your  grace  knows  him  so  well 
already,  I  shall  not  need  to  tell  yoti  he's  vain 
and  foolish. 

Bes.  Ay,  you  may  call  me  what  you  please, 
but  I'll  defend  your  good  name  against  the  world. 
And  so  I  take  my  leave  of  your  grace,  and  of 
you,  my  lord-protector. — I  am  likewise  glad  to 
see  your  lordship  well. 

Bac.  Oh,  Captain  Bessus,  I  thank  you.  I 
would  speak  with  you  anon. 

Bes.  When  you  please,  I  will  attend  your 
lordship.  {Exit  Bessus. 

Bac.  Madam,  I'll  take  my  leave  too. 

Pan.  Good  Bacurius.  \Exit  Bacueius. 

Gob.  Madam,  what  writes  his  majesty  to  you.'' 

Pan.  Oh,  my  lord. 
The  kindest  words !  I'll  keep  'em  while  I  live 
Here  in  my  bosom ;  there's  no  art  in  'em ; 
They  lie  disorder'd  in  this  paper,  just 
As  hearty  nature  speaks  'em. 

Gob.  And  to  me 
He  writes,  what  tears  of  joy  he  shed,  to  hear 
How  you  were  grown  in  every  virtuous  way; 
And  yields  all  thanks  to  me  for  that  dear  care 
Which  I  was  bound  to  have  in  training  you. 
There  is  no  princess  living  that  enjoys 
A  brother  of  that  worth. 

Pan.  My  lord,  no  maid 
Longs  more  for  anything,  and  feels  more  heat 
And  cold  within  her  breast  than  I  do  now 
In  hope  to  see  him. 

Gob.  Yet  I  wonder  much 
At  this  :  he  writes,  he  brings  along  with  him 
A  husband  for  you,  that  same  captive  prince ; 
And  if  he  love  you,  as  he  makes  a  show, 
He  will  allow  you  freedom  in  your  choice. 

Pan.  And  so  he  will,  my  lord,  I  warrant  you; 
He  will  but  offer,  and  give  me  the  power 
To  take  or  leave. 

Gob.  Trust  me,  were  I  a  lady, 
I  could  not  like  that  man  were  bargain'd  with. 
Before  I  choose  him. 

Pan.  But  I  am  not  built 
On  siTch  wild  humoiirs ;  if  I  find  him  worthy. 
He  is  not  less  because  he's  offered. 

Sj)a.   'Tis  true  he  is  not ;    'would  he  would 
seem  less !  \Apart. 

Oob.  I  think  there  is  no  lady  can  affect 
Another  prince,  your  brother  standing  by ; 
He  doth  eclipse  men's  virtues  so  with  his. 

Spa.  I  know  a  lady  may,  and,  more  I  fear. 
Another  lady  will.  [Apart. 

Pan.  'Would  I  might  see  him ! 

Gob.  Why,  so  you  shall.  My  businesses  are 
I  will  attend  you  when  it  is  his  pleasure  [great: 
To  see  you,  madam. 

Pan.  I  thank  you,  good  my  lord. 

Gob.  You  will  be  ready,  madam  ? 

Pan.  Yes.  [^Exit  Gobeias. 

Spa.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  send  away 
Your  other  women,  and  receive  from  me 
A  few  sad  words,  which,  set  against  your  joys. 
May  make  'em  shine  the  more. 

Pan.  Sirs,i  leave  me  all.  [Exetmt  Women. 


•  sirs— formerly  used  in  addressing  ■women  as  'well  as 
men. 


Spa.  I  kneel  a  stranger  here,  to  beg  a  thing 
Unfit  for  me  to  ask,  and  you  to  grant.       [Kneels. 
'Tis  such  another  strange  ill-laid  request, 
As  if  a  beggar  should  entreat  a  king 
To  leave  his  sceptre  and  his  throne  to  him, 
And  take  his  rags  to  wander  o'er  the  world, 
Hungry  and  cold. 
Pan.  That  were  a  strange  request. 
Spa.  As  ill  is  mine. 
Pan.  Then  do  not  utter  it. 
Spa.  Alas,  'tis  of  that  nature,  that  it  must 
Be  Titter'd,  ay,  and  granted,  or  I  die ! 
I  am  ashamed  to  speak  it ;  but  where  life 
Lies  at  the  stake,  I  cannot  think  her  woman 
That  will  not  talk  something  unreasonably 
To  hazard  saving  of  it.    I  shall  seem 
A  strange  petitioner,  that  wish  all  ill 
To  them  I  beg  of  ere  they  give  me  aught ; 
Yet  so  I  must :  I  wovdd  you  were  not  fair, 
Nor  wise,  for  in  your  ill  consists  my  good : 
If  you  were  foolish,  you  would  Lear  my  prayer ; 
If  foul,  you  had  not  power  to  hinder  me ; 
He  would  not  love  you. 
Pan.  What's  the  meaning  of  it  ? 
Spa.  Nay,  my   request  is   more   without   the 
bounds 
Of  reason  yet :  for  'tis  not  iu  the  power 
Of  you  to  do  what  I  would  have  you  grant. 
Pan.  Why,  then,  'tis  idle.   Pr'ythee  speak  it  out. 
Spa.   Your  brother  brings  a  prince  into  this 
land, 
Of  such  a  noble  shape,  so  sweet  a  gi-ace, 
So  full  of  worth  withal,  that  every  maid 
That  looks  upon  him  gives  away  herself 
To  him  for  ever ;  and  for  you  to  have 
He  brings  him  :  and  so  mad  is  my  demand, 
That  I  desire  you  not  to  have  this  man. 
This  excellent  man;  forwhom  you  needs  must  die, 
If  you  should  miss  him.     I  do  now  expect 
You  should  laugh  at  me. 

Pan.  Trust  me,  I  could  weep 
Bather ;  for  I  have  found  in  all  thy  words 
A  strange  disjointed  sorrow. 

Spa.  'Tis  by  me 
His  own  desire  too,  that  you  would  not  love  him. 
Pan.  His  own  desire  !     Why,  credit  me,  Tha- 
lestris,  « 

I  am  no  common  wooer.    If  he  shall  woo  me, 
His  worth  may  be  such  that  I  dare  not  swear 
I  will  not  love  him  ;  but  if  he  will  stay 
To  have  me  woo  him,  I  will  promise  thee 
He  may  keep  all  his  graces  to  himself, 
And  fear  no  ravishing  from  me. 

Spa.  'Tis  yet 
His  own  desire  :  but  when  he  sees  your  face, 
I  fear,  it  will  not  be  ;  therefore  I  charge  you. 
As  you  have  pity,  stop  those  tender  ears 
From  his  enchanting  voice  ;  close  up  those  eyes. 
That  you  may  neither  catch  a  dart  from  him. 
Nor  he  from  you.     I  charge  you,  as  you  hope 
To  live  in  quiet ;  for  when  I  am  dead. 
For  certain  I  shall  walk  to  visit  him. 
If  he  break  promise  with  me  :  for  as  fast 
As  oaths  without  a  formal  ceremony 
Can  make  me,  I  am  to  him. 

Pan.  Then  be  fearless  ; 
For  if  he  were  a  thing  'twixt  God  and  man, 
I  could  gaze  on  him  (if  I  knew  it  sin 
To  love  him)  without  passion.     Dry  your  eyes : 
I  swear  you  shall  enjoy  him  still  for  me ; 
I  will  not  hinder  you.     But  I  perceive 
You  are  not  what  you  seem  :  rise,  rise,  Thalestris, 
If  your  right  name  be  so. 

Spa.  Indeed  it  is  not ; 
Spaconia  is  my  name ;  but  I  desire 
Not  to  be  known  to  others. 
Pan.  Why,  by  me 


2/2 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


You  shall  not ;  I  will  never  do  you  wrong  ; 

What  good  I  can  I  will.     Think  not  my  birth 

Or  education  such  that  I  should  injure 

A  stranger  virgin.     You  are  welcome  hither. 

In  company  you  wish  to  be  commanded  ; 

But  when  we  are  alone,  I  shall  be  ready 

To  be  your  servant.  \Extunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 

An  open  Place  before  the  City.     A  great  Crowd. 

Enter  three  Men  and  a  Woman. 

1  Man.  Come,  come !  run,  run,  run ! 

2  Man.  We  shall  outgo  her. 

3  Man.  One  were  better  be  hang'd  than  carry 
women  out  fiddling  to  these  shows. 

Worn.  Is  the  king  hard  by  ? 

1  Man.  You  heard  he  with  the  bottles  said,  he 
thought  we  should  come  too  late.  What  abund- 
ance of  people  here  is ! 

Worn.  But  what  had  he  in  those  bottles  ? 
3  Man.  I  know  not. 

2  Man.  Why,  ink,  goodman  fool. 

3  Man.  Ink  !  What  to  do  ? 

1  3Ian.  Why,  the  king,  look  you,  will  many 
times  call  for  those  bottles,  and  break  his  mind 
to  his  friends. 

Worn.  Let's  take  our  places  quickly ;  wo  shall 
have  no  room  else. 

2  Man.  The  man  told  us  he  would  walk  o'  foot 
through  the  people. 

3  Man.  Ay,  marry,  did  he. 

1  Man.  Our  shops  are  well  look'd  to  now. 

2  Man.  'Slife,  yonder's  my  master,  I  think. 
1  Man.  No,  'tis  not  he. 

Enter  Philip  with  two  Citizens'  Wives. 

1  Cit.  W.  Lord,  how  fine  the  fields  be !  What 
sweet  living  'tis  in  the  country! 

2  Cit.  W.  Ay,  poor  souls,  God  help  'em,  they 
live  as  contentedly  as  one  of  us. 

1  Cit.  W.  My  husband's  cousin  would  have  had 
me  gone  into  the  country  last  year.  Wert  thou 
ever  there  ? 

2  Cit.  W.  Aj,  poor  souls,  I  was  amongst  'em 
once. 

1  Cit.  W.  And  what  kind  of  creatures  are  they, 
for  love  of  God? 

2  Cit.  W.  Very  good  people,  God  help  'em. 

1  Cit.  W.  Wilt  thou  go  with  me  down  this 
summer,  when  I  am  brought  to  bed  ? 

2  Cit.  W.  Alas,  'tis  no  place  for  us ! 
1  Cit.  W.  Why,  pr'ythee  ? 

1  Cit.  W.  Why,  you  can  have  nothing  there ; 
there's  nobody  cries  brooms. 

1  Cit.  W.  No. 

2  Cit.  W.  No,  truly,  nor  milk. 

1  Cit.  W.  Nor  milk,  how  do  they  ? 

2  Cit.  W.  They  are  fain  to  milk  themselves  i' 
the  country. 

1  Cit  W.  Good  Lord !  But  the  people  there,  I 
think,  will  be  very  dutiful  to  one  of  us. 

2  Cit.  W.  Ay,  God  knows  will  they ;  and  yet 
they  do  not  greatly  care  for  our  husbands. 

1  Cit.  W.  Do  they  not  ?  Alas !  i'  good  faith,  I 
cannot  blame  them,  for  we  do  not  greatly  care 
for  them  ourselves.  Philip,  I  pray,  choose  us  a 
place. 

Phil.  There's  the  best,  forsooth. 

1  Cit.  W.  By  your  leave,  good  people,  a  little. 

1  Man.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Phil.  I  pray  you,  my  friend,  do  not  thrust  my 
mistress  so ;  she's  with  child. 

2  Man.  Let  her  look  to  herself,  then ;  has 
Bhe  not  had  thrusting  enough  yet  ?     If  she  stay 


sliouldering  here,  she  may  hap  to  go  home  with 
a  cake  in  her  belly. 

3  Man.  How  now,  goodman  S  quitter-breech ! 
why  do  you  lean  on  me  ? 

Phil.  Because  I  will. 

3  Man.  Will  you.  Sir  Sauce-box  ? 

[Strilces  him. 

1  Cit.  W.  Look,  if  one  ha'  not  struck  Philip ! — 
Come  hither,  Philip ;  why  did  he  strike  thee  ? 

Phil.  For  leaning  on  him. 

1  Cit.  W.  Why  didst  thou  lean  on  him  .' 

Phil.  I  did  not  think  he  would  have  sti-uck  me. 

1  Cit.  W.  As  God  save  me,  la,  thou  art  as  wild 
as  a  buck;  there's  no  quarrel,  but  thou  art  at 
one  end  or  other  on't. 

3  Man.  It's  at  the  first  end  then,  for  he'll  ne'er 
stay  the  last. 

1  Cit.  W.  Well,  slip-string,  I  shall  meet  with 
you. 

3  Man.  When  you  will. 

1  Cit.  W.  I'll  give  a  crown  to  meet  with  you. 

Flourish.    Enter  one  ^-unning. 

4  Man.  The  king,  the  king,  the  king,  the  king ! 
Now,  now,  now,  now ! 

Flourish.    Enter  Arbaces,  Tigranes,  Mardo- 
mus,  and  Soldiei-s. 

All.  God  preserve  your  majesty  ! 

Arh.  I  thank  you  all.     Now  are  my  joys  at 
full, 
When  I  behold  you  safe,  my  loving  subjects. 
By  you  I  grow ;  'tis  your  united  love 
That  lifts  me  to  this  height. 
All  the  account  that  I  can  render  you 
For  all  the  love  you  have  bestow'd  on  me, 
All  your  expenses  to  maintain  my  war. 
Is  but  a  little  word.     You  will  imagine 
'Tis  slender  payment ;  yet  'tis  such  a  word 
As  is  not  to  be  bought  without  our  bloods : 
'Tis  peace ! 

All.  God  preserve  your  majesty ! 

Arb.  No\<'  you  may  live  securely  in  your  towns, 
Your  children  round  about  you  ;  you  may  sit 
Under  your  vines,  and  make  the  miseries 
Of  other  kingdoms  a  discourse  for  you. 
And  lend  them  sorrows.    For  ourselves,  you  may 
Safely  forget  there  are  such  things  as  tears ; 
And  may  you  all,  whose  good  thoughts  I  have 

gain'd. 
Hold  me  unworthy,  when  I  think  my  life 
A  sacrifice  too  great  to  keep  you  thus 
In  such  a  calm  estate ! 

All.  God  bless  your  majesty  ! 

Arb.  See,  all  good  people,  I  have  brought  the 
man, 
Whose  very  name  you  fear'd,  a  captive  home. 
Behold  him ;  'tis  Tigranes !     In  your  hearts 
Sing  songs  of  gladness  and  deliverance. 

1  Cit.  W.  Out  upon  him ! 

2  Cit.  W.  How  he  looks ! 

3  Worn.  Hang  him,  hang  him ! 
3{ar.  These  are  sweet  people. 
Tig.  Sir,  you  do  me  wrong, 

To  render  me  a  scorned  spectacle 
To  common  people. 

Arb.  It  was  far  from  me 
To  mean  it  so.     If  I  have  aught  deserved, 
My  loving  subjects,  let  me  beg  of  you 
Not  to  revile  this  prince,  in  whom  there  dwells 
All  worth,  of  which  the  nature  of  a  man 
Is  capable ;  valour  beyond  compare : 
The  terror  of  his  name  has  stretch'd  itself 
Wherever  there  is  sun.     And  yet  for  you 
I  fought  with  him  single,  and  won  him  too. 
I  made  his  valour  stoop,  and  broug'nt  that  name, 
Soar'd  to  so  unbelieved  a  height,  to  fall 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


273 


Beneath,  mine.     This,   inspired   with  all    your 

loves, 
I  did  perform ;  and  will,  for  your  content, 
Ee  ever  read}'  for  a  greater  work. 

All.  The  Lord  bless  your  majesty! 

Tlfjr.  So,  be  has  made  me 
Amends  now  with  a  speech  in  commendation 
Of  himself;  I  would  not  be  so  vainglorious. 

Arh.  If  there  be  anything  in  which  I  may 
Do  good  to  any  creature  here,  speak  out, 
For  I  must  leave  you.    And  it  troubles  me, 
That  my  occasions,  for  the  good  of  you, 
Are  such  as  call  me  from  you :  else,  my  joy 
Would  be  to  spend  my  days  amongst  you  all. 
You  show  your  loves  in  these  large  multitudes 
That  come  to  meet  me.     I  will  pray  for  you. 
Heaven  prosper  you,  that  you  may  know  old 

years, 
And  live  to  see  your  children's  children 
Sit  at  your  boards  with  plenty !     When  there  is 
A  want  of  anything,  let  it  be  known 
To  me,  and  1  will  be  a  father  to  you. 
God  keep  you  all ! 

[Flourish.    Examt  Kings  and  their  Train. 

All.  God  bless  your  majesty !  God  bless  your 
majesty ! 

1  Man.  Come,  shall  we  go  ?  all's  done. 
Worn.  Ay,  for  God's  sake.     I  have  not  made  a 

fire  yet. 

2  Man.  Avrsij^  away !  all's  done. 

3  Man.  Content.     Farewell,  Philip. 

1  Cif.  W.  Away,  you  halter-sack,'  you! 

2  Man.  Philip  will  not  fight ;  he's  afraid  en's 
face. 

Phil.  Ay,  marry;  am  I  afraid  of  ray  face.' 

3  Man.  Thou  would'st  be,  Philip,  if  thou  saw'st 
it  in  a  glass ;  it  looks  so  like  a  visor. 

[Exeunt  the  three  Men  and  Woman. 

1  Cif.  W.  You'll  be  hang'd,  sirrah.  Come, 
Philip,  walk  before  us  homewards.  Did  not  his 
majesty  say  he  had  brought  us  home  peas  for  all 
our  money? 

2  Cit.  W.  Yes,  marry,  did  he. 

1  Cit.  W.  They're  the  first  I  heard  on  this 
year,  by  my  troth.  I  long'd  for  some  of  'em. 
Did  he  not  say  we  should  have  some  ? 

2  Cit.  W.  Yes,  and  so. we  shall  anon,  I  warrant 
you,  have  every  one  a  peck  brought  home  to  our 
houses.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

Iberia.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Aebaces  and  Gobrias. 

Arb.  My  sister  take  it  ill  ? 

Goh.  Not  very  ill. 
Something  unkindly  she  does  take  it,  sir, 
To  have  her  husband  chosen  to  her  hands. 

Arh.  Why,  Gobrias,  let  her.     I  must  have  her 
know 
My  will,  and  not  her  own,  must  govern  her. 
What !  wiU  she  marry  with  some  slave  at  home  ? 

Goh.  Oh,  she  is  far  from  any  stubbornness  ; 
You  much  mistake  her  ;  and,  no  doubt,  will  like 
Where  you  will  have  her.    But,  when  you  be- 
hold her, 
You  will  be  loath  to  part  with'  such  a  jewel. 

Arh.  To  part  with  her.'     Why,  Gobrias,  art 
thoTi  mad  ? 
She  is  my  sister. 

Goh.  Sir,  I  know  she  is : 


1  An?/<.'r-saci-— ectuivalent  to  '  gallows-bird.'— Weber. 


But  it  were  pity  to  make  poor  our  land. 
With  such  a  beauty  to  enrich  another. 

Arh.  Pish!     Will  she  have  him  ? 

Goh.  I  do  hope  she  will  not. —  [Aside. 

I  think  she  will,  sir. 

Arh.  Were  she  my  father,  and  my  mother  too. 
And  all  the  names   for  Avhich  we  thiuk  folks 

friends, 
She  should  be  forced  to  have  him,  when  I  know 
'Tis  fit.     I  will  not  hear  her  say  she's  loath. 

Goh.  Heaven    bring    mj^  purpose    luckily  to 
pass ;  [Aside. 

You  know  'tis  just. — She  will  not  need  constraint. 
She  loves  you  so. 

Arh.  How  does  she  love  me  ?     Speak. 

Gob.  She  loves  you  more  than  people  love  their 
health. 
That  live  by  labour;  more  than  I  could  love 
A  man  that  died  for  me,  if  he  could  live 
Again. 

Arh.  She  is  not  like  her  mother,  then. 

Gob.  Oh,  no  !     When  you  were  in  Armenia, 
I  durst  not  let  her  know  when  you  were  hurt : 
For  at  the  first,  on  every  little  scratch. 
She  kept  her  chamber,  wept,  and  could  not  eat, 
Till  you  were  well :  and  many  times  the  news 
Was  so  long  coming,  that,  before  we  heard. 
She  was  as  near  her  death,  as  you  yoi;r  health. 

Arh.  Alas,  poor  soul !     But  yet  she  must  be 
ruled. 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  requite  her  well. 
I  long  to  see  her.     Have  you  sent  for  her. 
To  tell  her  I  am  ready  ? 

Goh.  Sir,  I  have. 

Enter  one  Gentleman  and  Tigranes. 

1  Gent.  Sir,  here  is  the  Ai-menian  king. 

Arh.  He's  welcome. 

1  Gent.  And  the  queen-mother  and  the  prin- 
cess wait 
Without. 

Arb.  Good  Gobrias,  bring  'em  in. — 

[Exit  Gobrias. 
Tigranes,  you  will  think  you  are  arrived 
In  a  strange  land,  where  mothers  cast  1  to  poison 
Their  only  sons.     Think  you,  you  shall  be  safe .' 

Tigr.  Too  safe  I  am,  sir. 

Enter  Gobrias,  Arane,  Paxthea,  Spaconia, 
Bacurius,  MARDONiiJS,  Bessus,  and  two 
Gentlemen. 

Ara.  [hneeh.'\  As  low  as  this  I  bow  to   you ; 
and  would 
As  low  as  is  my  grave,  to  show  a  mind 
Thankful  for  all  your  mercies. 

Arb.  Oh,  stand  up. 
And  let  me  kneel !  the  light  will  be  ashamed 
To  see  observance  done  to  me  by  you. 

Ara.  You  are  my  king. 

Arb.  You  are  my  mother.     Eise  ! 
As  far  be  all  your  faults  from  your  own  soul, 
As  from  my  memory ;  then  you  shall  be 
As  white  as  Innocence  herself. 

Ara.  I  came 
Only  to  show  my  duty  and  acknowledge 
My  soi-rows  for  my  sins.     Longer  to  stay, 
Were  but  to  draw  eyes  more  attentively 
Upon  my  shame.     That  power ,  that  kept  you 

safe 
From  me,  preserve  you  still ! 

Arb.  Your  own  desires 
Shall  be  your  guide.  [Exit  Arane. 

Pan.  Now  let  me  die  ! 
Since  I  have  seen  my  lord  the  king  return 


1  cast — contrive,  plot. 


274 


777^  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


In  safety,  I  have  seen  all  good  that  life 
Can  show  me.    I  have  ne'er  another  wish 
For  Heaven  to  grant ;  nor  were  it  fit  I  should  ; 
For  I  am  bound  to  spend  my  age  to  come, 
In  giving  thanks  that  this  was  granted  me. 

Gob.  Why  does  not  your  majesty  speak  ? 

Ari.  To  whom  ? 

Goh.  To  the  princess. 

Pan.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  fearful !     Tou  do  look 
On  me  as  if  I  were  some  loathed  thing, 
That  you  were  finding  out  a  way  to  shun. 

Goh.  Sir,  you  should  speak  to  her. 

Arl.  Ha? 

Pan.  I  know  I  am  unworthy,  yet  not  ill : 
Arm'd  with  which  innocence,  here  I  will  kneel 
Till  I  am  one  with  earth,  but  I  will  gain 
Some  words  and  kindness  from  you.         iKneels. 

Tigr.  Will  you  speak,  sir  ? 

Arb.  Speak !  am  I  what  I  was  ? 
What  art  thou,  that  dost  creep  into  my  breast, 
And  dar'st  not  see  my  face  ?     Show  forth  thyself. 
I  feel  a  pair  of  fiery  wings  display'd 
Hither,  from  thence.     You  shall  not  tarry  there ! 
Up,  and  begone ;  if  you  be'st  love,  begone ! 
Or  I  will  tear  thee  from  my  wounded  breast, 
Pull  thy  lov'd  down  away,  and  with  a  quill, 
By  this  right  arm  drawn  from  thy  wanton  wing. 
Write  to  thy  laughing-mother '  in  thy  blood, 
That  you  are  powers  belied,  and  all  your  darts 
Are  to  be  blown  away,  by  men  resolved, 
Like  dust.    I  know  thou  fear'st  my  words  ;  away ! 

Tigr.  Oh,  misery  !  why  should  he  be  so  slo^y  ? 

[Apart. 
There  can  no  falsehood  come  of  loving  her. 
Though  I  have  given  my  faith,  she  is  a  thing 
Both  to  be  loved  and  served  beyond  my  faith. 
1  would  he  would  jjresent  me  to  her  quickly. 

Pan.  Will  you  not  speak  at  all  ?    Are  you  so  far 
From  kind  words  ?     Yet,  to  save  my  modesty. 
That  must  talk  till  you  answer,  do  not  stand 
As  you  were  dumb ;  say  something,  though  it  be 
Poison'd  with  anger  that  may  strike  me  dead. 

Mar.  Have  you  no  life  at  all  ?     For  manhood 
sake, 
Let  her  not  kneel,  and  talk  neglected  thus. 
A  tree  would  find  a  tongue  to  answer  her, 
Did  she  but  give  it  such  a  lov'd  respect. 

Arb.  You  mean  this  lady.    Lift  her  from  the 
earth : 
Why  do  you  let  her  kneel  so  long  ? — Alas  ! 
Madam,  your  beauty  uses  to  command. 
And  not  to  beg.     What  is  your  suit  to  me  ? 
It  shall  be  granted ;  yet  the  time  is  short. 
And  my  affairs  are  great.    But  where's  my  sister  ? 
I  bade  she  should  be  brought. 

Mar.  What,  is  he  mad  ? 

Arb.  Gobrias,  where  is  she  ? 

Gob.  Sir! 

Arb.  Where  is  she,  man  ? 

Gob.  Who,  sir? 

Arb.  Who?  hast  thou  forgot ?  my  sister. 

Gob.  Your  sister,  sir  ? 

Arb.  Your  sister,  sir !  Some  one  that  hath  a  wit, 
Answer,  where  is  she  ? 

Gob.  Do  you  not  see  her  there  ? 

Arb.  Where? 

Gob.  There. 

Arb.  There  ?  where  ? 

Mar.  'Slight,  there  I     Ai'e  you  blind  ? 

Arb.  Which  do  you  mean  ?     That  little  one  ? 

Gob.  No,  sii-. 

Arb.  No,  sir?     Why,  do  you  mock  me?     I 
can  see 
No  other  here,  but  that  petitioning  lady. 


laughing-mother — Venus. 


Gob.  That's  she. 

Arb.  Away ! 

Gob.  Sir,  it  is  she. 

Arb.  'Tis  false. 

Gob.  Is  it  ? 

Arb.  As  hell !    By  heaven,  as  false  as  hell ! 
My  sister !     Is  she  dead  ?     If  it  be  so, 
Speak  boldly  to  me ;  for  I  am  a  man. 
And  dare  not  quarrel  with  divinity ; 
And  do  not  think  to  cozen  me  with  this. 
I  see  you  are  all  mute  and  stand  amazed, 
Feai'ful  to  answer  me.     It  is  too  true ; 
A  decreed  instant  cuts  off  every  life. 
For  which  to  mourn  is  to  repine.     She  died 
A  virgin  though,  more  innocent  than  sleep,  ■ 
As  clear  as  her  own  eyes  ;  and  blessedness 
Eternal  waits  upon  her  where  she  is. 
I  know  she  could  not  make  a  wish  to  change 
Her  state  for  new  ;  and  you  shall  see  me  bear 
My  crosses  like  a  man.     We  all  must  die, 
And  she  has  taught  us  how. 

Gob.  Do  not  mistake. 
And  vex  yourself  for  nothing ;  for  her  death 
Is  a  long  life  off  yet,  I  hope.     'Tis  she ; 
And  if  my  speech  deserve  not  faith,  lay  death 
Upon  me,  and  my  latest  words  shall  force 
A  credit  from  you. 

Arh.  Which,  good  Gobrias  ? 
That  lady,  dost  thou  mean? 

Gob.  That  lady,  sir  : 
She  is  your  sister ;  and  she  is  your  sister 
That  loves  you  so ;  'tis  she  for  whom  I  weep, 
To  see  you  wse  her  thus. 

Arb.  It  cannot  be. 

Tigr.  Pish !  this  is  tedious :  [Apart, 

I  cannot  hold  ;  I  must  present  myself. 
And  yet  the  sight  of  my  Spaconia 
Touches  me,  as  a  sudden  thunder  clap 
Does  one  that  is  about  to  sin. 

Arb.  Away! 
No  more  of  this !     Here  I  pronounce  him  traitor, 
The  direct  plotter  of  my  death,  that  names 
Or  thinks  her  for  my  sister.     'Tis  a  lie. 
The  most  malicious  of  the  world,  invented 
To  mad  your  king.     He  that  will  say  so  next, 
Let  him  draw  out  his  sword  and  sheathe  it  here ; 
It  is  a  sin  fully  as  pardonable. 
She  is  no  kin  to  me,  nor  shall  she  be : 
If  she  were  ever,  I  create  her  none. 
And  which  of  you  can  question  this  ?     My  power 
Is  like  the  sea,  that  is  to  be  obey'd. 
And  not  disputed  with.     I  have  decreed  her 
As  far  from  having  part  of  blood  with  me, 
As  the  naked  Indians.     Come  and  answer  me, 
He  that  is  boldest  now.     Is  that  my  sister? 

Mar.  Oh,  this  is  fine  !  [majesty, 

Bes.  No,  marry,  she  is  not,  an't  please  your 
I  never  thought  she  was ;  she's  nothing  like  you. 

Arb.  No ;  'tis  true,  she  is  not. 

Mar.  Thou  shouldst  be  hang'd.      [To  Bessus, 

Pan.  Sir,  I  wUl  speak  but  once.     By  the  same 
power 
You  make  my  blood  a  stranger  unto  yours. 
You  may  command  me  dead;  and  so  much  love 
A  stranger  may  importune  ;  pray  you,  do. 
If  this  request  appear  too  much  to  grant, 
Adopt  me  of  some  other  family, 
By  your  unquestion'd  word ;  else  I  shall  live 
Like  sinful  issues,  that  are  left  in  streets 
By  their  regardless  mothers,  and  no  name 
Will  be  found  for  me. 

Arb.  I  will  hear  no  more. — 
Why  should  there  be  such  music  in  a  voice. 
And  sin  for  me  to  hear  it?     All  the  world 
May  take  delight  in  this ;  and'  'tis  damnation 

ami— and  yet. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


275 


For  me  to  do  so. — You  are  fair,  and  wise, 

And  virtuous,  I  think ;  and  he  is  blessed 

That  is  so  near  you  as  your  brother  is ; 

But  you  are  nought  to  me  but  a  disease  ; 

Continual  torment  without  hope  of  ease. 

Such  an  ungodly  sickness  I  have  got. 

That  he,  that  undertakes  my  cure,  must  first 

O'erthrow  divinity,  all  moral  laws, 

And  leave  mankind  as  imconfin'd  as  beasts; 

Allowing  'em  to  do  all  actions. 

As  freely  as  they  drink  when  they  desire. 

Let  me  not  hear  you  speak  again  ;  yet  so 

I  shall  but  languish  for  the  want  of  that. 

The  having  which  would  kill  me. — No  man  here 

Offer  to  speak  for  her ;  for  I  consider 

As  much  as  you  can  say  ;  I  will  not  toil 

My  body  and  my  mind  too  ;  rest  thou  there ; 

Here's  one  within  will  labour  for  you  both. 

Pan.  I  would  I  were  past  speaking. 

Gob.  Fear  not,  madam ; 
The  king  will  alter.     'Tis  some  sudden  rage, 
And  you  shall  see  it  end  some  other  way. 

Pan.  Pray  heaven  it  do  ! 

Tigr.  \_Aside.~\  Though  she  to  whom  I  swore 
be  here,  I  cannot 
Stifle  my  passion  longer ;  if  my  father 
Should  rise  again,  disquieted  with  this, 
And  charge  me  to  forbear,  yet  it  would  out. — 

\  Comes  forward. 

Madam,  a  stranger,  and  a  prisoner  begs 
To  be  bid  welcome. 

Pan.  You  are  welcome,  sir, 
I  think ;  but  if  you  be  not,  'tis  past  me 
To  make  you  so  ;  for  I  am  here  a  stranger 
Greater  than  you.     We  know  from  whence  you 

come ; 
But  I  appear  a  lost  thing,  and  by  whom 
Is  yet  uncertain ;  found  here  i'  the  court, 
And  only  suffer'd  to  walk  up  and  down, 
As  one  not  worth  the  owning. 

Spa.  Oh,  I  fear 
Tigranes  will  be  caught ;  he  looks,  methinks, 
As  he  would  change  his  eyes  with  her.    Some 

help 
There  is  above  for  me,  I  hope ! 

Tigr.  Why  do  you  turn  away,  and  weep  so  fast. 
And  utter  things  that  misbecome  your  looks  ? 
Can  you  want  owning  ? 

Spa.  Oh,  'tis  certain  so. 

Tigr.  Acknowledge  yourself  mine. 

Arh.  How  now  ? 

Tigr.  And  then 
See  if  you  want  an  owner. 

Arh.  They  are  talking ! 

Tigr.  Nations  shall  own  you  for  their  queen. 

Arb.  Tigranes !  art  not  thou  my  prisoner  ? 

Tigr.  I  am. 

Arb.  And  who  is  this  ? 

Tigr.  She  is  your  sister. 

Arb.  She  is  so. 

Mar.  Is  she  so  again  ?     That's  well. 

Arb.  And  how,  then,  dare  you  offer  to  change 
words  with  her  ? 

Tigr.    Dare  do  it  ?     Why,  you  brought  me 
hither,  sir, 
To  that  intent. 

Arh.  Perhaps,  I  told  you  so : 
If  I  had  sworn  it,  had  you  so  much  folly 
To  credit  it .'     The  least  word  that  she  speaks 
Is  worth  a  life.    Eule  your  disorder'd  tongue, 
Or  I  will  temper  it ! 

Spa.  Blest  be  that  breath ! 

Tigt:  Temper  my  tongue  !     Such  incivilities 
As  these  nc  barbarous  people  ever  knew : 
You  break  the  laws  of  nature,  and  of  nations ; 
You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  prisoner 


For  theft.     My  tongue  be  temper'd!      I  must 

speak. 
If  thunder  check  me,  and  I  wilL 

Arb.  You  ■^^ill  ? 

Spa.  Alas,  my  fortune ! 

Tigr.  Do  not  fear  his  frown. 
Dear  madam,  hear  me. 

Arb.  Fear  not  my  frown  ?      But  that  'twere 
base  in  me 
To  fight  with  one  I  know  I  can  o'ercome. 
Again  thou  shouldst  be  conquered  by  me. 

Mar.  He  has  one  ransom  with  him  already; 
methinks,  'twere  good  to  fight  double  or  quit. 

Arb.  Away  with  him  to  prison ! — Now,  sir,  see 
If  my  frown  be  regardless. — Why  delay  you  ? 
Seize  him,  Baciu'ius  ! — You  shall  know  my  word 
Sweeps  like  a  wind ;  and  all  it  grapples  with 
Are  like  the  chaff  before  it. 

Tigr.  Touch  me  not. 

Arh.  Help  there ! 

Tigr.  Away! 

1  Gent.  It  is  in  vain  to  struggle. 

2  Gent.  You  must  be  forced. 
Bac.  Sir,  you  must  pardon  us ; 

We  must  obey. 

Arb.  Why  do  you  dally  there  ? 
Drag  him  away  by  anything. 

Bac.  Come,  sir. 

Tigr.  Justice,  thou  ought'st  to  give  me  strength 
enough 
To  shake  all  these  off. — This  is  tyranny, 
Arbaces,  subtler  than  the  burning  bull's. 
Or  that  famed  tyrant's  bed.'    Thou  might'st  as 

well 
Search  i'  the  deep  of  winter  through  the  snow 
For  half-starved  people,  to  bring  home  with  thee 
To  show  'em  fire  and  send  'em  back  again. 
As  use  me  thus. 

Arh.  Let  him  be  close,  Bacurius. 

iExit  Tigranes,  led  0^  by  Bacurius  and 
Gentlemen. 

Spa.  I  ne'er  rejoiced  at  any  ill  to  him. 
But  this  imprisonment.     What  shall  become 
Of  me  forsaken  ? 

Gob.  You  will  not  let  your  sister 
Depart  thus  discontented  from  you,  sir  ? 

Arb.  By  no  means,  Gobrias.     I  have  done  her 
wrong. 
And  made  myself  believe  much  of  myself. 
That  is  not  in  me. — You  did  kneel  to  me. 
Whilst  I  stood  stubborn  and  regardless  by. 
And,  like  a  god  incensed,  gave  no  ear 
To  all  your  prayers.  [^Kneels.'] — Behold,  I  kneel 

to  you : 
Show  a  contempt  as  large  as  was  my  own. 
And  I  will  suffer  it ;  yet,  at  the  last. 
Forgive  me. 

Pan.  Oh,  you  wrong  me  more  in  this 
Than  in  your  rage  you  did.     You  mock  me  now. 

Arh.  Never  forgive  me,  then  ;    which  is  the 
worst 
Can  happen  to  me. 

Pan.  If  you  be  in  earnest. 
Stand  up,  and  give  me  but  a  gentle  look. 
And  two  kind  words,  and  I  shall  be  in  heaven. 

Arh.  Else  you  then,  too.     Here  I  acknowledge 
thee. 
My  hope,  the  only  jewel  of  my  life, 
The  best  of  sisters,  dearer  than  my  breath, 
A  happiness  as  high  as  I  could  think ; 
And  when  my  actions  caU  thee  otherwise. 
Perdition  light  upon  me ! 

'  The  allusions  are  to  the  'burning  hull  of  Phalaris, 
in  which  he  roasted  Iris  victims  alive,  and  to  the  bed 
of  Procrustes,  who  made  all  his  prisoners  fit  it  either  hy 
stretching  them  on  the  rack,  or  lopping  off  their  feet. 


276 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Pan.  This  is  better 
Than  if  you  had  not  frowned ;  it  comes  to  me 
Like  mercy  at  the  block.     And  when  I  leave 
To  serve  you  with  my  life,  your  curse  bo  with 
me! 

Arl).  Then  thus  I  do  salute  thee  ;  and  again, 
To  make  this  knot  the  stronger.     Paradise 
Is  there !     It  may  be,  you  are  yet  in  doubt ; 
This  third  kiss  blots  it  out. — I  wade  in  sin, 

\_Aside. 
And  foolishly  entice  myself  along ! — 
Take  her  away  ;  see  her  a  prisoner 
In  her  own  chamber,  closely,  Gobrias ! 

Pan.  Alas,  sir,  why  ? 

Arl.  I  must  not  stay  the  answer.    Do  it. 

Goh.  Good  sir ! 

Arl.  No  more!     Do  it,  I  say! 

Mar.  This  is  better  and  better 

Pan.  Yet,  hear  me  speak. 

Arh.  I  will  not  hear  you  speak. — 
Away  with  her !     Let  no  man  think  to  speak 
For  such  a  creature  ;  for  she  is  a  witch, 
A  poisoner,  and  a  traitor  I 

Gob.  Madam,  this  oflace  grieves  me. 

Pan.  Nay,  'tis  well; 
The  king  is  pleased  with  it. 

Arb.  Bessus,  go  you  along  too  with  her.    I  will 
prove 
All  this  that  I  have  said,  if  I  may  live 
So  long.     But  I  am  desperately  sick  ; 
For  she  has  given  me  poison  in  a  kiss : 
She  had  it  'twixt  her  lips;  and  with  her  eyes 
She  witches  people.     Go,  without  a  word ! 

\_Exeunt  Gobeias,  Pakthea,  Bessus, 
and  Spaconia. 
Why  should  You,i  that  have  made  me  stand  iu 

war 
Like  Fate  itself,  cutting  what  threads  I  pleased. 
Decree  such  an  unworthy  end  of  me, 
And  all  my  glories  ?     "What  am  I,  alas, 
That  you  oppose  me!     If  my  secret  thoughts 
Have  ever  harboured  swellings  against  you, 
They  could  not  hurt  you  ;  and  it  is  in  you 
To  give  me  sorrow,  that  will  render  me 
Apt  to  receive  your  mercy :  rather  so, 
Let  it  be  rather  so,  than  punish  me 
With  such  unmanly  sins. — 
Where  art,  Mardonius  ? 

Mar.  Here,  sir. 

Arb.  I  pray  thee,  bear  me,  if  thou  canst. 
Am  I  not  grown  a  strange  weight  ? 

Mar.  As  you  were. 

Arb.  No  heavier  ? 

Mar.  No,  sir. 

Arb.  Why,  my  legs 
Refuse  to  bear  my  body  !     Oh,  Mardonius, 
Thou  hast  in  field  beheld  me,  when  thou  know'st 
I  could  have  gone,  though  I  could  never  run. 

Mar.  And  so  I  shall  again. 

Arb.  Oh  no,  'tis  past. 

Mar.  Pray  you,  go  rest  yourself. 

Arb.  Wilt  thou,  hereafter,  when  they  talk  of  me. 
As  thou  shalt  hear  nothing  but  infamy, 
Eemember  some  of  those  things  ? 

]\[ar.  Yes,  I  will. 

Arb.  I  pray  thee,  do  ;  for  thou  shalt  never  see 
Me  so  again. 

Mar.  I  warrant  ye.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IIL— SCENE  IL 
A  Room,  in  the  House  o/"Bessus. 
Enter  Bessus. 
Bes.  They  talk  of  fame;  I  have  gotten  it  in 

'  You — the  gods. 


the  wars,  and  will  afford  any  man  a  reasonable 
pennyworth.  Some  will  say,  they  could  be  con- 
tent to  have  it,  but  that  it  is  to  be  achieved  with 
danger;  but  my  opinion  is  otherwise:  for  if  I 
might  stand  still  in  cannon-proof,  and  have  fame 
fall  upon  me,  I  would  refuse  it.  My  reputation 
came  principally  by  thinking  to  run  away,  which 
nobody  knows  but  Mardonius ;  and,  I  think,  he 
conceals  it  to  anger  me.  Before  I  went  to  the 
wars,  I  came  to  the  town  a  young  fellow,  with- 
out means  or  parts  to  deserve  friends ;  and  my 
empty  guts  persuaded  me  to  lie,  and  abuse  people 
for  my  meat,  which  I  did,  and  they  beat  me. 
Then  would  I  fast  two  days,  till  my  hunger  cried 
out  on  me,  '  Kail  still.'  Then,  methought,  I  had 
a  monstrous  stomach  to  abuse  'era  again,  and  did 
it.  In  this  state  I  continued,  till  they  hung  me 
up  by  the  heels,  and  beat  me  with  hazel-sticks, 
as  if  they  would  have  baked  me,  and  have 
cozen'd  somebody  with  me  for  venison.  After 
this  I  rail'd,  and  eat  quietly.  For  the  whole 
kingdom  took  notice  of  me  for  a  baffled'  whipp'd 
fellow,  and  what  I  said  was  remembered  in 
mirth,  but  never  iu  anger,  of  which  I  was  glad. 
I  would  it  were  at  that  pass  again  !  After  this. 
Heaven  call'd  an  aunt  of  mine,  that  left  two 
hundred  pounds  in  a  cousin's  hand  for  me  ;  who, 
taking  me  to  be  a  gallant  young  spirit,  raised  a 
company  for  me  with  the  money,  and  sent  me 
into  Armenia  with  'em.  Away  I  would  have 
run  from  them,  but  that  I  could  get  no  com- 
pany :  and  alone  I  durst  not  run.  I  was  never 
at  battle  but  once,  and  there  I  was  running,  but 
Mardonius  cudgell'd  me.  Yet  I  got  loose  at  last, 
but  was  so  afraid  that  I  saw  no  more  than  my 
shoulders  do  ;  but  fled  with  my  whole  company 
amongst  my  enemies,  and  overthrew  'em.  Now 
the  report  of  my  valour  is  come  over  before  me, 
and  they  say  1  was  a  raw  young  fellow,  but  now 
I  am  improved.  A  plague  on  their  eloquence ! 
'twill  cost  me  many  a  beating ;  and  Mardonius 
might  help  this  too,  if  he  would ;  for  now  they 
think  to  get  honour  on  me,  and  all  the  men  I 
have  abused  call  me  freshly  to  account  (worthily 
as  they  call  it)  by  the  way  of  challenge. 

Enter  the  third  Gentleman. 

3  Gent.  Good-morrow,  Captain  Bessus. 

Bes.  Good-morrow,  sir. 

3  Gent.  I  come  to  speak  with  you — 

Bes.  You're  veiy  welcome. 

3  Gent.  From  one  that  holds  himself  wrong'd 
by  you  some  three  years  since.  Your  worth,  he 
says,  is  famed,  and  he  does  nothing  doubt  but 
you  will  do  him  right,  as  beseems  a  soldier. 

Bes.  A  pox  on  'em,  so  they  cry  all ! 

3  Gent.  And  a  slight  note  I  have  about  me  for 
you,  for  the  delivery  of  which  you  must  excuse 
me.  It  is  an  office  that  friendship  calls  upon  me 
to  do,  and  no  way  offensive  to  you ;  since  1  desire 
but  right  on  both  sides.  [_Gives  him  a  letter. 

Bes.  'Tis  a  challenge,  sir,  is  it  not  ? 

3  Gent.  'Tis  an  inviting  to  the  field. 

Bes.  An  inviting?  Oh,  cry  you  mercy! — What 
a  compliment  he  delivers  it  with !  he  might,  as 
agreeably  to  my  nature,  present  me  poison  with 
such  a  speech.  [Reads.^  Um,  um,  um — Reputa- 
tion— um,  um,  um — call  you  to  account — um,  um, 
\xm— forced  to  this — um,  um,  um — with  my  sword 
— um,  um,  um — lihe  a  gentleman — um,  um,  um — 
dear  to  me — um,  um,  um — satisfaction. — 'Tis  very 
well,  sir ;  I  do  accept  it ;  but  he  must  await  an 
answer  this  thirteen  weeks. 

3  Gent.  Why,  sir,  he  would  be  glad  to  wipe  off 
his  stain  as  soon  as  he  could. 

•  baffled — unknighted. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


277 


Bes.  Sir,  upon  my  credit,  I  am  already  engaged 
to  two  hundred  and  twelve;  all  which,  must  have 
their  stains  wiped  off,  if  that  be  the  word,  before 
him. 

3  Gent.  Sir,  if  you  be  truly  engaged  but  to  one, 
he  shall  stay  a  competent  time. 

Bes.  Upon  my  faith,  sir,  to  two  hundred  and 
twelve.  And  I  have  a  spent  body,  too  much 
bruised  in  battle ;  so  that  I  cannot  fight,  I  must 
be  plain,  above  three  combats  a-day.  All  the 
kindness  1  can  show  him,  is  to  set  him  resolvedly 
in  my  roll,  the  two  hundred  and  thirteenth  man, 
which  is  something;  for,  I  tell  you,  I  think  there 
will  be  more  after  him  than  before  him ;  I  think 
60.  Pray  you  commend  me  to  him,  and  tell  him 
this. 

3  Gent.  I  will,  sir.    Good-morrow  to  you. 

{Exit  Gentleman. 

Bes.  Good-morrow,  good  sir. — Certainly,  my 
safest  way  wei'e  to  print  myself  a  coward,  with  a 
discovery  how  I  came  by  my  credit,  and  clap  it 
upon  every  post.  I  have  received  above  thirty 
challenges  within  this  two  hours.  Marry,  all  but 
the  first  I  put  oif  with  engagement;  and,  by  good 
fortune,  the  first  is  no  madder  of  fighting  than  I ; 
so  that  that's  referred.  The  place  where  it  must 
be  ended  is  four  days'  journey  off,  and  our  arbitra- 
tors are  these  ;  he  has  chosen  a  gentleman  in 
travel,  and  I  have  a  special  friend  with  a  quartain 
ague,  like  to  hold  him  this  five  years,  for  mine  ; 
and  when  his  man  comes  home,  we  are  to  expect 
my  friend's  health.  If  they  would  send  me  chal- 
lenges thus  thick,  as  long  as  I  lived,  I  would  have 
no  other  living.  I  can  make  seven  shillings  a-day 
o'  th'  paper  to  the  grocers.  Yet  I  learn  nothing 
by  all  these,  but  a  little  skill  in  comparing  of 
styles.  I  do  find  evidently,  that  there  is  some 
one  scrivener  in  this  town,  that  has  a  great  hand 
in  writing  of  challenges,  for  they  are  all  of  a  cut, 
and  six  of  'em  in  a  hand  ;  and  thej-  all  end,  '  My 
reputation  is  dear  to  me,  and  I  must  require 
satisfaction.' — Who's  there  ?  more  paper,  I  hojDe. 
No ;  'tis  my  Lord  Bacurius.  I  fear,  all  is  not  well 
betwixt  us. 

Enter  Bacukius. 

Bac.  Now,  Captain  Bessus!  I  come  about  a 
frivolous  matter,  caused  by  as  idle  a  report.  You 
know  you  were  a  coward; 

Bes.  Very  right. 

Box:.  And  wrong'd  me. 

Bes.  True,  my  lord. 

Bac.  But  now,  people  will  call  you  valiant ; 
desertlessly,  I  think ;  yet,  for  their  satisfaction, 
I  will  have  you  fight  with  me. 

Bes.  Oh,  my  good  lord,  my  deep  engagements — 

Bac.  Tell  not  me  of  your  engagements,  Captain 
Bessus !  It  is  not  to  be  put  off  with  an  excuse. 
Tor  my  own  part,  I  am  none  of  the  multitude 
that  believe  your  conversion  from  coward. 

Bes.  My  lord,  I  seek  not  quarrels,  and  this 
belongs  not  to  me  ;  I  am  not  to  maintain  it. 

Bac.  Who  then,  pray .' 

Bes.  Bessus  the  coward  wrong'd  you. 

Bac.  Eight. 

Bes.  And  shall  Bessus  the  valiant  maintain 
what  Bessus  the  coward  did  ? 

Bac.  I  pr'ythee  leave  these  cheating  tricks ! 
I  swear  thou  shalt  fight  with  me,  or  thou  shalt 
be  beaten  extremely,  and  kick'd. 

Bes.  Since  you  provoke  me  thus  far,  my  lord, 
I  will  fight  with  you ;  and,  by  my  sword,  it  shall 
cost  me  twenty  pounds,  but  I  will  have  my  leg 
well  a  week  sooner  purposely. 

Bac.  Your  leg  !  why,  what  ails  your  leg  ?  I'll 
do  a  cui-e  on  you.     Stand  up ! 

Bes.  My  lord,  this  is  not  noble  in  you. 


Bac.  What  dost  thou  with  such  a  phrase  in  thy 
mouth?  I  will  kick  thee  out  of  all  good  words 
before  I  leave  thee.  {Kichs  him. 

Bes.  My  lord,  I  take  this  as  a  punishment  for 
the  offence  I  did  when  I  was  a  coward. 

Bac.  When  thou  wert?  confess  thj'self  a  coward 
still,  or,  by  this  light,  I'll  beat  thee  into  sponge. 

Bes.  Why,  I  am  one. 

Bac.  Are  you  so,  sir  ?  and  why  do  you  wear  a 
sword  then  ?     Come,  unbuckle  !  quick! 

Bes.  My  lord  ? 

Bac.  Unbuckle,  I  say,  and  give  it  me ;  or,  as 
I  live,  thy  head  will  ache  extremely. 

Best.  It  is  a  pretty  hilt ;  and  if  your  lordship 
take  an  affection  to  it,  with  all  my  heart  I  present 
it  to  you,  for  a  new-year's  gift. 
\_Gives  him  his  sivoi'd,  ^oith  a  knife  in  ike  scabbard. 

Bac.  I  thank  you  very  heartily,  sweet  captain ! 
Farewell. 

Bes.  One  word  more :  I  beseech  your  lordship 
to  render  me  my  knife  again. 

Bac.  Marry,  by  all  means,  captain.    {Gives  him 

hack  (he  kni/e.^  Cherish  yourself  with  it,  and  eat 

hard,  good  captain !  we  cannot  tell  whether  we 

shall  have  any  more  such.    Adieu,  dear  captain! 

{Exit  Bacurius. 

Bes.  I  will  make  better  use  of  this,  than  of  my 
sword.  A  base  spirit  has  this  'vantage  of  a  brave 
one;  it  keeps  always  at  a  stay,  nothing  brings  it 
down,  not  beating.  I  remember  I  promised  the 
king,  in  a  great  audience,  that  I  would  make  my 
backbiters  eat  my  sword  to  a  knife.  How  to  get 
another  sword  I  know  not ;  nor  know  any  means 
left  for  me  to  maintain  my  credit,  but  impu- 
dence. Therefore  I  will  outswear  him  and  all 
his  followers,  that  this  is  all  that's  left  uneaten 
of  my  sword.  {Exit  Bessus. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Ente)-  Mardonius. 

Mar.  I'll  move  the  king;  he  is  most  strangely 
alter'd.  I  guess  the  cause,  I  fear,  too  right. 
Heaven  has  some  secret  end  in't,  and  'tis  a 
scourge,  no  question,  justly  laid  upon  him.  He 
has  follow'd  me  through  twenty  rooms  ;  and 
ever,  when  I  stay  to  wait  his  command,  he 
blushes  like  a  girl,  and  looks  upon  me  as  if 
modesty  kept  in  his  business ;  so  turns  away 
from  me ;  but,  if  I  go  on,  he  follows  me  again. 

Enter  Arbaces. 

See,  here  he  is.  I  do  not  use  this,  yet,  I  know 
not  how,  I  cannot  choose  but  weep  to  see  him : 
his  very  enemies,  I  think,  whose  wounds  have 
bred  his  fame,  if  they  should  see  him  now,  would 
find  tears  i'  their  eyes. 

Arh.  I  cannot  utter  it !  Why  should  I  keep 
A  breast  to  harbour  thoughts  I  dare  not  speak  ? 
Darkness  is  in  my  bosom  ;  and  there  lie 
A  thousand  thoughts  that  cannot  brook  the  light. 
How  wilt  thou  vex  me,  when  this  deed  is  done, 
Conscience,  that  art  afraid  to  let  me  name  it! 

Mar.  How  do  you,  sir .'' 

Arb.  Why,  very  well,  Mardonius. 
How  dost  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  Better  than  you,  I  fear. 

Arb.  I  hope  thou  art;  for,  to  be  plain  with  thee, 
Thou  art  in  hell  else  !     Secret  scorching  flames, 
That  far  transcend  earthly  material  fires, 
Are  crept  into  me,  and  there  is  no  cure : 
Is  it  not  strange,  Mardonius,  there's  no  cure  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  either  I  mistake,  or  there  is  some- 
thing hid,  that  you  would  utter  to  me. 


2/8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Arb.  So  there  is:  but  yet  I  cannot  do  it. 

Mar.  Out  with  it,  sir.  If  it  be  dangerous,  I 
■will  not  shrink  to  do  you  service :  I  shall  not 
esteem  my  life  a  weightier  matter  than  indeed  it 
is.  I  know  'tis  subject  to  more  chances  than  it 
has  hours ;  and  I  were  better  lose  it  in  my  king's 
cause,  than  with  an  ague,  or  a  fall,  or  (sleeping) 
to  a  thief ;  as  all  these  are  probable  enough.  Let 
me  but  know  what  I  shall  do  for  you. 

Arb.  It  will  not  out !    Were  you  with  Gobrias, 
And  bade  him  give  my  sister  all  content 
The  place  affords,  and  give  her  leave  to  send 
And  speak  to  whom  she  please  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  sir,  I  was. 

Arb.  And  did  you  to  Bacurius  say  as  much 
About  Tigranes  ? 

Mar.  Yes. 

Arb.  That's  all  my  business. 

Mar.  Ob,  say  not  so;  you  had  an  answer  of  all 
this  before.  Besides,  I  think  this  business  might 
be  utter'd  more  carelessly. 

Arb.  Come,  thou  shalt  have  it  out.     I  do  be- 
seech thee, 
By  all  the  love  thou  hast  pi'ofess'd  to  me, 
To  see  my  sister  from  me. 

Mar.  Well ;  and  what  ? 

Arb.  That's  all. 

Mai:  That's  strange !     Shall  I  say  nothing  to 
her? 

Arb.  Not  a  word : 
But,  if  thou  lov'st  me,  find  some  subtle  way 
To  make  her  understand  by  signs. 

3Iar.  But  what  shall  I  make  her  understand  ? 

Ai-b.  Oh,  Mardonius,  for  that  I  must  be  par- 
don'd. 

Mar.  You  may  ;  but  I  can  only  see  her  then. 

Ai-b.  'Tis  true  !  [Gi'yes  him  a  ring. 

Bear  her  this  ring,  then ;  and,  on  more  advice, 
Thou  shalt  speak  to  her.    Tell  her  I  do  love 
My  kindred  all ;  wilt  thou? 

Mar.  Is  there  no  more  ? 

Arb.  Oh,  yes !     And  her  the  best; 
Better  than  any  brother  loves  his  sister : 
That  is  all. 

Mar.  Methinks,  this  need  not  have  been  de- 
livered with  such  caution.     I'll  do  it. 

Arb.  There  is  more  yet.    Wilt  thou  be  faithful 
to  me  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  if  I  take  upon  me  to  deliver  it,  after 
I  hear  it,  I'll  pass  through  fire  to  do  it. 

Arb.  I  love  her  better  than  a  brother  ought. 
Dost  thou  conceive  me  ?  , 

Mar.  I  hope  I  do  not,  sir. 

Arb.  No !  thou  art  dull.     Kneel  down  before 
her. 
And  never  rise  again  till  she  will  love  me. 

Mar.  Why,  I  think  she  does. 

Arb.  But,  better  than  she  does :  another  way  ; 
As  wives  love  husbands. 

Mar.  Why,  I  think  there  are  few  wives  that 
love  their  husbands  better  than  she  does  you. 

Arb.  Thou  wilt  not  understand  me  !     Is  it  fit 
This  should  be  utter'd  plainly?     Take  it,  then, 
Naked  as  'tis  ;  I  would  desire  her  love 
To  do  a  sin  that  needs  must  damn  us  both, 
And  thee  too.    Dost  thou  understand  nie  now  ? 

Mar.   Yes ;   there's  yoiu-  ring  again.     What 
have  I  done 
Dishonestly,  in  my  whole  life,  name  it, 
That  you  should  put  so  base  a  business  to  me  ? 
Arb.  Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  thou  wouldst  do 
it? 

Mar.  Yes,  if  I  undertook  it.    But  if  all 
My  hairs  were  lives,  I  would  not  be  engaged 
In  such  a  cause  to  saVe  my  last  life. 
Arb.  Oh,  guilt,  how  poor  and  weak  a  thing 
art  thou ! 


This  man,  that  is  my  servant,  whom  my  breath 
Might  blow  about  the  world,  might  beat  me  here 
Having  this  cause ;  whilst  I,  press'd  down  with 

sin, 
Could  not  resist  him. — Dear  Mardonius ! 
It  was  a  motion  mis-beseeming  man. 
And  I  am  sorry  for  it. 

Alar.  Heaven  grant  you  may  be  so !  You 
must  understand,  nothing  that  you  can  utter  can 
remove  my  love  and  service  from  my  prince: 
but,  otherwise,  I  think,  I  shall  not  love  you 
more :  for  you  are  sinful,  and,  if  you  do  this 
crime,  you  ought  to  have  no  laws ;  for,  after  this, 
it  will  be  great  injustice  in  you  to  punish  any 
offender  for  any  crime.  For  myself,  I  find  my 
heart  too  big ;  I  feel  I  have  not  patience  to 
look  on,  whilst  you  run  these  forbidden  courses. 
Means  I  have  none  but  your  favour ;  and  I  am 
rather  glad  that  I  shall  lose  'em  both  together, 
than  keep  'em  with  such  conditions.  I  shall  find 
a  dwelling  amongst  some  people,  where,  though 
our  garments  perhaps  be  coarser,  we  shall  be 
richer  far  within,  and  harbour  no  such  vices  in 
'em.     The  gods  preserve  you,  and  mend  you. 

Arb.  Mardonius !  Stay,  Mardonius !  for  though 
My  present  state  requires  nothing  but  knaves 
To  be  about  me,  such  as  are  prepared 
For  every  wicked  act,  yet  who  does  know 
But  that  my  loathed  fate  may  turn  about, 
And  I  have  use  for  honest  men  again  ? 
I  hope  I  may ;  I  jjr'ythee  leave  me  not. 

Enter  Bessus. 

Bes.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

Mar.  There. 

Bes.  An't  please   your   majesty,  there's    the 
knife. 

Arb.  What  knife  ? 

Bes.  The  sword  is  eaten. 

Mar.  Away,  you  fool  I  the  king  is  serious. 
And  cannot  now  admit  your  vanities. 

Bes.  Vanities !  I'm  no  honest  man,  if  my 
enemies  have  not  brought  it  to  this.  What,  do 
you  think  I  lie  ? 

Arb.  No,  no  ;  'tis  well,  Bessus  ;  'tis  very  weU. 
I'm  glad  on't. 

Mar.  If  your  enemies  brought  it  to  this,  your 
enemies  are  cutlers.     Come,  leave  the  king. 

Bes.  Why,  may  not  valour  approach  him  ? 

Mar.  Yes ;  but  he  has  affairs.  Depart,  or  I 
shall  be  something  unmannerly  with  you  ! 

Arb.  No ;  let  him   stay,  Mardonius ;  let  him 
stay; 
I  have  occasions  with  him  very  weighty. 
And  I  can  spare  you  now. 

Mar.  Sir? 

Arb.  Why,  I  can  spare  you  now. 

Bes.  Mardonius,  give  way  to  the  state  affairs. 

Mar.  Indeed  you  are   fitter  for   his  present 
purpose.  [Exit  Mardonius. 

Arb.  Bessus,  I  should  employ  thee.    Wilt  thou 
do't? 

Bes.  Do't  for  you  ?  By  this  air,  I  will  do  any- 
thing, without  exception,  be  it  good,  bad,  or  in- 
different thing. 

Arb.  Do  not  swear. 

Bes.  By  this  light,  but  I  will ;  anything  what- 
soever. 

Arb.  But  I  shall  name  a  thing 
Thy  conscience  will  not  suffer  thee  to  do. 

Bes.  I  would  fain  hear  that  thing. 

Arb.  Why,  I  would  have  thee  get  my  sister  for 
me. — 
Thou  understand'st  me, — in  a  wicked  manner. 

Bes.  I'll  do't,  I'U  do't,  i'faith  ! 

Arb.   Wilt  thou?     Dost  thou  make  no  more 
on't  ? 


BE  A  UMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


279 


£e5.  More?    No.    Wliy,  is  tbere  anything  else  ? 
If  there  be,  tell  me,  it  shall  be  done  too. 
,    Arh.  Hast  thou  no  greater  sense  of  such  a  sin  ? 
Thou  art  too  wicked  for  my  company, 
Though  I  have  hell  within  me,  and  may'st  yet 
Corrupt  me  further  !     Pr'ythee  answer  mo, 
How  do  I  show  to  tliee  after  this  motion  ? 

Bes.  Why,  your  majesty  looks  as  well,  in  my 
opinion,  as  ever  you  did  since  you  were  born. 

Arh.  But  thou  appear'st  to  me,  after  thy  grant. 
The  ugliest,  loathed,  detestable  thing. 
That  I  have  ever  met  with.     Thou  hast  eyes 
Like  flames  of  sulphui-,  which,  methinks,  do  dart 
Infection  on  me ;  and  thou  hast  a  mouth 
Enough  to  take  me  in,  where  there  do  stand 
Four  rows  of  iron  teeth. 

Bes.  I  feel  no  such  thing.  But  'tis  no  matter 
how  I  look ;  I'll  do  your  business  as  well  as  they 
that  look  better. 

Arh.  Heaven  forgive  me,  to  hear  this ! ' 
I  am  inspired  with  horror. — Now  I  hate  thee 
Worse  than  my  sin  ;  which,  if  I  could  come  by. 
Should  suffer  death  eternal,  ne'er  to  rise 
In  any  breast  again.     Know,  I  will  die 
Languishing  mad,  as  I  resolve  I  shall. 
Ere  I  will  deal  by  such  an  instrument : 
Thou  art  too  sinful  to  employ  in  this. 
Out  of  the  world,  away !  \Btats  him. 

Bes.  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 

Arb.  Hung  round  with  curses,  take  thy  fear- 
ful flight 
Into  the  deserts,  where,  'mongst  all  the  monsters, 
If  thou  find'st  one  so  beastly  as  thyself, 
Thou  shalt  be  held  as  innocent ! 

Bes.  Good  sir — 

Arb.  If  there  were  no  such  instruments  as  thou. 
We  kings  could  never  act  such  wicked  deeds ! 
Seek  out  a  man  that  mocks  divinity. 
That  breaks  each  precept  both  of  God  and  man. 
And  nature  too,  and  does  it  without  lust, 
Merely  because  it  is  a  law,  and  good. 
And  live  with  him ;  for  him  thou  canst  not  spoil. 
Away,  I  say ! —  lExit  Bessus. 

I  will  not  do  this  sin. 
I'll  press  it  here,  till  it  do  break  my  breast : 
It  heaves  to  get  out ;  but  thou  art  a  sin. 
And,  spite  of  tortm-e,  I  will  keep  thee  in.     [_ExU. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

The  Apartment  of  the  Princess  in  the  Palace.^ 

Enter  Gobrias,  Panthea,  and  Spaconia. 

Gob.  Have  you  written,  madam  ? 
Pan.  Yes,  good  Gobrias. 

Gob.  And  with  a  kindness  and  such  winning- 
words 
As  may  provoke  him,  at  one  instant,  feel 
His  double  fault,  your  wrong,  and  his  own  rash- 
ness? 
Pan.  1  have  sent  words  enough,  if  words  may 
win  him 
From  his  displeasure ;  and  such  words,  I  hope. 
As  shall  gain  much  upon  his  goodness,  Gobrias. 
Yet  fearing,  since  they  are  many,  and  a  woman's, 
A  poor  belief  may  follow,  I  have  woven 
As  many  truths  within  'em  to  speak  for  me. 
That  if  he  be  but  gracious  and  receive  'em — 
Gob.  Good  lady,  be  not  fearful.    Though  he 
should  not 
Give  you  your  present  end  in  this,  believe  it, 


'  Dyce  locates  this  scene  in  A  room  in  the  house  of 
Gobrias. 


You  shall  feel,  if  your  virtue  can  induce  you 
To  labour  out  this  tempest  (which,  I  know, 
Is  but  a  poor  proof  'gaiust  your  patience), 
All  those  contents  your  spu'it  will  arrive  at, 
Newer  and  sweeter  to  j-ou.     Your  royal  brother. 
When  he  shall  once  collect  himself,  and  see 
How  far  he  has  been  asunder  from  himself, 
AVhat  a  mere  stranger  to  his  golden  temper, 
Must,  from  those  roots  of  virtue,  never  -dying. 
Though  somewhat  stopt  with    humour,   shoot 

again 
Into  a  thousand  glories,  bearing  his  fair  branches 
High  as  our  hopes  can  look  at,  straight  as  justice, 
Loaden  with  ripe  contents.     He  loves  you  dearly, 
I  know  it,  and,  I  hope,  I  need  not  further 
Win  you  to  understand  it. 

Pan.  I  believe  it ; 
But,  howsoever,  I  am  sure  I  love  him  dearly ; 
So  dearly,  that  if  anything  I  write 
For  my  enlarging  should  beget  his  anger. 
Heaven  be  a  witness  with  me,  and  my  faith, 
I  had  rather  live  entombed  here. 

Gob.  You  shall  not  feel  a  worse  stroke  than 
your  grief  ; 
I  am  sorry  'tis  so  sharp.    I  kiss  your  hand. 
And  this  night  will  deliver  this  true  story 
With  this  hand  to  your  brother. 

Pan.  Peace  go  with  you  ! 
You  are  a  good  man. —  [Exit  Gobrias. 

My  Spaconia, 
Why  are  you  ever  sad  thus  ? 

Spa.  Oh,  dear  lady  ! 

Pan.  Pr'ythee  discover  not  a  way  to  sadness, 
Nearer  than  I  have  in  me.     Our  two  sorrows 
Work,    like  two  eager  hawks,   who  shall    get 

highest. 
How  shall  I  lessen  thine  ?  for  mine,  I  fear, 
Is  easier  known  than  cured. 

8pa.  Heaven  comfort  both. 
And  give  yom-s  happy  ends,  however  I 
Fall  in  my  stubborn  fortunes. 

Pan.  This  but  teaches 
How  to  be  more  familiar  with  our  sorrows, 
That  are  too  much  our  masters.    Good  Spaconia, 
How  shall  I  do  you  service  ? 

Sjm.  Noblest  lady. 
You  make  me  more  a  slave  still  to  your  goodness, 
And  only  live  to  purchase  thanks  to  pay  you  ; 
For  that  is  all  the  business  of  my  life  now. 
I  will  be  bold,  since  you  will  have  it  so. 
To  ask  a  noble  favour  of  you. 

Pan.  Speak  it ;  'tis  yours ;  for,  from  so  sweet 
a  virtue. 
No  ill  demand  has  issue. 

Spa.  Then,  ever-virtuous,  let  me  beg  your  will 
In  helping  me  to  see  the  Prince  Tigranes ; 
With  whom  I  am  equal  prisoner,  if  not  more. 

Pan.  Eeserve  me  to  a  greater  end,  Spaconia ; 
Bacurius  cannot  want  so  much  good  manners 
As  to  deny  your  gentle  visitation. 
Though  you  came  only  with  your  own  command. 

Spa.  I    know    they  will    deny  me,   gracious 
madam, 
Being  a  stranger,  and  so  little  famed, 
So  utter  empty  of  those  excellencies 
That  tame  authority.'    But  in  you,  sweet  lady, 
All  these  are  natural ;  beside,  a  power 
Derived  immediate  from  your  royal  brother. 
Whose  least  word  in  you  may  command  the  king- 
dom. 

Pan.  More  than  my  word,  Spaconia,  you  shall 
carry, 
For  fear  it  fail  you. 


"■  That  tame  authority — i.e.  that  can  have  any  control 
over  people  in  oifice  and  power.— Theobald. 


Spa.  Dare  you  trust  a  token? 
Madam,  I  fear  I  am  grgwn  too  bold  a  beggar. 

Pan.  You  are  a  pretty  one  ;  and,  trust  me,  lady. 
It  joys  me  I  shall  do  a  good  to  you, 
Though  to  myself  I  never  shall  be  happy. 
Here,  take  this  ring,  and  from  me  as  a  token 
Deliver  it :  I  think  they  will  not  stay  you. 
I    So,  all  your  own  desires  go  with  you,  lady ! 

Spa.  And  sweet  peace  to  your  grace ! 
j       Pan.  Pray  Heaven  I  find  it !  \_Exeunt. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 

A  Prison. 

TiGRANES  is  discovered. 

Tigr.  Fool  that  I  am !  I  have  undone  myself. 
And  with  my  own  hand  turu'd  my  fortune  round. 
That  was  a  fair  one.     I  have  childishly 
Play'dwith  my  hope  so  long,  till  I  have  broke  it, 
And  now  too  late  I  mourn  for't.     Oh,  Spaconia ! 
Thou  hast  found  an  even  way  to  thy  rerenge 

now. 
Why  didst  thou  follow  me,  like  a  faint  shadow, 
To  wither  my  desires  ?     But,  wretched  fool, 
AVhy  did  I  plant  thee  'twixt  the  sun  and  me, 
To  make  me  freeze  thus  ?  why  did  I  prefer  her 
To  the  fair  princess.'     Oh,  thou  fool,  thou  fool, 
Thou  family  of  fools,  live  like  a  slave  still ! 
And  in  thee  bear  thine  own  hell  and  thy  torment; 
Thou  hast  deserved  it.   Couldst  thou  find  no  lady. 
But  she  that  has  thy  hopes,  to  put  her  to, 
And  hazard  all  thy  peace .'  none  to  abuse, 
But  she  that  loved  thee  ever,  poor  Spaconia  ? 
And  so  much  loved  thee,  that,  in  honesty 
And  honour,  thou  art  bound  to  meet  her  virtues ! 
She,  that  forgot  the  greatness  of  her  griefj 
And  miseries,  that  must  follow  such  mad  passions, 
Endless  and  wild  as  woman's !  she,  that  for  thee, 
And  with  thee,  left  her  liberty,  her  name. 
And  country!    You  have  paid  me,  equal  heavens, 
And  sent  my  own  rod  to  correct  me  with, 
A  woman !     For  inconstancy  I'll  suffer ; 
Lay  it  on,  justice,  till  my  soul  melt  in  me, 
For  my  unmanly,  beastlj',  sudden  dotiug 
Upon  a  new  face ;  after  all  my  oaths, 
Man  J',  and  strange  ones. 
I  feel  my  old  fire  flame  again  and  burn 
So  strong  and  violent,  that,  should  I  see  her 
Again,  the  grief  and  that  would  kill  me. 

Enter  Bacurius  and  Spaconia. 

Bac.  Lady, 
Your  token  I  acknowledge ;  you  may  pass ; 
There  is  the  king. 
Spa.  I  thank  your  lordship  for  it. 

\_Exlt  Bacurius. 
Tigr.  She  comes,  she  comes!     Shame  hide  me 
ever  from  her ! 
'Would  I  were  buried,  or  so  far  removed 
Light  might  not  find  me  out !  I  dare  not  see  her. 
Spa.  Nay,  never  hide  yourself !  for,  were  you 
hid 
"Where  earth  hides  all  her  riches,  near  her  centre. 
My  wrongs,  without  more  day,  would  light  me  to 

you: 
I  must  speak  ere  I  die.    Were  all  your  greatness 
Doubled  upon  you,  you're  a  perjured  man, 
-  And  only  mighty  in  the  wickedness 
Of  wronging  women!      Thou   art   false,   false, 

prince : 
I  live  to  see  it ;  poor  Spaconia  lives 
To  tell  thee  thou  art  false ;  and  then  no  more  ! 
She  lives  to  tell  thee,  thou  art  more  inconstant 
Than  all  ill  women  ever  were  together ; 
Thy  faith  as  firm  as  raging  overflows. 


That  no  bank  can  command ;  and  as  lasting 
As  boys'  gay  bubbles,  blown  i'  th'  air  and  broken. 
The  wind  is  fix'd  to  ^  thee  ;  and  sooner  shall 
The  beaten  mariner,  with  his  shrill  whistle. 
Calm  the  loud  murmur  of  the  troubled  main, 
And  strike  it  smooth  again,  than  thy  soul  fall 
To  have  peace  in  love  with  any.     Thou  art  all 
That  all  good  men  must  hate  ;  and  if  thy  story 
Shall  tell  succeeding  ages  what  thou  wert. 
Oh,  let  it  spare  me  in  it,  lest  true  lovers. 
In  pity  of  my  wrongs,  burn  thy  black  legend. 
And  with  their  curses  shake  thy  sleeping  ashes ! 

Tigr.  Oh,  oh ! 

Spa.  The  destinies,  1  hope,  have  pointed  out 
Our  ends  alike,  that  thou  may'st  die  for  love, 
Though  not  for  me;  for,  this  assure  thyself, 
The  princess  hates  thee  deadly,  and  will  sooner 
Bo  won  to  many  with  a  bull,  and  safer, 
Than  such  a  beast  as  thou  art. — I  have  struck, 
I  fear,  too  deep  ;  beshrew  me  for  it! — Sir, 
This  sorrow  worfis  me,  like  a  cunning  friendship, 
Into  the  same  piece  with  it. — He's  ashamed  ! 
Alas,  I  have  been  too  rugged. — Dear  my  lord, 
I  am  sorry  I  have  spoken  anything. 
Indeed  I  am,  that  may  add  more  restraint 
To  that  too  much  you  have.  Good  sir,  be  pleased 
To  think  it  was  a  fault  of  love,  not  malice ; 
And  do  as  I  will  do,  forgive  it,  prince. 
I  do  and  can  forgive  the  greatest  sins 
To  me  you  can  repent  of.     Pray  believe  me. 

Tigr.  Oh,   my  Spaconia !     Oh,  thou  virtuous 
woman ! 

Sp)a.  No  more ;  the  king,  sir. 

Enter  Akbaces,  Bacurius,  and  Mardonius. 

Arb.  Have  you  been  careful  of  our  noble  pri- 
jSoner, 
That  he  want  nothing  fitting  for  his  greatness  ? 

Bar.  I  hope  his  grace  will  quit  me  for  my  care, 
sir. 

Arb.  'Tis  well. — Eoyal  Tigranes,  health! 

Tigr.  More_than  the  strictness  of  this  place  can 
give,  sir, 
I  offer  back  again  to  great  Arbaces. 

Arb.  We  thank  you,  worthy  prince ;  and  pvay 
excuse  us. 
We  have  not  seen  you  since  your  being  here. 
I  hope  your  noble  usage  has  been  equal 
With  your  own  person.     Your  imprisonment. 
If  it  be  any,  I  dare  say,  is  easy. 
And  shall  not  outlast  two  days. 

Tigr.  I  thank  you. 
My  usage  here  has  been  the  same  it  was. 
Worthy  a  royal  conqueror.     For  my  restraint, 
It  came  unkindly,  because  much  unlook'd  for ; 
But  I  must  bear  it. 

Arb.  What  lady's  that,  Bacurius? 

Bug.  One  of  the  princess's  women,  sir. 

Arb.  I  fear'd  it. 
Why  comes  she  hither  ? 

Bac.  To  speak  with  the  Prince  Tigranes. 

Arb.  From  whom,  Bacurius  ? 

Bac.  From  the  princess,  sir. 

Arb.  I  knev/  I  had  seen  her. 

Mar.  His  fit  begins  to  take  him  now  again. 
'Tis  a  strange  fever,  and  'twill  shake  us  all  anon, 
I  fear.  'Would  he  were  well  cured  of  this  raging 
folly.  Give  me  the  wars,  Avhere  men  are  mad,  and 
may  talk  what  they  list,  and  held  the  bravest 
fellows ;  this  pelting  -  prating  peace  is  good  for 
nothing :  drinking's  a  virtue  to't. 

Arb.  I  see  there's  truth  in  no  man,  nor  obedi- 
ence. 
But  for  his  own  ends.     Why  did  you  let  her  in  ? 

1  to — i.e.  compaved  to. — Dyce. 
-  pelting — desincable,  paltry. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


281 


Bac.  It  was  your  own  command  to  bar  nouo 
from  him : 
Besides,  the  princess  sent  her  ring,  sir,  for  my 
warrant. 

Arh.  A  token  to  Tigranes,  did  she  not  ? 
Sir,  tell  truth. 

Bac.  I  do  not  use  to  lie,  sir. 
'Tis  no  way  I  eat,  or  live  by ;  and  I  thiuk 
This  is  no  token,  sir. 

Mar.  This  combat  has  undone  him.  If  he  had 
been  well  beaten,  he  had  been  temperate.  I  shall 
never  see  him  handsome  again,  till  he  have  a 
horseman's  staff  poked  through  his  shoulders,  or 
an  arm  broke  with  a  bullet. 

Arh.  I  am  trifled  with. 

Bac.  Sir.' 

Arh.  I  know  it,  as  I  know  thee  to  be  false. 

Mar.  Now  the  clap  comes. 

Bac.  You  never  knew  me  so,  sir,  I  dare  speak  it ; 
And,  durst  a  worse  man  tell  me,   though   my 
better — 

Mar.  'Tis  well  said,  by  my  soul. 

Arh.  Sirrah,  you  answer  as  you  had  no  life. 

Bac.  That  I  fear,  sir,  to  lose  nobly. 

Arh.  I  say,  sir,  once  again — 

Bac.  You  may  say  what  you  please,  sir — 

Mar.  'Would  I  might  do  so. 

Arh.  I  will,  sir ;  and  say  openly. 
This  woman  carries  letters.    By  my  life, 
I  know  she  carries  letters  ;  this  woman  does  it. 

Mar.  'Would  Bessus  were  here,  to  take  her 
aside  and  search  her ;  he  would  quickly  tell  you 
what  she  carried,  sir. 

Arh.  I  have  found  it  out,  this  woman  carries 
letters. 

Mar.  If  this  hold,  'twill  be  an  ill  world  for 
bawds,  chambermaids,  and  post-boys.  I  thauk 
Heaven  I  have  none  but  his  letters  -  patents, 
things  of  his  own  inditing. 

Arh.  Prince,  this  cunning  cannot  do't. 

Tigr.  Do  what,  sir .'     I  reach  you  not. 

Arh.  It  shall  not  serve  your  turn,  priuce. 

Tigr.  Serve  my  turn,  sir .' 

Arh.  Ay,  sir,  it  shall  not  serve  your  turn. 

Tigr.  Be  plainer,  good  sir. 

Arh.  This  woman  shall  carry  no  more  letters 
back  to  your  love  Panthea  ;  by  Heaven  she  shall 
not !  I  say  she  shall  not. 

Mar.  This  would  make  a  saint  swear  like  a 
soldier,  and  a  soldier  like  Termagant.i 

Tigr.  This  beats  me  more,  king,  than  the  blows 
you  gave  me. 

Arh.  Take  'em  away  both,  and  together  let 
them  be  prisoners,  strictly  and  closely  kept ;  or, 
sirrah,  your  life  shall  answer  it ;  and  let  nobody 
speak  with  'em  hereafter. 

Tigr.  Well,  I  am  subject  to  you, 
And  must  endure  these  passions. 

Spa.  This  is  th'  imprisonment  I  have  look'd 
for  always, 
And  the  dear  place  I  would  choose. 

\Extunt  TiGr.AXES,  Spaconia,  Bacurius. 

Mar.  Sir,  have  you  done  well  now  ? 
Arh.  Dare  you  reprove  it  ? 
Mar.  No. 

Arh.  You  must  be  crossing  me. 
Mar.  I  have  no  letters,  sir,  to  auger  you, 
But  a  dry  sonnet  of  my  corporal's. 


*  Termagant — or  Ttrvagant,  Ital.  Trivigante — was  sup- 
posed by  the  Crusaders  and  romancei  writers  to  be  a 
Moliammedan  deity,  worshipped  by  the  Saracens,  and 
was  frequently  reprejented  in  the  old  Moralities  as  of  a 
most  violent  character ;  gradually  it  came  to  mean  fiery 
and  violent,  but  is  now  applied  only  to  a  scolding 
woman. 


To  an  old  sutler's  wife  ;  and  that  I'll  burn,  sir. 
'Tis  like  to  prove  a  fine  age  for  the  ignorant. 

Ai-b.  How  dar'st  thou  so  often  forfeit  thy  life  ? 
Thou  know'st  'tis  in  my  power  to  take  it. 

Mar.  Yes,  and  I  know  you  wo'  not ;  or,  if  you 
do,  you'll  miss  it  quickly. 

Arh.  Why? 

Mar.  Who  shall  tell  you  of  these  childish  fol- 
lies, when  I  am  dead  ?  who  shall  put-to  his  power 
to  draw  those  virtues  out  of  a  flood  of  humours, 
Avhen  they  are  drown' d,  and  make  'em  shine 
again.'  No,  cut  my  head  off:  Then  you  may 
talk,  and  be  believed,  and  grow  worse,  and  have 
yoiu'  too  self-glorious  temper  rook'd  into  a  dead 
sleep,  and  the  kingdom  with  you ;  till  foreign 
swords  be  in  your  throats,  and  slaughter  be 
everywhere  about  you,  like  your  flattei'ers.  Do, 
kill  me ! 

Arh.  Pr'ythee,  be  tamer,  good  Mardonius. 
Thou  know'st  I  love  thee  ;  nay,  I  honour  thee  ; 
Believe  it,  good  old  soldier,  I  am  thine  : 
But  I  am  rack'd  clean  from  myself !  Bear  with 

me, 
Wo't  thou  bear  with  me,  good  Mardonius  ? 

Enter  Gobrias. 

Mar.  There  comes  a  good  man ;  love  him  too  ; 
he's  temperate  ;  you  may  live  to  have  need  of 
such  a  virtue.     liage  is  not  still  in  fashion. 
Arh.  Welcome,  good  Gobrias. 
Goh.  My  service,  and  this  letter,  to  your  grace. 
Arh.  From  whom  ? 

Goh.  From  the   rich  mine  of  virtue  and  all 
beauty. 
Your  mortrnful  sister. 
Arh.  She  is  in  prison,  Gobrias,  is  she  not  ? 
Goh.  [kneels.]  She  is,  sir,  till  your  pleasure  do 
enlarge  her, 
Which  on  my  knees  I  beg.     Oh,  'tis  not  fit 
That  all  the  sweetness  of  the  world  in  one, 
The  youth  and  virtue  that  would   tame  wild 

tigers. 
And  wilder  people,  that  have  known  no  manners, 
Should  live  thus  cloister'd  up  !    For  your  love's 

sake, 
If  there  be  any  in  that  noble  heart 
To  her,  a  wretched  lady,  and  forlorn  ; 
Or  for  her  love  to  you,  which  is  as  much 
As  Nature  and  Obedience  ever  gave, 
Have  pity  on  her  beauties. 
Arh.  Pr'ythee,  stand  up.    'Tis  true,  she  is  too 
fair. 
And  all  these  commendations  but  her  own : 
'Would  thou  hadst  never  so  commended  her. 
Or  I  ne'er  lived  to  have  heard  it,  Gobrias  ! 
If  thou  but  knew'st  the  wrong  her  beauty  does 

her, 
Thou  wouldst,  in  pity  of  her,  be  a  liar. 
Thy  ignorance  has  drawn  me,  wretched  man, 
Whither  myself,  nor  thou,  canst  well  tell.     Oh, 

my  fate  ! 
I  think  she  loves  me,  but  I  fear  another 
Is  deeper  in  her  heart !  How  think'st  thou,  Gob- 
rias? 
Goh.  I  do  beseech  your  grace,  believe  it  not ; 
For,  let  me  perish,  if  it  be  not  false ! 
Good  sir,  read  her  letter.  [Arbaces  reads. 

Mar.  This  love,  or  what  a  devil  it  is,  I  know 
not,  begets  more  mischief  than  a  wake.  I  had 
rather  be  well  beaten,  starved,  or  lousy,  than  live 
within  the  air  on't.  He,  that  had  seen  this  bi-ave 
fellow  charge  through  a  grove  of  pikes  but  t'other 
day,  and  look  upon  him  now,  will  ne'er  believe  his 
eyes  again.  If  he  continue  thus  but  two  days 
more,  a  tailor  may  beat  him  with  one  hand  tied 
behind  him. 
Arh.  .Alas,  she  would  be  at  liberty! 


282 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


And  tliere  be  thousand  reasons,  Gobrias, 
Thotisands,  that  will  deny  it ; 
Which,  if  she  Imew,  she  would  contentedly 
Be  where  she  is,  and  bless  her  virtue  for  it, 
And  me,  though  she  were  closer.     She  would, 

Gobrias ; 
Good  man,  indeed,  she  would. 

Gob.  Then,  good  sir,  for  her  satisfaction. 
Send  for  her,  and,  with  reason,  make  her  know 
Why  she  must  live  thus  from  you. 

Arh.  I  will.     Go  bring  her  to  me.         \Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III, 

A  Room  in  the  House  of  Bessus. 
Enter  Bessus,  two  Swordmen,i  and  a  Boy. 

Bes.  You're  very  welcome,  both !     Some  stools 

there,  boy; 
And  reach  a  table.     Gentlemen  o'  th'  sword. 
Pray  sit,   without  more   compliment.     Begone, 

child  ! 
I  have  been  curious  in  the  searching  of  you, 
Because    I   understand    you  wise    and  valiant 

persons. 

1  8w.  We  understand  ourselves,  sir. 

Bes.  Nay,  gentlemen,  and  dear  friends  o'  the 
sword, 
No  compliment,  I  pray ;  but  to  the  cause 
I  hang  upon,  which,  in  few,^  is  my  honour. 

2  Sw.  You  cannot  hang  too  much,  sir,  for  your 
honour. 

But  to  your  cause :  be  wise,  and  speak  truth. 
Bes.  My  first  doubt  is,   iny  beating  by  my 
prince. 

1  Sw.  Stay  there  a  little,  sir :  Do  you  doubt  a 
beating  ? 

Or,  have  you  had  a  beating  by  your  prince  ? 
Bes.  Gentlemen   o'  th'  sword,  my  prince  has 
beaten  me. 

2  Sw.  Brother,  what  think  you  of  this  case  ? 

1  Sio.  If  he  has  beaten  him,  the  case  is  clear. 

2  Sw.  If  he  have  beaten  him,  I  grant  the  case. 
But  how  ? — we  cannot  be  too  subtle  in  this  busi- 
ness,— 

I  say,  but  how  ? 
Bes.  Even  with  his  royal  hand. 

1  Sw.  Was  it  a  blow  of  love,  or  indignation  ? 
Bes.  'Twas  twenty  blows  of  indignation,  gen- 
tlemen ; 

Besides  two  blows  o'  th'  face. 

2  Sw.  Those  blows  o'  th'  face  have  made  a  new 
cause  on't ; 

The  rest  were  iDut  an  honourable  rudeness. 
2  Sw.  Two  blows  o'  th'  face,  and  given  by  a 

worse  man, 
I  must  confess,  as  we  swordmen  say,  had  turn'd 
The  business.    Mark   me,  brother,  by  a  worse 

man: 
But,  being  by  his  prince,  had  they  been  ten. 
And    those    ten   drawn  ten  teeth,   besides  the 

hazard 
Of    his  nose  for  ever,    all  this  had  been   but 

favours. 
This  is  my  flat  opinion,  which  I'll  die  in. 

2  Sio.  The  king  may  do  much,  captain,  believe 

it; 
For  had  he  crack'd  your  skull  through,  like  a 

bottle. 
Or  broke  a  rib  or  two  with  tossing  of  you, 


^  Swordmen — men  whose  profession  it  was  to  instruct 
in  arms,  settle  duels  according  to  proper  punctilio,  assist 
the  timoi-ous,  &c. 

*  in  few— in  few  words,  in  brief. 


Yet  you  had  lost  no  honour.  This  is  strange. 
You  may  imagine,  but  this  is  truth  now,  captain. 

Bes.  1  will  be  glad  to  embrace  it,  gentlemen. 
But  how  far  may  he  strike  me  ? 

1  Sw.  There's  another  ; 

A  new  cause  rising  from  the  time  and  distance. 
In  which  I  will  deliver  my  opinion. 
He  may  strike,  beat,  or  cause  to  be  beaten ; 
For  these  are  natural  to  man  : 
Your  prince,  I  say,  may  beat  you  so  far  forth 
As  his  dominion   reacheth;   that's  for  the  dis- 
tance ; 
The  time,  ten  miles  a  day,  T  take  it. 

2  Siu.  Brother,  you  err,  'tis  fifteen  miles  a  day; 
His  stage  is  ten^  his  beatings  are  fifteen. 

Bes.  'Tis  of  the  longest,  but  we  subjects  must — 

1  Sw.  Be  subject  to  it.    You  are  wise  and 
virtuous. 

Bes.  Obedience  ever  makes  that  noble  use  on't, 
To  which  I  dedicate  my  beaten  body. 
I  must  trouble  you  a  little  further,  gentlemen  o' 
th'  sword. 

2  Sw.  No  trouble  at  all  to  us,  sir,  if  we  may 
Profit  your  understanding.     We  are  bound, 
By  virtue  of  our  calling,  to  utter  our  opinion 
Shortly,  and  discreetly. 

Bes.  My  sorest  business  is,  I  have  been  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  How  far,  sir  ? 

Bes.  Not  to  flatter  myself  in  it,  all  over : 
My  sword  lost,  but  not  forced  ;  for  discreetly 
I  render'd  it,  to  save  that  imputation. 

1  Sw.  It  showed  discretion,  the  best  part  of 
valour. 

2  Sw.  Brother,  this  is  a  pretty  cause;   pray 
ponder  on't : 

Our  friend  here  has  been  kick'd. 

1  Sw.  He  has  so,  brother, 

2  Sw.  Sorely,  he  says.    Now,  had  he  set  down 
here. 

Upon  the  mere  kick,  't  had  been  cowardly. 

1  Sw.  I  think  it  had  been  cowardly,  indeed. 

2  Sio.  But  our  friend  has  redeem'd  it  in  de- 
livering 

His  sword  without  compulsion ;  and  that  man 
That  took  it  of  him,  I  pronounce  a  weak  one, 
And  his  kicks  nullities. 

He  should  have  kick'd  him  after  the  delivery, 
Which  is  the  confirmation  of  a  coward. 

1  Sio.  Brother,    I    take    it    you    mistake    the 
question ; 

For,  say  that  I  were  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  I  must  not  say  so ; 

Nor  I  must  not  hear  it  spoke  by  th'  tongue  of 

man. 
You  kick'd,  dear  brother !     You  are  merry. 

1  Sw.  But  put  the  case,  I  were  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  Let  them  put  it 

That  are  things  weary  of  their  lives,  and  know 
Not  honour !     Put  the  case,  you  were  kick'd ! 

1  Sw.  I  do  not  say  I  was  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  Nor  no  silly  creature  that  wears  his  head 
Without  a  case,  his  soul  in  a  skin-coat. 

You  kick'd,  dear  brother  ! 

Bes.  Nay,  gentlemen,  let  us  do  what  we  shall 
do, 
Truly  and  honestly.     Good  sirs,  to  the  question. 

1  6'w.  Why,  then,   I   say,  suppose  your  boy 
kick'd,  captain. 

2  Sw.  The  boy  may  be  supposed,  he's  liable. 
But,  kick  my  brother ! 

1  Sw.  A  foolish  forward  zeal,  sir,  in  my  friend. 
But  to  the  boy.     Suppose  the  boy  were  kick'd. 
Bes.  I  do  suppose  it. 
1  Sw.  Has  your  boy  a  sword  ? 
Bes.  Surely  no ;  I  pray,  suppose  a  sword  too. 
1  Sw.  I  do  suppose  it.-    You  grant  your  boy 
was  kick'd  then. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


283 


2  Sm.  By  no  means,  caistain  ;  let  it  be  supposed 
still ; 
The  word  'grant'  makes  not  for  us. 

1  Sw.  I  say,  this  must  be  granted. 

2  Sw..  This  must  be  granted,  brother  ? 
1  Sw.  Ay,  this  must  be  granted, 

'l  Sw.  Still,  this  mws<.«' 

1  Sw.  I  say,  this  must  be  granted. 

2  Sw,  Give  me  the  must  again !     Brother,  yoii 
palter. 

1  Sw.  I  will  not  hear  you,  wasp. 

2  Sw.  Brother, 

I  say  you  palter;  the  m,ust  three  times  together! 

I  wear  as  sharp  steel  as  another  man, 

And  my  fox'  bites  as  deep.     Musted,  my  dear 

brother ! 
But  to  the  cause  again. 

£es.  Nay,  look  you,  gentlemen ! 

2  Szi).  In  a  word,  I  ha'  done. 

1  Sw.  A  tall-  man,  but  intemperate ;  'tis  great 
pity. 

Once  more,  suppose  the  boy  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  Forward. 

1  Sio.  And,  being  thoroughly  kick'd,  laughs  at 
the  kicker. 

2  Sw.  So  much  for  us.     Proceed. 

1  Sw.  And  in  this  beaten  scorn,  as  I  may  call 
it. 

Delivers  up  his  weapon  ;  where  lies  the  error  ? 
£es.  It  lies  i'  the  beating,  sir :  I  found  it  four 
days  since. 

2  Sw.  The  error,  and  a  sore  one,  as  I  take  it. 
Lies  in  the  thing  kicking. 

Bes.  I  understand  that  well ;  'tis  sore,  indeed, 
sir. 

1  Sw.  That  is  according  to  the  man  that  did  it. 

2  Sw.  There  springs  a  new  branch.     Whose 
was  the  foot .' 

Bes.  A  lord's. 

1  Sw.  The  cause  is  mighty ;  but,  had  it  been 
two  lords. 

And  both   had  kick'd  you,  if  you  laugh'd,  'tis 
clear. 
Bes.  I  did  laugh ;  but  how  will  that  help  me, 
gentlemen .' 

2  Sw.  Yes,  it  shall  help  you,  if  you  laugh'd 
aloud. 

Bes.  As  loud  as  a  kick'd  man  could  laugh,  I 
laugh'd,  sir. 

1  Sw.  My  reason  now.     Tho  valiant  man  is 
known 

By  suffering  and  contemning  ;  you  have 
Enough  of  both,  and  j'ou  are  valiant. 

2  Sw.  If  he  be  sure  he  has  been  kick'd  enough  : 
For  that  brave  sufferance  you  speak  of,  brother. 
Consists  not  in  a  beating  and  away. 

But  in  a  cudgell'd  body,  from  eighteen 

To  eight  and  thirty ;  in  a  head  rebuked 

With  pots  of  all  size,  daggers,  stools,  and  bed- 
staves  : 

This  shows  a  valiant  man. 
Bes.  Then   I  am  valiant,    as  valiant  as   the 
proudest ; 

For  these  are  all  familiar  things  to  me  ; 

Familiar  as  my  sleep,  or  want  of  money ; 

All  my  whole  body's  but  one  bruise,  with  beating. 

I  think  I  have  been  cudgell'd  with  all  nations. 

And  almost  all  religions. 

2  Sw.   Embrace    him,   brother!    this   man   is 
valiant ; 

I  know  it  by  myself,  he's  valiant. 

1  Sw.  Captain,  thou  art  a  valiant  gentleman. 

Abide  upon't,  a  very  valiant  man. 

1  fox — a  common  term  .for  the  EngUsh  broadsword. 
See  Philaster. 
'  tall — bold,  brave. 


Bes.  My  equal  friends   o'  th'  sword,  I  must 
request 
Your  hands  to  this. 

2  Sw.  'Tis  tit  it  should  be. 

Bes.  Boj', 
Get  me  some  wine,  and  pen  and  ink,  within. — 
Am  I  clear,  gentlemen .'' 

1  Sio.  Sir,  when  the  world  has  taken  notice 
what  we  have  done. 

Make  much  of  your  body  ;  for  I'll  pawn  my  steel. 
Men  will  be  coyer  of  their  legs  hereafter. 

Bes.  I  must  request  you  go  along,  and  testify 
To  the  Lord  Bacurius,  whose  foot  has  struck  me, 
How  you  find  my  cause. 

2  Sw.  We  will ;  and  tell  that  lord  he  must  be 
ruled ; 

Or  there  be  those  abroad  wUl  rule  his  lordship. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 
All  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Aebaces  at  one  door,  and  Gobkias  with 
Panthea  at  another. 

Gob.  Sir,  here's  the  princess. 

Arb.  Leave  us,  then,  alone  ; 
For  the  main  cause  of  her  imprisonment 
Must  not  be  heard  by  any  but  herself. — 

\_Exit  GOBRIAS. 

You're  welcome,  sister ;  and  I  would  to  Heaven 
I  could  so  bid  you  by  another  name. — 
If  you  above  love  not  such  sins  as  these. 
Circle  my  heart  with  thoughts  as  cold  as  snow. 
To  quench  these  rising  flames  that  harbour  here. 

Pan.  Sir,  does  it  please  you  I  shall  speak? 

Arb.  Please  me  ? 
Ay,  more  than  all  the  art  of  music  can. 
Thy  speech  doth  please  me ;  for  it  ever  sounds 
As  thou  brought'st  joyful  unexpected  news  : 
And  yet  it  is  not  fit  thou  shouldst  be  heard ; 
I  pray  thee,  think  so. 

Pan.  Be  it  so ;  I  will. 
Am  I  the  first  that  ever  had  a  wrong 
So  far  from  being  fit  to  have  redress. 
That  'twas  unfit  to  hear  it?     I  will  back 
To  prison,  rather  than  disquiet  you, 
And  wait  till  it  be  fit. 

Ai-b.  No,  do  not  go ; 
For  I  will  hear  thee  with  a  serious  thought : 
I  have  collected  all  that's  man  about  me 
Together  strongly,  and  I  am  resolved 
To  hear  thee  largely.     But  I  do  beseech  thee, 
Do  not  come  nearer  to  me  ;  for  there  is 
Something  in  that,  that  will  undo  us  both. 

Pan.  Alas,  sir,  am  I  venom  ? 

Arb.  Yes,  to  me  ; 
Though,  of  thyself,  I  think  thee  to  be  in 
As  equal  a  degree  of  heat  or  cold. 
As  nature  can  make.     Yet,  as  unsound  men 
Convert  the  sweetest  and  the  nourishing  st  meats 
Into  diseases,  so  shall  I,  distemper' d. 
Do  thee.  .  I  pray  thee,  draw  no  nearer  to  me. 

Pan.  Sir,  this  is  that  I  would :  I  am  of  late 
Shut  from  the  world,  and  why  it  should  be  thus 
Is  all  I  wish  to  know. 

Arb.  Why,  credit  me, 
Panthea,  credit  me,  that  am  thy  brother. 
Thy  loving  brother,  that  there  is  a  cause 
Sufficient,  yet  unfit  for  thee  to  know. 
That  might  undo  thee  everlastingly 
Only  to  hear.     Wilt  thou  but  credit  this? 
By  heaven,  'tis  true !  believe  it  if  thou  canst. 

Pan.  Children  and  fools  are  ever  credulous, 
And  I  am  both,  I  think,  for  I  believe, 
U  you  dissemble,  be  it  on  your  head  ! 


284 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


I'll  back  unto  my  prison.     Yet,  methinks, 
I  might  be  kept  in  some  place  where  you  are ; 
For  in  myself  I  iind,  I  know  not  what 
To  call  it,  but  it  is  a  great  desire 
To  see  you  often. 

Arh.  Fy,  you  come  in  a  step;  wbat  do  you 
mean? 
Dear  sister,  do  not  so!     Alas,  Panthea, 
AVhere  I  am  would  you  be  "i   Why,  that's  the  cause 
You  are  imprison'd,  that  you  may  not  be 
Where  I  am. 

Pan.  Then  I  must  endure  it,  sir. 
Heaven  keep  you ! 

Arh.  Nay,  you  shall  hear  the  cause  in  short, 
Panthea ; 
And,  when  thou  hear'st,  thou  wilt  bhish  for  me, 
And  hang  thy  head  down  like  a  violet 
Full  of  the  morning's  dew.     There  is  a  way 
To  gain  thy  freedom  ;  but  'tis  such  a  one 
As  puts  thee  in  worse  bondage,  and  I  know 
Thou  wouldst  encounter  fire,  and  make  a  proof 
Whether  the  gods  have  care  of  innocence, 
Eather  than  follow  it.     Know  I  have  lost. 
The  only  difference  betwixt  man  and  beast, 
My  reason. 

Pun.  Heaven  forbid ! 

Arh.  Nay,  it  is  gone  ; 
And  I  am  left  as  far  without  a  bound 
As  the  wild  ocean  that  obeys  the  winds  ; 
Each  sudden  passion  throws  me  where  it  lists, 
And  overwhelms  all  that  oppose  my  will. 
I  have  beheld  thee  with  a  lustful  eye  ; 
My  heart  is  set  on  wickedness,  to  act 
Such  sins  with  thee,  as  I  have  been  afraid 
To  think  of.     If  thou  dar'st  consent  to  this, 
Which,  I  beseech  thee,  do  not,  thou  may'st  gain 
Thy  liberty,  and  yield  me  a  content ; 
If  not,  thy  dwelling  must  be  dark  and  close, 
Where  I  may  never  see  thee  :  for  Heaven  knows, 
That  laid  this  punishment  upon  my  pride. 
Thy  sight  at  some  time  will  enforce  my  madness 
To  make  a  start  e'en  to  thy  ravishing. 
Now  spit  upon  me,  and  call  all  reproaches 
Thou  canst  devise  together,  and  at  once 
Hurl  'em  against  me  ;  for  I  am  a  sickness 
As  killing  as  the  plague,  ready  to  seize  thee. 

Pan.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  revile  the  king  ! 
But  it  is  true,  that  I  shall  rather  choose 
To  search  out  death,  that  else  would  search  out 

me. 
And  in  a  grave  sleep  with  my  innocence. 
Than  welcome  such  a  sin.     It  is  my  fate  ; 
To  these  cross  accidents  I  was  ordain'd. 
And  must  have  patience ;  and,  but  that  my  eyes 
Have  more  of  woman  in  'em  than  my  heart, 
I  would  not  weep.     Peace  enter  you  again  ! 

Arh'.  Farewell ;  and,  good  Panthea,  pray  for  me 
(Thy  prayers  are  pure),  that  I  may  find  a  death, 
However  soon,  before  my  passions  grow, 
That  they  forget  what  I  desire  is  sin  ; 
For  thither  they  are  tending.     If  that  happen. 
Then  I  shall  force  thee,  though  thou  wert  a  virgin 
By  vow  to  Heaven,  and  shall  pull  a  heap 
Of  strange,  yet  uuinvented,  sin  upon  me. 

Pan.  Sir,  I  will  pray  for  you!  yet  you  shall 
know 
It  is  a  sullen  fate  that  governs  us ; 
For  I  could  wish,  as  heartily  as  you, 
I  were  no  sister  to  you ;  I  should  then 
Embrace  your  lawful  love,  sooner  than  health. 

Arh.  Couldst  thou  affect  me  then  ? 

Pan.  So  perfectly. 
That,  as  it  is,  I  ne'er  shall  sway  my  heart 
To  like  another. 

Arh.  Then  I  curse  my  birth  ! 
Must  this  be  added  to  my  miseries, 
That  thou  art  willing  too  ?     Is  there  no  stop 


To  our  full  happiness,  but  these  mere  sounds. 
Brother  and  sister  ? 

Pan.  There  is  nothing  else  ; 
But  these,  alas !  will  separate  us  more 
Than  twenty  worlds  betwixt  us. 

Arh.  I  have  lived 
To  conquer  men,  and  now  am  overthrown 
Only  by  words,  brother  and  sister.     Where 
Have  those  words  dwelling .'     I  will  find  'em  out, 
And  utterly  destroy  'em  ;  but  they  are 
Not  to  be  grasp'd.     Let  them  be  men  or  beasts, 
And  I  will  cut  'em  fi-om  the  earth  ;  or  towns, 
And  I  wiU  raze  'em,  and  then  blow  'em  up : 
Let  'em  be  seas,  and  I  will  drink  'em  off. 
And  yet  have  unquench'd  fire  left  in  my  breast : 
Let  'em  be  anything  but  merely  voice. 

Pan.  But  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  any  force, 
Or  policy,  to  conquer  them. 

Arh.  Panthea, 
What  shall  we  do  ?     Shall  we  stand  firmly  here, 
And  gaze  our  eyes  out  ? 

Pan.  'Would  I  could  do  so ! 
But  I  shall  weep  out  mine. 

Arh.  Accursed  man. 
Thou  bought'st  thy  reason  at  too  dear  a  rate ; 
For  thou  hast  all  thy  actions  bounded  in 
With  curious '  rules,  when  every  beast  is  free : 
What  is  there  that  acknowledges  a  kindred. 
But  wretched  man  ?     Who  CTer  saw  the  bull 
Fearfully  leave  the  heifer  that  he  liked, 
Because  they  had  one  dam  ? 

Pan.  Sir,  I  disturb  you 
And  myself  too  ;  'twere  better  I  were  gone. 

Arh.  I  will  not  be  so  foolish  as  I  was ; 
Stay,  we  will  love  just  as  becomes  our  births, 
No  otherwise.     Brothers  and  sisters  may 
Walk  hand  in  hand  together ;  so  shall  we. 
Come  nearer :  is  there  any  hurt  in  this  .' 

Pan.  I  hope  not. 

Arh.  'Faith,  there  is  none  at  all  : 
And  tell  me  truly  now,  is  there  not  one 
You  love  above  me  ? 

Pan.  No,  by  Heaven. 

Arh.  Why,  yet 
You  sent  unto  Tigranes,  sister. 

Pun.  True, 
But  for  another.     For  the  truth — 

Arh.  No  more, 
I'll  credit  thee ;  I  know  thou  canst  not  lie. 
Thou  art  all  truth. 

Pan.  But  is  there  nothing  else 
That  we  may  do,  but  only  walk  1     Methinks 
Brothers  and  sisters  lawfully  may  kiss. 

Arh.  And  so  they  may,  Panthea  ;  so  will  we. 
\_Extunt  several  icaijs. 


ACT  V.-SOENE  L 

Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  Makdoijuus  and  Lygones. 

Mar.  Sir,  the  king  has  seen  your  commission, 
and  believes  it ;  and  freely  by  this  warrant  gives 
you  power  to  visit  Prince  Tigranes,  your  noble 
master. 

Lyg.  I  thank  his  grace,  and  kiss  his  hand. 

Mar.  But  is  the  main  of  all  your  business  ended 
in  this  ? 

Lyg.  I  have  another,  but  a  worse ;  I  am  ashamed ! 
It  is  a  business — 

Mar.  You  seem  a  worthy  person ;  and  a  stran- 
ger I  am  sure  you  are.     You  may  employ  me, 


'  curiOMs— scrupulous,  strict. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


285 


if  you  please,  without  your  purse ;  such  offices 
ehould  ever  be  their  own  rewards. 
LifO-  I  am  bound  to  your  nobleness. 
Mar.  I  may  have  need  of  you,  and  then  this 
courtesy, 
If  it  be  any,  is  not  ill  bestow'd. 
But  may  I  civilly  desire  the  rest  ? 
I  shall  not  be  a  hurter,  if  no  helper. 
Lvfj.  Sir,  you  shall  know  :  I  have  lost  a  foolish 
daughter, 
And  with  her  all  my  patience  ;  pilfer'd  away 
By  a  mean  captain  of  your  king's. 

Mar.  Stay  there,  sir  : 
If  he  have  reach'd  the  noble  worth  of  captain, 
He  may  Avell  claim  a  worthy  gentlewoman. 
Though  she  were  yours,  and  noble. 
Lyg.  I  grant  all  that  too ;  but  this  wretched 
fellow 
Eeaches  no  further  than  the  empty  name. 
That  serves  to  feed  him.     Were  he  valiant. 
Or  had  but  in  him  any  noble  nature, 
That  might  hereafter  promise  him  a  good  man. 
My  cares  were  so  much  lighter,  and  my  grave 
A  span  yet  from  me. 

Mar.  I  confess,  such  fellows 
Be  in  all  royal  camps,  and  have  and  must  be. 
To  make  the  sin  of  coward  more  detested 
In  the  mean  soldier,  that  with  such  a  foil 
Sets  off  much  valour.     By  description, 
I  should  now  guess  him  to  you  ;  it  was  Bessus, 
I  dare  almost  with  confidence  pronounce  it. 
Lyg.  'Tis  such  a  scurvy  name  as  Bessus  ; 
And,  now  I  think,  'tis  he. 

Mar.  Captain  do  you  call  him  ? 
Believe  me,  sir,  you  have  a  misery 
Too  mighty  for  your  age.     A  pox  upon  him  ! 
For  that  must  be  the  end  of  all  his  service. 
Your  daughter  was  not  mad,  sir  1 
Lyg.  No  ;  'would  she  had  been ! 
The  fault  had  had  more  credit.     I  would  do 
something. 
Mar.  I  would  fain  counsel  you ;  but  to  what 
I  know  not. 
He's  so  below  a  beating,  that  the  women 
Find  him  not  worthy  of  their  distaves ;  and 
To  hang  him  were  to  cast  away  a  rope. 
He's  such  an  airy,  thin,  unbodied  coward, 
That  no  revenge  can  catch  him. 
I'll  tell  you,  sir,  and  teU  you  truth :  this  rascal 
Fears  neither  God  nor  man  ;  has  been  so  beaten. 
Sufferance  has  made  him  wainscot ;  he  has  had. 
Since  he  was  first  a  slave, 
At  least  three  hundred  daggers  set  in's  head, 
As  little  boys  do  new  knives  in  hot  meat. 
There's  not  a  rib  in's  body,  o'  my  conscience. 
That  has  not  been  thrice  broken  with  dry  beating ; 
And  now  his  sides  look  like  two  wicker  targets. 
Every  way  bended ; 

Children  will  shortly  take  him  for  a  wall. 
And  set  their  stone-bows  ^  in  his  forehead. 
He  is  of  so  base  a  sense, 
I  cannot  in  a  week  imagine  what 
Shall  be  done  to  him. 

Lyg.  Sure  I  have  committed  some  great  sin. 
That  this  base  fellow  should  be  made  mj'  rod. 
I  would  see  him  ;  but  I  shall  have  no  patience. 

Mar.  'Tis  no  great  matter  if  you  have  not.  If 
a  laming  of  him,  or  such  a  toy,^  may  do  you  plea- 
sure, sir,  he  has  it  for  you ;  and  I'll  help  you  to 
him.  'Tis  no  news  to  him  to  have  a  leg  broken, 
or  a  shoulder  out,  with  being  turn'd  o'  th'  stones 
like  a  tansy.  Draw  not  your  sword,  if  you  love 
it ;  for,  on  my  conscience,  his  head  will  break  it : 
we  use  him  i'  th'  wars  like  a  ram,  to  shake  a  wall 


1  «<one-Jow«— cross-tows. 


«  to;/— trifle. 


withal.  Here  comes  the  very  person  of  him  ;  do 
as  you  shall  find  your  temper ;  I  must  leave  you. 
But  if  you  do  not  break  him  like  a  biscuit,  you're 
much  to  blame,  sir.  \_Exit  Maudonius. 

Enter  Bessus  and  the  Swordmen. 

Lyg.  Is  your  name  Bessus  ? 
Bts.  Men  call  me  Captain  Bessus. 
Jjyg.  Then,   Captain  Bessus,  you  are  a  rank 
rascal,  without  more  exordiums ;  a  dirt}',  frozen 
slave  ;  and,  with  the  favour  of  your  friends  here, 
I  will  beat  you. 

2  Sw.  Pray  use  your  pleasure,  sir;  you  seem 
to  be  a  gentleman. 

Lyg.  {^Beats  kim.']  Thus,  Captain  Bessus,  thus  ! 
Thus  twinge  your  nose,  thus  kick,  thus  tread 
upon  you. 

£es.  I  do  beseech  you,  yield  your  cause,  sir, 

quickly. 
Lyg.  Indeed,  I  should  have  told  you  that  first. 
Bes.  I  take  it  so. 

1  Sw.  Captain,  he  should  indeed ;  he  is  mistaken. 
Lyg.  Sir,  you  shall  have  it  quickly,  and  more 
beating : 
Tou  have  stolen  away  a  lady.  Captain  Coward, 
And  such  a  one —  [^Beats  him. 

Bes.  Hold,  I  beseech  you,  hold,  sir ; 
I  never  yet  stole  any  living  thing 
That  had  a  tooth  about  it. 
Lyg.  I  know  you  dare  lie. 
Bes.  With  none  but  summer  whores,  upon  my 
life,  sir  ; 
My  means  and  manners  never  could  attempt 
Above  a  hedge  or  haycock. 
Lyg.  Sirrah,  that  quits  not  me  :  where  is  this 
lady  ? 
Do  that  yovi  do  not  use  to  do,  tell  truth, 
Or,  by  m}'  hand,  I'll  beat  your  captain's  brains  out, 
Wash  'em,  and  put  'em  in  again,  that  will  I.^ 
Bes.  There  was  a  lady,  sir,  I  must  confess, 
Once  in  my  charge :  the  Prince  Tigranes  gave  her 
To  my  guard,  for  her  safety.     How  I  used  her 
She  may  herself  report;  she's  with  the  prince  now. 
I  did  but  wait  upon  her  like  a  groom, 
Which  she  will  testify,  I  am  sure  ;  if  not. 
My  brains  are  at  your  service,  when  you  please, 

sir. 
And  glad  I  have  'em  for  you. 

Lyg.  This  is  most  likely.  Sir,  I  ask  your  pardon, 
and  am  sorry  I  was  so  intemperate. 

Bes.  Well,  I  can  ask  no  more.  You  woi^ld 
think  it  strange  now,  to  have  me  beat  you  at 
first  sight. 

Lyg.  Indeed,  I  would ;  but,  I  know,  your 
goodness  can  forget  twenty  beatings.  You 
must  forgive  me. 

Bes.  Yes;  there's  my  hand.  Go  where  you 
will,  I  shall  think  you  a  valiant  fellow  for  all 
this. 

Lyg.  Yet  I  will  see  her ;  [^Aside. 

Discharge  myself  of  being  father  to  her. 
And  then  back  to  my  country,  and  thei-e  die. — 
Farewell,  captain. 

Bes.  Farewell,  sir,  farewell!  Commend  me  to 
the  gentlewoman,  I  pray.  [^Exit  Lygoi^es. 

1  &'w.  How  now,  captain  ?  bear  up,  man. 
Bes.  Gentlemen  o'  th'  sword,  your  hands  once 

more.  I  have  been  kick'd  again  ;  but  the  foolish 
fellow  is  penitent,  has  ask'd  me  mercj',  and  my 
honour's  safe. 

2  Sto.  We  knew  that,  or  the  foolish  fellow  had 
better  have  kick'd  his  grandsire. 

Bes.  Confirm,  confirm,  I  pray. 

1  Sw.  There  be    our  hands  again!     Now  let 


1  Dyce  reads,  Wash  'em  and  put  'em  in  again  that  will. 


286 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


him   come,  and  say  he  was  not  sorry,  and  he 
sleeps  for  it. 

Bes.  Alas !  good  ignorant  old  man,  let  him  go, 
let  him  go  ;  these  courses  will  undo  him. 

\Exe,unt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  11. 

The  Prison. 
Enter  Lygones  and  Bacurius. 

Bac.  My  lord,  your  authority  is  good,  and  I 
am  glad  it  is  so  ;  for  my  consent  would  never 
hinder  you  from  seeing  yoiu-  own  king.  I  am  a 
minister,  but  not  a  governor  of  this  state.  Yon- 
der is  your  king ;  I'll  leave  you.  \Exit. 

Enter  Tigranes  and  Spaconia. 

Lyg.  There  he  is, 
Indeed,  and  with  hiqi  my  disloyal  child. 

Tigr.  I  do  perceive  my  fault  so  much,  that  yet, 
Methinks,  thou  shouldst  not  have  forgiven  me. 

Lyg.  Health  to  your  majesty! 

Tigr.  What,  good  Lygones !  welcome ! 
What  business  brought  thee  hither  ? 

Lyg.  Several  businesses !  [^Gives  a  paper. 

My  public  business  will  appear  by  this ; 
I  have  a  message  to  deliver,  which, 
If  it  please  you  so  to  authorize,  is 
An  embassage  from  the  Armenian  state 
Unto  Arbaces  for  your  liberty. 
The  offer's  there  set  down  ;  please  you  to  read  it. 

Tigr.  There  is  no  alteration  happen'd  since 
I  came  thence  ? 

Lyg.  None,  sir  ;  all  is  as  it  was. 

Tigr.  And  all  our  friends  are  well  ?       {Reads. 

Lyg.  All  very  well. 

Spa.  Though  I  have  done  nothing  but  what 
was  good, 
I  dare  not  see  my  father.   It  was  fault 
Enough  not  to  acquaint  him  with  that  good. 

Lyg.  Madam,  I  should  have  seen  you. 

Spa.  Oh,  good  sir,  forgive  me. 

Lyg.  Forgive  you !  why,  I  am  no  kin  to  you, 
am  I? 

Spa.  Should  it    be    measured    by  my  mean 
deserts. 
Indeed  you  are  not. 

Lyg.  Thou  couldst  prate,  unhappily. 
Ere  thou  couldst  go  ;  'would  thou  couldst  do  as 

well. 
And  how  does  your  custom  hold  out  here  ? 

Spa.  Sir  ? 

Lyg.  Are  you  in  private  still,  or  how  ? 

Spa,  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Lyg.  Do  you  take  money?  Are  you  come  to 
sell  sin  yet  ?  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  to  liberal 
clients.  Or  has  not  the  king  cast  you  off  yet  ? 
Oh,  thou  vile  creature,  whose  best  commenda- 
tion is,  that  thou  art  a  young  whore !  I  would 
thy  mother  had  lived  to  see  this ;  or,  rather,  that 
I  had  died  ere  I  had  seen  it ! 

Tigr.  Lygones,  I  have  read  it,  and  I  like  it ; 
Tou  shall  deliver  it. 

Lyg.  Well,  sir,  I  will : 
But  1  have  private  business  with  you. 

Tigr.  Speak ;  what  is't  ? 

Lyg.  How  has  my  age  deserved  so  ill  of  you  ? 
Methinks,  my  daughter 

Might  have  been  spared;  there  were  enow  be- 
sides. 
Tigr.  May  I  not  prosper,  but  she's  innocent 
As  morning  light,  for  me  ;  and,  I  dare  swear, 
For  all  the  world. 

Lyg.  Why  is  she  with  you,  then  ? 
Can  slie  wait  on  you  better  than  your  man  ? 


Has  she  a  gift  in  plucking  off  your  stockings .' 
Can  she  make  caudles  well,  or  cut  your  corns  ? 
Why  do  you  keep  her  with  you  ?     For  a  queen, 
I  know,  you  do  contemn  her ;  so  should  I ; 
And  every  subject  else  think  much  at  it. 

Tigr.  Let  'em  think  much ;  but  'tis  more  firm 
than  earth. 
Thou  seest  thy  queen  there. 

Lyg.  Then  have  I  made  a  fair  hand.  If  I 
shall  speak  now  as  her  father,  I  cannot  choose 
but  greatly  rejoice  that  she  shall  be  a  queen. 

Tigr.  Get  you  about  yom-  business  to  Arbaces ; 
Now  you  talk  idly. 

Lyg.  Yes,  sir,  I  will  go. 
And  shall  she  be  a  queen  ?     She  had  more  wit 
Than  her  old  fathei-,  when  she  ran  away. 
Shall  she  be  a  queen  ?     Now,  by  my  troth,  'tis 

fine! 
I'll  dance  out  of  all  measure  at  her  wedding  : 
Shall  I  not,  sir  ? 

Tigr.  Yfis,  marry,  shalt  thou. 

Lyg.  I'll  make  these  wither'd  keses  i  bear  my 
body 
Two  hours  together  above  ground. 

Tigr.  Nay,  go ; 
My  business  requires  haste. 

Lyg.  Good  Heav'n  preserve  you ! 
You  are  an  excellent  king. 

Spa.  Farewell,  good  father. 

Lyg.  Farewell,  sweet  virtuous  daughter. 
I  never  was  so  joyful  in  my  life. 
That  I  remember !    Shall  she  be  a  queen  ? 
Now  I  perceive  a  man  may  weep  for  joy ; 
I  had  thought  they  had  lied  that  said  so. 

\_Exit  Lygones. 

Tigr.  Come,  my  dear  love. 

Spa.  But  you  may  see  another, 
May  alter  that  again. 

Tigr.  Urge  it  no  more : 
I  have  made  up  a  new  strong  constancy, 
Not  to  be  shook  with  eyes.     I  know  I  have 
The  passions  of  a  man ;  but  if  I  meet 
With  any  subject  that  should  hold  my  eyes 
More  firmly  than  is  fit,  I'll  think  of  thee, 
And  run  away  from  it.     Let  that  suffice. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III. 

The  House  q/" Bacurius. 

Enter  Bacurius  and  a  Servant. 

Bac.  Three  gentlemen^without,  to  speak  with 

me? 
Serv.  Yes,  sir. 
Bac.  Let  them  come  in. 

Enter  Bessus,  with  the  two  Swordmen. 

Serv.  They  are  enter'd,  sir,  already. 

Bac.  Now,  fellows,  your  business  ?     Are  these 
the  gentlemen? 

Bes.  My  lord,  I  have  made  bold  to  bring  these 
gentlemen, 
My  friends  o'  th'  sword,  along  with  me. 

Bac.  I  am 
Afraid  you'll  fight,  then. 

Bes.  My  good  lord,  1  will  not ; 
Your  lordship  is  mistaken  ;  fear  not,  lord. 

Bac.  Sir,  I  am  sorry  for't. 

Bes.  1  ask  no  more  in  honour. — Gentlemen, 
You  hear  my  lord  is  sorry. 

Bac.  Not  that  I  have  beaten  you, 
But  beaten  one  that  will  be  beaten  ; 


1  Tcexes—Oxy  stalks,  generally  of  hemlock ;  of  course 
Lygones  means  his  legs. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


2cS7 


One  whose  dull  body  will  require  a  lamming,* 
As  surfeits  do  the  diet,  spring  and  fall. 
Now,  to  your  swordmen  : 
What  come  they  for,  good  Captain  Stockfish  ? 
Bes-  It  seems  your  lordship  has  forgot   my 

name. 
Bac.  No,  nor  your  nature  neither ;  though  they 
are 
Things  fitter,  I  must  confess,  for  anything 
Than  my  remembrance,  or  any  honest  man's : 
What  shall  these  billets  do  ?  be  piled  up  in  my 
woodyard  ? 
Bes.  Your   lordship  holds    your  mirth  still; 
Heaven  continue  it ! 
But,  for  these  gentlemen,  they  come — 
Bac.  To  swear  you  are  a  coward  ?     Spare  your 
book ; 
I  do  believe  it. 

Bes.  Your  lordship  still  draws  wide  ; 
They  come  to  vouch,  under  their  valiant  hands, 
I  am  no  coward. 
Bac.  That  would  be   a  show,  indeed,   worth 
seeing.     Sirrah, 
Be  wise  and  take  money  for  this  motion,  2  travel 

with't ; 
And  where  the  name  of  Bessus  has  been  known, 
Or  a  good  coward  stirring,  'twill  yield  more  than 
A  tilting.     This  will  prove  more  beneficial  to 

If  you  be  thrifty,  than  your  captainship. 

And  more  natural.    Men  of  most  valiant  hands, 

Is  this  true  ? 

2  8w.  It  is  so,  most  renowned. 

Bac.  'Tis  somewhat  strange. 

1  Bw.  Lord,  it  is  strange,  yet  true; 
We  have  examined,  from  your  lordship's  foot 

there 
To  this  man's  head,  the  nature  of  the  beatings  ; 
And  we  do  find  his  honour  is  come  off. 
Clean  and  sufficient.     This,  as  our  swords  shall 
help  us. 

Bac  You  are  much  bound  to  your  bilbo-men ; ' 
I  am  glad  you're  straight  again,  captain.     'Twere 


You  would  think  on  some  way  to  gratify  them ; 
They  have  undergone  a  labour  for  you,  Bessus, 
Would  have  puzzled  Hercules  with  all  his  valour. 
2  Sio.  Your  lordship  must  understand  we  are 
no  men 
Of  the  law,  that  take  pay  for  our  opinions ; 
It  is  sufficient  we  have  cleared  our  friend. 
Bac.  Yet  there  is  something  due,  which  I,  as 
touch'd 
In  conscience,  will  discharge. — Captain,  I'll  pay 
This  rent  for  you. 

Bes.  Spare  yourself,  my  good  lord ; 
My  brave  friends  aim  at  nothing  but  the  virtue. 
Bac.  That's  but  a  cold  discharge,  sir,  for  theu- 

pains. 
2  8w.  Oh,  lord !  my  good  lord ! 
Bac.  Be  not  so  modest ;  I  will  give  you  some- 
thing. 
Bes.  They  shall  dine  with  your  lordship ;  that's 

sufficient. 
Bac.  Something  in    hand    the    while.      You 
rogues,  you  apple-squires,* 
Do  you  come  hither,  with  your  bottled  valour. 
Your  windy  froth,  to  limit  out  my  beatings  1 

\Kiclis  them. 

1  Sw.  I  do  beseech  your  lordship. 

2  Sw.  Oh,  good  lord ! 


1  lamming — Seating. 

2  motion — puppet-show. 

*  bilbo-men — swordmen. 

*  apple-squires — pimps. 


Bac.  'Sfoot,  what  a  bevy  of  beaten  slaves  are 
here ! — 
Get  me  a  cudgel,  sirrah,  and  a  tough  one. 

\_Exit  Servant. 
2  Sio.  More  of  your  foot,  I  do  beseech  your 

lordship. 
Bac.  You  shall,  you  shall,  dog,  and  your  fellow 

beagle. 
1  Sw.  0'  this  side,  good  my  lord. 
Bac.  Off  with  your  swords  ; 
For  if  you  hurt  my  foot,  I'll  have  you  flay'd, 
You  rascals. 

1  Sw.  Mine's  off,  my  lord. 

[They  take  off  their  swords. 

2  Sio.  I  beseech  your  lordship,  stay  a  little ; 
my  strap's 

Tied  to  my  cod-piece  point.    Now,  when  you 
please. 
Bac.  Captain,  these  are  your  valiant  friends ; 
You  long  for  a  little  too  ? 
Bes.  I  am  very  well,  I  humbly  thank  your 

lordship. 
Bac.  What's  that  in  your  pocket  hurts  my  toe, 
you  mongrel  ? 
Thy  buttocks    cannot  be  so  hard;  out  with't 
quickly. 
2  Sw.  [Tahes  out  a  pistol.']    Here  'tis,  sir;  a 
small  piece  of  artillery, 
That  a  gentleman,  a  dear  friend  of  your  lord- 
ship's. 
Sent  me  with,  to  get  it  mended,  sir;  for,  if  you 

mark. 
The  nose  is  somewhat  loose. 

Bac.  A  friend  of  mine,  you  rascal  ? 
I  was  never  wearier  of  doing  nothing, 
Than  kicking  these  two  foot-balls. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Here's  a  good  cudgel,  sir. 

Bac.  It  comes  too  late ;  I  am  weary ;  pr'ythee, 
Do  thou  beat  them. 

2  Sw.  My  lord,  this  is  foul  play, 
I'faith,  to  put  a  fresh  man  upon  u3 : 
Men  are  but  men,  sir. 

Bac.  That  jest  shall  save  your  bones. — Cap- 
tain, rally  up  your  rotten  regiment,  and  begone. 
— I  had  rather  thrash  than  be  bound  to  kick 
these  rascals,  till  they  cried,  '  Ho ! '  Bessus,  you 
may  put  your  hand  to  them  now,  and  then  you 
are  quit. — Farewell !  as  you  like  this,  pray  visit 
me  again ;  'twill  keep  me  in  good  breath.    [Exit. 

2  Sio.  He  has  a  devilish  hard  foot ;  I  never 
felt  the  like. 

1  Sw.  Nor  I ;  and  yet,  I  am  sure,  I  have  felt 
a  hundred. 

2  Sw.  If  he  kick  thus  i'  the  dog-days,  he  will 
be  dry-foundred. 

What  cure  now,  captain,  besides  oil  of  bays  ? 

Bes.  Why,  well  enough,  I  warrant  you ;  you 
can  go  ? 

2  Sw.  Yes,  Heaven  be  thank'd !  but  I  feel  a 
shrewd  ache ; 
Sure,  he's  sprang  my  huckle-bone. 
■    1  Sw.  I  ha'  lost  a  haunch. 

Bes.  A  little  butter,  friend,  a  little  butter; 
Butter  and  parsley  is  a  sovereign  matter : 
Prohatum  est. 

2  Sw.  Captain,  we  must  request 
YoxU"  hand  now  to  our  honours. 

Bes.  Yes,  marry,  shall  ye  ; 
And  theu  let  all  the  world  come,  we  are  valiant 
To  ourselves,  and  there's  an  end. 

1  Sw.  Nay,  then,  we  must  be  valiant.     Oh,  my 
ribs ! 

2  Sw.  Oh,  my  small  guts  ! 

A  plague  upon  1\hese  sharp-toed  shoes  ;  they  are 
murderers.  '  [Exeunt. 


288 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV. 

A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Akbaces  loith  his  sioord  araum. 

Ari.  It  is  resolved :  I  bore  it  whilst  I  could  ; 
I  can  no  more.     Hell,  open  all  thy  gates, 
And  I  will  thorough  them :  if  they  be  shut, 
I'll  batter  'em,  but  I  will  find  the  jjlaca 
Where  the  most  damn'd  have  dwelling !  Ere  I  end, 
Amongst  them  all  they  shall  not  have  a  sin, 
But  I  may  call  it  mine  ;  I  must  begin 
With  murder  of  my  friend,  and  so  go  on 
And  end 

My  life  and  sins  with  a  forbidden  blow 
Upon  myself ! 

Enter  Mardonius. 

Mar.  What  tragedy  is  near  ? 
That  hand  was  never  wont  to  draw  a  sword, 
But  it  cried  '  dead '  to  something. 

Arb.  Mardonius, 
Have  you  bid  Gobrias  come  ? 

Mar.  How  do  you,  sit.' 

Arb.  Well.     Is  he  coming  ? 

Mar.  Why,  sir,  are  you  thus  ? 
Why  does  your  hand  proclaim  a  lawless  war 
Against  yourself  ? 

Arb.  Thou    auswer'st  me   one  question   with 
another : 
Is  Gobrias  coming  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  he  is. 

Arb.  'Tis  well : 
I  can  forbear  your  questions  then.     Begone  ! 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  mark'd — 

Arb.  Mark  less !  it  troubles  you  and  me. 

Mar.  You  are  more  variable  than  you  were. 

Arb.  It  may  be  so. 

Mar.  To-day  no  hennit  could  be  humbler 
Than  you  were  to  us  all. 

Arb.  And  what  of  this  ? 

Mar.  And  now  you  take  new  rage  into  your 
eyes, 
As  you  would  look  ns  all  out  of  the  land. 

Arb.  I  do  confess  it ;  will  that  satisfy  ? 
I  pr'ythee,  get  thee  gone. 

Mar.  Sir,  I  will  speak. 

Arb.  Will  ye? 

Mar.  It  is  my  duty. 
I  fear  j'ou'll  kill  yourself;  I  am  a  subject, 
And  you  shall  do  me  wrong  in't;  'tis  my  cause, 
And  I  may  speak. 

Arb.  Thou  art  not  train'd  in  sin, 
It  seems,  Mardonius.     Kill  myself !  by  Heaven, 
I  will  not  do  it  yet ;  and,  when  I  will, 
I'll  tell  thee,  then  I  shall  be  such  a  creature 
That  thou  wilt  give  me  leave  without  a  word. 
There  is  a  method  in  man's  wickedness ; 
It  grows  up  by  degrees :  I  am  not  come 
So  high  as  killing  of  myself ;  there  are 
A  hundred  thousand  sins  'twixt  me  and  it, 
Which  I  must  do.    I  shall  come  to't  at  last ; 
But,  take  my  oath,  not  now.    Be  satisfied, 
And  get  thee  hence. 

Mar.  I  am  sorry  'tis  so  ill. 

Arb.  Be  sorry,  then  : 
True  sorrow  is  alone  ;  grieve  by  thyself. 

Mar.  I  pray  you  let  me  see  your  sword  put  up 
Before  I  go  ;  I'll  leave  you  then. 

Arh.  [Puis  up.l  Why,  so. 
What  folly  is  this  in  thee  ?  is  it  not 
As  apt  to  mischief  as  it  was  before  ? 
Can  I  not  reach  it,  think'st  thou  ?    These  are  toys 
For  children  to  be  pleased  with,  and  not  men. 
Now  I  am  safe,  you  think :  I  would  the  book 
Of  Fate  were  here  :  my  sword  is  not  so  sure 
But  I  would  get  it  out,  and  mangle  that, 


That  all  the  destinies  should  quite  forget 
Their  fix'd  decrees,  and  haste  to  make  us  new, 
For  other  fortunes  ;  mine  could  not  be  worse. 
Wilt  thou  now  leave  me  ? 

Mar.  Heaven  put  into  your  bosom  temperate 
thoughts ! 
I'll  leave  you,  though  I  fear.     [Exit  Mardonius. 

Arb.  Go  ;  thou  art  honest. 
Why  should  the  hasty  errors  of  my  youth 
Be  so  unpardonable  to  draw  a  sin, 
Helpless,  upon  me  ? 

Enter  Goerias. 

Gob.  There  is  the  king ; 
Now  it  is  ripe. 

Aj-b.  Draw  near,  thou  guilty  man, 
That  art  the  author  of  the  loathed'st  crime 
Five  ages  have  brought  forth,  and  hear  me  speak 
Curses  incurable,  and  all  the  evils 
Man's  body  or  his  spirit  can  receive. 
Be  with  thee ! 

Gob.  Why,  sir,  do  you  curse  me  thus .' 

A7-b.  Why  do  I  curse  thee  ?     If  thei'e  be  a  man 
Subtle  in  curses,  that  exceeds  the  rest. 
His  worst  wish  on  thee !     Thou  hast  broke  my 
heart. 

Gob.  How,  sir?     Have  I  preserved  you,  from 
a  child, 
From  all  the  arrows  malice  or  ambition 
Could  shoot  at  you,  and  have  I  this  for  pay  .' 

Arb.  'Tis  ti-ue,  thou  didst  presei've  me,  and  in 
that 
Wert  crueller  than  hardened  murderers 
Of  infants  and  their  mothers!  Thou  didst  save  me. 
Only  till  thou  hadst  studied  out  a  way 
How  to  destroy  me  cunningly  thyself  : 
This  was  a  curious  way  of  torturing. 

Gob.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Arb.  Thou  know'st  the  evils  thou  hast  done 
to  me ! 
Dost  thou  remember  all  those  witching  letters 
Thou  sent'st  unto  me  to  Armenia, 
Fill'd  M'ith  the  praise  of  my  beloved  sister. 
Where  thou  extol'dst  her  beauty  ?     What  had  I 
To  do  with  that  ?  what  could  her  beauty  be 
To  me .'     And  thou  didst  write  how  well  she 

loved  me ! 
Dost  thou  remember  this .'  so  that  I  doted 
Something  before  I  saw  her. 

Gob.  This  is  true. 

Arb.  Is  it.'  and,  when  I  was  return'd,  thou 
know'st 
Thou  didst  pursue  it,  till  thou  wouud'st  me  in 
To  such  a  strange  and  unbelieved  affection. 
As  good  men  cannot  think  on. 

Gob.  This  I  grant ; 
I  think  I  was  the  cause. 

Arb.  Wert  thou  ?     Nay,  more. 
I  think  thou  meant'st  it. 

Gob.  Sir,  I  hate  a  lie. 
As  I  love  Heaven  and  honestj',  I  did ; 
It  was  my  meaning. 

Arb.  Be  thine  own  sad  judge  ; 
A  further  condemnation  will  not  need : 
Prepare  thyself  to  die. 

Gob.  Why,  sir,  to  die  ? 

Arb.  Why  shouldst  thou  live?     Was  ever  yet 
offender 
So  impudent,  that  had  a  thought  of  mercy. 
After  confession  of  a  crime  like  this  ? 
Get  out  I  cannot  where  thou  hurl'st  me  in ; 
But  I  can  take  revenge  ;  that's  all  the  sweetness 
Left  for  me. 

Gob.  Now  is  the  time. — Hear  me  but  speak. 

Arb.  No !     Yet  I  will  be  far  more  merciful 
Than  thou  wert  to  me  ;  thou  didst  steal  into  me. 
And  never  gavest  me  warning.     So  much  time 


As  I  give  thee  now,  had  prevented  me 
For  ever.     Notwithstanding  all  thy  sins, 
If  thou  hast  hope  that  there  is  yet  a  prayer 
To  save  thee,  turn  and  speak  it  to  thyself. 

Gob.  Sir,  you  shall  know  your  sins  before  you 
do  'em : 
If  you  kill  me — 

Arb.  I  will  not  stay  then. 

Gob.  Know — 
You  kill  5'our  father. 

Arb.  My  father  ?     Though  I  know  it  for  a  lie. 
Made  out  of  fear,  to  save  thy  stained  life. 
The  very  revei-ence  of  the  word  comes  'cross  me, 
And  ties  mine  arm  down. 

Gob.  I  will  tell  you  that 
Shall  heighten  you  again :  I  am  thy  father ; 
I  charge  thee  hear  me. 

Arb.  If  it  should  be  so. 
As  'tis  most  false,  and  that  I  should  be  found 
A  bastard  issue,  the  despised  fruit    ' 
Of  lawless  lust,  I  should  no  more  admire 
All  my  wild  passions  !     But  another  truth ' 
Shall  be  wrung  from  thee.    If  I  could  come  by 
The  spirit  of  pain,  it  should  be  pour'd  on  thee, 
'Till  thou  allow'st  thyself  more  full  of  lies 
Than  he  that  teaches  thee. 

Enter  Arane. 

Ara.  Turn  thee  about ; 
I  come  to  speak  to  thee,  thou  wicked  man ! 
Hear  me,  thou  tyrant ! 

Arb.  I  will  turn  to  thee  ; 
Hear  me,  thou  strumpet !  I  have  blotted  out 
The  name  of  mother,  as  thou  hast  thy  shame. 

Ara.  My  shame  !     Thou  hast  less  shame  than 
anything ! 
Why  dost  thou  keep  my  daughter  in  a  prison  ? 
Why  dost  thou  call  her  sister,  and  do  this  ? 

Arb.    Cease,    thou    strange    impudence,    and 
answer  quickly !  \^I)raws. 

If  thou  contemu'st  me,  this  will  ask  an  answer. 
And  have  it. 

Ara.  Help  me,  gentle  Gobrias. 

Arb.  Guilt  dare  not  help  guilt !     Though  they 
grow  together 
In  doing  ill,  yet  at  the  punishment 
They  sever,  and  each  flies  the  noise  of  other. 
Think  not  of  help ;  answer ! 

Ara.  I  will ;  to  what  ? 

Arb.  To  such  a  thing,  as,  if  it  be  a  truth, 
Think  what  a  creature  thou  hast  made  thyself, 
That  didst  not  shame  to  do  what  I  must  blush 
Only  to  ask  thee.     Tell  me  who  I  am, 
Whose  son  I  am,  without  all  circumstance ; 
Be  thou  as  hasty  as  my  sword  will  be, 
If  thou  refusest. 

Ara.  Why,  you  are  his  son. 

Arb.  His  son  ?    Swear,  swear,  thou  worse  than 
woman  damn'd ! 

Ara.  By  all  that's  good,  you  are. 

Arb.  Then  art  thou  all 
That  ever  was  known  bad !    Now  is  the  cause 
Of  all  my  strange  misfortunes  come  to  light. 
What  reverence  expect'st  thou  from  a  child, 
To  bring  forth  which  thou  hast  offended  Heaven, 
Thy  husband,  and  the  land  ?   Adulterous  witch ! 
I  know  now  why  thou  wouldst  have  poison'd  me : 
I  was  thy  lust,  which  thou  wouldst  have  forgot ! 
Then,  wicked  mother  of  my  sins,  and  me, 
Show  me  the  way  to  the  inheritance 
I  have  by  thee,  which  is  a  spacious  world 
Of  impious  acts,  that  I  may  soon  possess  it. 
Plagues  rot  thee,  as  thou  liv'st,  and  such  diseases 
As  use  to  pay  lust,  recompense  thy  deed ! 


1  another  truth— i.e.  a  truth  of  a  different  nature. — 
Mason. 


Gob.  You  do  not  know  why  you  curse  thus. 

Arb.  Too  well. 
You  are  a  pair  of  vipers  ;  and  behold 
The  serpent  you  have  got !     There  is  no  beast, 
But,  if  he  knew  it,  has  a  pedigree 
As  brave  as  mine,  for  they  have  more  descents  ; 
And  I  am  every  way  as  beastly  got, 
As  far  without  the  compass  of  a  law, 
As  they. 

Ara.  You  spend  your  rage  and  words  in  vain, 
And  rail  upon  a  guess ;  hear  us  a  little. 

Arb.  No,  I  will  never  hear,  but  talk  away 
My  breath,  and  die. 

Gob.  Why,  but  you  are  no  bastard. 

Arb.  How's  that  ? 

Ara.  Nor  child  of  mine. 

Arb.  Still  you  go  on 
In  wonders  to  me. 

Gob.  Pray  you,  be  more  patient ; 
I  may  bring  comfort  to  you. 

Arb.  I  will  kneel,  \_KneeIs. 

And  hear  with  the  obedience  of  a  child. 
Good  father,  speak  !  I  do  acknowledge  you. 
So  you  bring  comfort. 

Gob.  First  know,  our  last  king,  your  supposed 
father, 
Was  old  and  feeble  when  he  married  her, 
And  almost  all  the  land,  as  she,  past  hope 
Of  issue  from  him. 

Arb.  Therefore  she  took  leave 
To  play  the  whore,  because  the  king  was  old  : 
Is  this  the  comfort  ? 

Ara.  What  will  you  find  out 
To  give  me  satisfaction,  when  you  find 
How  you  have  injured  me .'    Let  fire  consume  me 
If  ever  I  were  whore ! 

Gob.  Forbear  these  starts. 
Or  I  will  leave  you  wedded  to  despair, 
As  you  are  now.     If  you  can  find  a  temper, 
My  breath  shall  be  a  pleasant  western  wind. 
That  cools  and  blasts  not. 

Arb.  Bring  it  out,  good  father.         [Lies  down. 
I'll  lie  and  listen  here  as  reverently 
As  to  an  angel.     If  I  breathe  too  loud. 
Toll  me ;  for  I  would  be  as  still  as  night. 

Gob.  Our  king,  I  say,  was  old,  and  this  our 
queen 
Desired  to  bring  an  heir,  but  yet  her  husband, 
She  thought,  was  past  it ;  and  to  be  dishonest, 
I  think  she  would  not :  if  she  would  have  been, 
The  truth  is,  she  was  watch'd  so  narrowly. 
And  had  so  slender  opportunities. 
She  hardly  could  havebeen.     Butyet  her  cunning 
Found  out  this  way :  she  feign'd  herself  with  child, 
And  posts  were  sent  in  haste  throughout  the  land, 
And  God  was  humbly  thank'd  in  every  church. 
That  so  had  blessed  the  queen ;  and  prayers  were 
For  her  safe  going  and  delivery.  [made 

She  feign'd  now  to  grow  bigger;  and  perceived 
This  hope  of  issue  made  her  fear'd,  and  brought 
A  far  more  large  respect  from  every  man. 
And  saw  her  power  increase,  and  was  resolv'd. 
Since  she  believed  she  could  not  have't  indeed, 
At  least  she  would  be  thought  to  have  a  child. 

Arb.  Do  I  not  hear  it  well !  Nay,  I  will  make 
No  noise  at  all ;  but,  pray  you,  to  the  point, 
Quick  as  you  can ! 

Gob.  Now  when  the  time  was  full 
She  should  be  brought  to  bed,  I  had  a  son 
Born,  which  was  you.  This  the  queen  hearing  of, 
Moved  me  to  let  her  have  you  ;  and  such  reasons 
She  showed  me,  as  she  knew  well  would  tie 
My  secrecy.     She  swore  you  should  be  Ijing ; 
And,  to  be  short,  I  did  deliver  you 
Unto  her,  and  pretended  you  were  dead. 
And  in  mine  own  house  kei^t  a  funeral, 
And  had  an  empty  coffin  put  in  earth. 


290 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


That  night  this  queen  f  eign'd  hastily  to  labour, 

And  by  a  pair  of  women  of  her  own, 

Which  she  had  charm'd,  she  made  the  ■world 

believe 
She  was  delivered  of  you.    Tou  grew  up, 
As  the  king's  son,  till  you  wei-e  six  years  old ; 
Then  did  the  king  die,  and  did  leave  to  me 
Protection  of  the  realm  ;  and,  contrary 
To  his  own  expectation,  left  this  queen 
Truly  with  child,  indeed,  of  the  fair  princess 
Panthea.     Then  she  could  have  torn  her  hair. 
And  did  alone  to  me,  yet  durst  not  speak 
In  public,  for  she  knew  she  should  be  found 
A  traitor,  and  her  tale  would  have  been  thought 
Madness,  or  anything  rather  than  truth. 
This  was  the  only  cause  why  she  did  seek 
To  poison  you,  and  I  to  keep  you  safe  ; 
And  this  the  reason  ■<>  liy  I  sought  to  kindle 
Some  sparks  of  love  ;a  you  to  fair  Panthea, 
That  she  might  get  part  of  her  right  again. 

Arh.  And  have  you  made  an  end  now  ?   Is  this 
If  not,  I  will  be  still  till  I  be  aged,  [all  ? 

TiU  all  my  hairs  be  silver. 

Goh.  This  is  aU. 

Arh.  And  is  it  true,  say  you  too,  madam  ? 

Ara.  Yes, 
Heaven  knows,  it  is  most  true. 

Arh.  Panthea,  then,  is  not  my  sister  ? 

Goh.  No. 

Arh.  But  can  you  prove  this  ? 

Goh.  If  you  will  give  consent, 
Else  who  dares  go  about  it  ? 

Arh.  Give  consent ! 
Why,  I  will  have  'em  all  that  know  it  rack'd 
To  get  this  from  'em. — All  that  wait  without 
Come  in,  whate'er  you  be,  come  in,  and  be 
Partakers  of  my  joy  ! — Oh,  you  are  welcome  ! 

Enter  Bessus,  Gentlemen,  Mardonius,  and 
other  Attendants. 

Mardonius,  the  best  news !  Nay,  draw  no  nearer; 
They  all  shall  hear  it :  I  am  found  No  King. 

Mar.  Is  that  so  good  news  ? 

Arh.  Yes,  the  happiest  news 
That  e'er  was  heard. 

Mar.  Indeed,  'twere  well  for  you 
If  you  might  be  a  little  less  obey'd. 

Arh.  One  call  the  queen. 

Mar  Why,  she  is  there  ! 

Arh.  The  queen, 
Mardonius  ?    Panthea  is  the  queen, 
And  I  am  plain  Arbaces. — Go  some  one. 
She  is  in  Gobrias'  house. —     [Exit  a  Gentleman. 

Since  I  saw  you. 
There  are  a  thousand  things  deliver'd  to  me, 
You  little  dream  of. 

Mar.  So  it  should  seem. — My  lord, 
What  fury's  this  ? 

Goh.  Believe  me,  'tis  no  f  uiy ; 
All  that  he  says  is  truth. 

Mar.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Ari.  Why  do  you  keep  your  hats  off,  gentlemen  ? 
Is  it  to  me  ?     I  swear  it  must  not  be ; 
Nay,  trust  me,  in  good  faith,  it  must  not  be. 
I  cannot  now  command  you ;  but  I  pray  you. 
For  the  respect  you  bare  me  when  you  took 
Me  for  your  king,  each  man  clap  on  his  hat 
At  my  desire. 

Mar.  We  will.     But  you  are  not  found 
So  mean  a  man,  but  that  you  may  be  cover'd 
As  well  as  we  ;  may  you  not  ? 

Arh.  Oh,  not  here  ! 
You  may,  but  not  I,  for  here  is  my  father 
In  presence. 

Mar.  Where? 

Arh.  Why,  there.     Oh,  the  whole  stoi-y 
Would  be  a  wilderness  to  lose  thyself 


For  ever. — Oh,  pardon  me,  dear  father, 
For  all  the  idle  and  unreverend  words 
That  I  have  spoke  in  idle  moods  to  you ! 
I  am  Arbaces ;  we  all  fellow-subjects  ; 
Nor  is  the  ijueen  Panthea  now  my  sister. 

Bes.  Why,  if  you  remember,  fellow-subject 
Ai-baces,  I  told  you  once  she  was  not  your  sister : 
Ay,  and  she  look'd  nothing  like  you. 

Arh.  I  think  j'-ou  did,  good  Captain  Bessus. 

Bes.  Here  will  arise  another  question  now 
amongst  the  swordmen,  whether  I  be  to  call 
him  to  account  for  beating  me,  now  he  is  proved 
No  King. 

Enter  Lygones. 

Mar.'  Sir,  here's  Lygones,  the  agent  for  the 
Armenian  state. 

Arh.  Where  is  he? — I  know  your  business, 
good  Lygones. 

Ijjg.  We  must  have  our  king  again,  and  will. 

Arh.   I  knew  that  was  your  business.     You 
shall  have 
Your  king  again  ;  and  have  him  so  again, 
As  never  king  was  had. — Go,  one  of  you, 
And  bid  Bacurius  bring  Tigranes  hither  ; 
And  bring  the  lady  with  him,  that  Panthea, 
The  queen  Panthea,  sent  me  word  this  morning 
Was  brave  Tigranes'  mistress. 

[Exeunt  two  Gentlemen. 

Lyg.  'Tis  Spaconia. 

Arh.  Ay,  ay,  Spaconia. 

Lyg.  She  is  my  daughter. 

Arh.  She  is  so.     I  could  now  tell  anything 
I  never  heard.    Your  king  shall  so  go  home 
As  never  man  went. 

Mar.  Shall  he  go  on's  head  ? 

Arh.  He  shall  have  chariots  easier  than  air. 
That  I  will  have  invented  ;  and  ne'er  think 
He  shall  pay  any  ransom !     And  thj'self. 
That  art  the  messenger,  shall  ride  before  him 
On  a  horse  cut  out  of  an  entire  diamond. 
That  shall  be  made  to  go  with  golden  wheels, 
I  know  not  how  yet. 

Lyg.  Why,  I  shall  be  made 
For  ever !     They  belied  this  king  with  us, 
And  said  he  was  unkind. 

Arh.  And  then  thy  daughter ; 
She  shall  have  some  strange  thing :  we'll  have 

the  kingdom 
Sold  utterly  and  put  into  a  toy. 
Which  she' shall  wear  about  her  carelessly. 
Somewhere  or  other. — See  the  virtuous  queen ! — 

£Mfer  Panthea  and  one  Gentleman. 

Behold  the  humblest  subject  that  you  have. 
Kneel  here  before  you.  [Kneels. 

Pan.  Why  kneel  you  to  me, 
That  am  your  vassal  ? 

Arh.  Grant  me  one  request. 

Pan.  Alas,  what  can  I  grant  you  ?  what  I  can 
I  will. 

Arh.  That  you  will  please  to  marry  me, 
H  1  can  prove  it  lawful. 

Pan.  Is  that  all  ? 
More  willingly  than  I  would  draw  this  air. 

Arh.  I'll  kiss  this  hand  in  earnest. 

2  Gent.  Sir,  Tigranes 
Is  coming ;  though  he  made  it  strange,^  at  first, 
To  see  the  princess  any  more. 

Enter  Tigeaiies  aw<?  Spacoota. 

Arh.  The  queen. 
Thou  mean'st. — Oh,  my  Tigranes,  pardon  me ! 


1  made  it  strange  —  made  it  a  matter  of  nicety, 
scruple. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


291 


Tread  on  my  neck :  I  freely  offer  it ; 
And,  if  thou  be'st  so  given,  take  revenge, 
For  I  have  injured  thee. 

Tigr.  No  ;  I  forgive. 
And  rejoice  more  that  you  have  found  repentance 
Than  I  my  liberty. 

Arh.  May'st  thou  be  happy 
In  thy  fair  choice,  for  thou  art  temperate  ! 
Tou  owe  no  ransom  to  the  state  !     Know  that 
I  have  a  thousand  joys  to  tell  you  of, 
Which  yet  I  dare  not  utter,  till  I  pay 


My  thanks  to  Heaven  for  'em.    Will  you  go 
With  me,  and  help  me  ?  pray  you,  do. 

Tigr.  I  will. 

Arh.  Take  then  your  fair  one  with  you. — And 
you,  queen 
Of  goodness  and  of  ns,  oh,  give  me  leave 
To  take  your  arm  in  mine !      Come,  every  one 
That  takes  delight  in  goodness,  help  to  sing 
Loud  thanks  for  me  that  I  am  proved  No  King ! 

\Exeunt. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  THE  BURNING  PESTLE. 

London.     1613.* 


PROLOGUE, 

FROM  THE  SECOND  EDITION  (1635). 


Where  the  bee  can  suck  no  honey,  she  leaves 
her  sting  behind ;  and  where  the  bear  cannot 
iiud  origanum^  to  heal  his  grief,  he  blasteth  all 
the  other  leaves  with  his  breath.  We  fear  it  is 
like  to  fare  so  with  us ;  that,  seeing  you  cannot 
draw  from  our  labours  sweet  content,  you  leave 
behind  you  a  sour  mislike,  and  with  open  re- 
proach blame  our  good  meaning,  because  you 
cannot  reap  the  wonted  mirth.  Our  intent  was 
at  this  time  to  move  inward  delight,  not  outward 
lightness ;  and  to  breed  (if  it  might  be)  soft 
smiling,  not  loud  laughing ;  knowing  it,  to  the 
wise,  to  be  a  great  pleasure  to  hear  coimsel 


mixed  with  wit,  as  to  the  foolish  to  have  sport 
mingled  with  rudeness.  They  were  banished 
the  theatre  of  Athens,  and  from  Eome  hissed, 
that  brought  parasites  on  the  stage,  with  apish 
actions,  or  fools  with  uncivil  habits,  or  courtezans 
with  immodest  words.  We  have  endeavoured 
to  be  as  far  from  unseemly  speeches,  to  make 
your  ears  glow,  as  we  hope  you  will  be  free  from 
unkind  reports,  or  mistaking  the  author's  inten- 
tion, who  never  aimed  at  any  one  particular,  in 
this  play,  to  make  our  cheeks  blush.  And  thus 
I  leave  it,  and  thee  to  thine  own  censure,  to  like 
or  dislike. — Vale. 


^ramatis  l^rsouis. 


oSS  Wife,        I  sitting  Mow  amidst 
^n,  his  Apprentice,    j        the  Spectators. 


Speaker  op  the  Prologue. 

The  Citizen, 

The  ' 

Kalph, 

Venter'wels'",  a  rich  Merchant,  Father  o/'Luce. 

Jasper,  his  Apprentice. 

Master  Hujnipiirey,  a  Friend  to  the  Merchant. 

Old  Master  Merrythought,  Father  o/ Jasper 
and  Michael. 

Michael,  Second  Son  of  Mistress  Merry- 
thought. 

Toi,  acting  as  Squire  \   .    -d  , .  t,ti 

George,  acting  as  Dwarf  j"  ^°  -t^^Lrn. 

Host. 

Barber. 


Tapster. 

Three  supposed  Knights. 

A  Captain. 

William  Hamerton. 

George  Greengoose. 

Sergeant. 

Soldiers. 

Boy,  that  danceth  and  singeth. 

Luce,  the  Merchants  Daughter,  beloved  of  and 

loving  Jasper. 
Mistress  Merrythought,  Jasper's  Mother. 
Woman  Caj^tive. 
PoaiPioNA,  Princess  of  Moldavia. 


Scene — London,  and  the  neighbouring  Country,  excepting  Act  rv..  Scene  il,  where  it  is  in  Moldavia. 


1  Ifc  is  uncertain  whether  this  excellent  burlesque  comedy  was  the  joint  production  of  hoth  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  or  whether  only  one  of  them  should  get  the  credit  of  it.  It  is  generally  supposed  that  the  idea  of  the 
burlesque  was  suggested  hy  Don  Quixote.  A.  W.  Schlegel  calls  it  '  an  incomparable  and  singular  work  of  its 
kind,'  and  that  although  'the  thought  is  boiTowed  from  Doii  Quixote,  the  imitation  is  handled  with  freedom, 
and  so  particular!}  applied  to  Spencer's  Fairy  Queen,  that  it  may  pass  for  a  second  invention.' 

2  origanum — wild  marjoram. 


292 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


INDUCTION. 

Enter  Speaker  of  the  Prologue.  The  Citizen,  his 
Wife,  and  Ealph,  sitting  below  the  stage  among 
the  Spectators.  Several  Gentlemen  sitting  upon 
the  Stage.^ 

Prologue.  From  all  that's  near  the  court,  from 
all  thafs  great 
Within  the  compass  of  the  city  walls, 
We  now  have  brought  our  scene — 

Citizen  leaps  upon  the  Stage. 

Cit.  Hold  your  peace,  goodman  boy ! 

Prol.  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 

Cit.  That  you  have  no  good  meaning.  This 
seven  years  there  hath  been  plays  at  this  house, 
I  have  observed  it,  you  have  still  girds-  at  citi- 
zens ;  and  now  you  call  your  play  The  London 
Merchant.  Down  with  your  title,  boy,  down 
with  your  title ! 

Prol.  Are  you  a  member  of  the  noble  city  ? 

Cit.  I  am. 

Prol.  And  a  freeman  ? 

Cit.  Yea,  and  a  grocer. 

Prol.  So,  grocer;  then,  by  your  sweet  favour, 
we  intend  no  abuse  to  the  city. 

Cit.  No,  sir  ?  yes,  sir ;  if  you  were  not  re- 
solved to  play  the  Jacks,^  what  need  you  study 
for  new  subjects,  purposely  to  abuse  your  bet- 
ters ?  Why  could  not  you  be  contented,  as  well 
as  others,  with  the  legend  of  Whittington,  or  the 
Life  and  Death  of  Sir  Thomas  Gresham,  with 
the  building  of  the  Eoyal  Exchange  ?  or  the 
story  of  Queen  Eleanor,  with  the  rearing  of 
London  Bridge  upon  woolsacks  ?  ■• 

Prol.  You  seem  to  be  an  understanding  man; 
what  would  you  have  us  do,  sir .' 

Cit.  Why,  present  something  notably  in  honour 
of  the  commons  of  the  city. 

Prol.  Why,  what  do  you  say  to  the  Life  and 
Death  of  fat  Drake,  or  the  Kepairing  of  Elect 
Privies  "i  * 

Cit.  I  do  not  like  that ;  but  I  will  have  a 
citizen,  and  he  shall  be  of  my  own  trade. 

Prol.  Oh,  you  should  have  told  us  your  mind 
&  month  since  ;  our  play  is  ready  to  begin  now. 

Cit.  'Tis  all  one  for  that ;  I  will  have  a  grocer, 
and  he  shall  do  admirable  things. 

Prol.  What  will  you  have  him  do  ? 

Cit.  Marry,  I  will  have  him — 

Wife.  [_Below.']  Husband,  husband! 

Ralph.  [Below.]  Peace,  mistress! 

Wife.  Hold  thy  peace,  Ealph  ;  I  know  what  I 
do,  I  warrant  thee.     Husband,  husband ! 

Cit.  What  say'st  thou,  cony  ? 

Wife.  Let  him  kill  a  lion  with  a  Pestle,  hus- 
band !  let  him  kill  a  lion  with  a  Pestle  ! 

Cit.  So  he  shall ;  I'll  have  him  kill  a  lion  with 
a  Pestle. 

Wife.  Husband  !  shall  I  come  up,  husband  ? 

Cit.  Ay,  cony.  —  Ealph,  help  your  mistress 
this  way. — Pray,  gentlemen,  make  her  a  little 
room.  I  pray  you,  sir,  lend  me  your  hand  to 
help  up  my  wife.    I  thank  you,  sir ;  so  ! 

[Wife  comes  upon  the  Stage. 


1  The  practice  of  accommoclating  gallants  with  seats 
on  the  stage,  is  often  alluded  to  in  old  plays ;  and  they 
commonly  paid  from  a  sixpence  to  a  shilling  for  a  stool, 
according  to  the  value  of  the  seat. — Webek. 

2  girds — gibes,  sarcasms.    See  note  7,  p.  49,  col.  1. 

3  play  the  Jacks.  This  seems  to  have  been  a  prover- 
bial expression  at  the  time. 

*They  were  aU  probably  names  of  contemporary 
plays. 


Wife.  By  your  leave,  gentlemen  all !  I'm  some- 
thing troublesome.  I'm  a  stranger  here  ;  I  was 
ne'er  at  one  of  these  plays,  as  they  say,  before ; 
but  I  should  have  seen  Jane  Shore'  once;  aud 
my  husband  hath  promised  me,  any  time  this 
twelvemonth,  to  carry  me  to  the  Bold  Beau- 
champs,^  but  in  truth  he  did  not.  I  pray  you 
bear  with  me. 

Cit.  Boy,  let  my  wife  and  I  have  a  couple  of 
stools,  and  then  begin ;  and  let  the  grocer  do 
rare  things. 

[Stools  are  hr ought,  and  they  sit  down. 

Prol.  But,  sir,  we  have  never  a  boy  to  play 
him.     Every  one  hath  a  part  already. 

Wife.  Husband,  husband,  for  God's  sake,  let 
Ealph  play  him !  Beshrew  me,  if  I  do  not  think 
he  will  go  beyond  them  all. 

Cit.  Well  remember'd,  wife. — Come  up,  Ealph ! 
I'U  tell  you,  gentlemen ;  let  them  but  lend  him 
a  suit  of  reparrel,^  and  necessaries,  and,  by  gad, 
if  any  of  them  all  blow  wind  in  the  tail  on  him, 
I'll  be  hanged !  [Ealph  comes  on  the  Stage. 

Wife.  I  pray  you,  youth,  let  him  have  a  suit 
of  reparrel.  I'll  be  sworn,  gentlemen,  my  hus- 
band tells  you  true.  He  will  act  you  sometimes 
at  our  house,  that  all  the  neighbours  cry  out  on 
him ;  he  will  fetch  you  up  a  couraging  part  so 
in  the  garret,  that  we  are  all  as  feared,  1  Avarrant 
you,  that  we  quake  again.  We'll  fear  our  chil- 
dren with  him ;  if  they  be  never  so  unruly,  do 
but  cry,  'Ealph  comes,  Ealph  comes!'  to  tliem, 
and  they'll  be  as  quiet  as  lambs. — Hold  up  thy 
head,  Ealph  ;  show  the  gentleman  what  thou 
canst  do  ;  speak  a  huffing  *  part ;  I  warrant  you 
the  gentlemen  will  accept  of  it. 

Cit.  Do,  Ealph,  do. 

Ralph.  IBy  Heaven,  n^ethinks,  it  were  an  easy 
leap 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-faced  moon, 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
Where  never  fathom-line  touch'd  any  ground. 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  from  the  lake  of 
hell. 

Cit.  How  say  you,  gentlemen?  is  it  not  as  I 
told  you  ? 

Wife.  Nay,  gentlemen,  he  hath  played  before, 
my  husband  says,  Musidorus,^  before  the  wardens 
of  our  company. 

Cit.  Ay,  and  he  should  have  played  Jeronimo  « 
with  a  shoemaker  for  a  wager. 

Prol.  He  shall  have  a  suit  of  apparel,  if  he  will 
go  in, 

Cit.  In,  Ealph !  in,  Ealph !  and  set  out  the 
grocery  in  their  kind,  if  thou  lovest  me. 

Wife.  I  warrant  our  Ealph  will  look  finely 
when  he's  dress'd. 

Prol.  But  what  will  you  have  it  call'd  ? 

Cit.  The  Grocer's  Honour. 

Prol.  Methinks  The  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle  were  better.    . 

Wife.  I'll  be  sworn,  husband,  that's  as  good  a 
name  as  can  be. 

Cit.  Let  it  be  so ;  begin,  begin ;  my  wife  aud 
I  will  sit  down. 

Prol.  I  pray  you,  do. 


1  There  was  more  than  one  play  referring  to  Jane 
Shore ;  this  may  refer  to  the  one  composed  by  Chettle 
and  Day,  acted  in  1602. 

2  the  Bold  Beauchamps.  This  was  one  of  the  ancient 
heroic  plays,  probably  now  lost. — Weber. 

3  reparrei— apparel. 

4  Awj^ngf— heaving  or  swelling  with  anger,  swaggering. 

5  Musidorus—a.  play  printed  m  1598. 

0  Jeronimo— the.  name  of  a  play,  said  to  he  by  Thomas 
Kyd,  which  was  continually  made  a  butt  of  by  contem- 
porary dramatists. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


293 


Cit.  What  stately  music  have  you  ?  you  have 
Bhaunis  ?  ' 

Prol.  Shaums?     No. 

Cit.  No  ?  I'm  a  thief  if  my  mind  did  not  give 
me  so.  Kalpli  plays  a  stately  part,  aud  he  must 
needs  have  shaums.  I'll  be  at  the  charge  of  them 
myself,  rather  than  we'll  be  without  them. 

Prol.  So  you  are  like  to  be. 

Cit.  Why,  and  so  I  will  be.  There's  two  shil- 
lings ;  lets  have  the  waits  of  Southwark !  they 
are  as  rare  fellows  as  any  are  in  England,  and 
that  will  fetch  them  o'er  the  water,  with  a  ven- 
geance, as  if  they  were  mad. 

Prol.  You  shall  have  them.  Will  you  sit  down 
then? 

Cit.  Ay. — Come,  wife. 

Wife.  Sit  you  merry  all,  gentlemen ;  I'm  bold 
to  sit  amongst  you  for  my  ease. 

Prol.  From  all  that's  near  the  court,  from  all 
thafs  great 
Within  the  compass  of  the  city  walls, 
We  now  have  brought  our  scene:  Fly  far  from 

hence 
All  private  taxes,''  L«^^J  immodest  phrases, 
Whatever  may  hut  show  like  vicious! 
For  ivicked  mirth  never  true  pleasure  brings, 
But  honest  minds  are  pleased  with  honest  things. — 

Thus  much  for  what  we  do ;  but,  for  Ealph's 
part,  you  must  answer  for  yourself. 

Cit.  Take  you  no  care  for  Ealph ;  he'll  dis- 
charge himself,  I  warrant  you. 

Wife.  V  faith,  gentlemen,  I'll  give  my  word 
for  Kalph. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  the  House  0/ Ventekwels. 
EnterY'E^'i'EKWELS  and  Jaspek. 

Vent.  Sirrah,  I'll  make  you  know  you  are  my 

prentice. 
And  whom  my  charitable  love  redeem'd 
Even  from  the  fall  of  fortune  ;  gave  thee  heat 
And  growth,  to  be  what  now  thou  art,  new-cast 

thee; 
Adding  the  trust  of  all  I  have,  at  home, 
In  foreign  staples,  or  upon  the  sea. 
To  thy  direction  ;  tied  the  good  opinions 
Both  of  myself  and  friends  to  thy  endeavours  ; 
So  fair  were  thy  beginnings.     But  with  these, 
As  I  remember,  you  had  never  charge 
To  love  your  master's  daughter ;  and  even  then 
When  I  had  found  a  wealthy  husband  for  her ; 
I  take  it,  sir,  you  had  not.    But,  however, 
I'll  break  the  neck  of  that  commission, 
And  make  you  know  you're  but  a  merchant's 

factor. 
Jasp.  Sir,  I  do  liberally  confess  I  am  yours, 
Bound  both  by  love  and  duty  to  your  service, 
In  which  my  laboirr  hath  been  all  my  profit ; 
I  have  not  lost  in  bargain,  nor  delighted 
To  wear  your  honest  gains  upon  my  back ; 
Nor  have  I  given  a  pension  to  my  blood, 
Or  lavishly  in  play  consumed  your  stock : 
These,  and  the  miseries  that  do  attend  them, 
I  dare  with  innocence  proclaim  are  strangers 
To  all  my  temperate  actions.    For  your  daughter, 
If  there  be  any  love  to  my  deservings 
Borne  by  her  virtuous  self,  I  cannot  stop  it ; 
Nor  am  I  able  to  refrain  her  wishes : 


•  shaums— %tQ  note  3,  p.  6-1,  col.  2. 
^  All  private  taxes— i.e.  'all  private  taskings,'  or  re- 
flections on  individuals.— Weeeb. 


She  is  private  to  herself,  and  best  of  knowledge 
Whom  she  will  make  so  happy  as  to  sigh  for. 
Besides,  I  cannot  think  you  mean  to  match  her 
Unto  a  fellow  of  so  lame  a  presence, 
One  that  hath  little  left  of  nature  in  him. 

Vent.  'Tis  very  well,  su- ;  I  can  tell  yom-  wisdom 
How  aU  this  shall  be  cured. 

Jasp.  Yom*  care  becomes  you. 

Vent.  And  thus  it  must  be,  sir:    I  here  dis- 
charge you 
My  house  and  service  ;  take  your  liberty  ; 
And  when  I  want  a  son,  I'll  send  for  you.  \_Exit. 

Jasp.  These  be  the  fair  rewards  of  them  that 
love. 
Oh,  you  that  live  in  freedom  never  prove 
The  travail  of  a  mind  led  by  desire  ! 

Enter  Luce. 

Liice.  Why,  how  now,  friend  ?  struck  with  my 
father's  thunder  ? 

Jasp.  Struck,   and    struck    dead,    unless    the 
remedy 
Be  full  of  speed  and  virtue  ;  I  am  now. 
What  I  expected  long,  no  more  your  father's. 

Luce.  But  mine  ? 

Jasp.  But  yours,  and  only  yours,  I  am  ; 
That's  all  I  have  to  keep  me  from  the  statute. 
You  dare  be  constant  still  ? 

Luce.  Oh,  fear  me  not! 
In  this  I  dare  be  better  than  a  woman. 
Nor  shall  his  anger  nor  his  offers  move  me, 
Were  they  both  equal  to  a  prince's  power. 

Jasp.  You  know  my  rival  ? 

Luce.  Yes,  and  love  lum  dearly ; 
Even  as  I  love  an  ague,  or  foul  weather : 
I  pr'ythee,  Jasper,  fear  him  not! 

J  as}].  Oh,  no  ; 
I  do  not  mean  to  do  him  so  much  kindness. 
But  to  our  own  desires :  you  know  the  plot 
We  both  agreed  on  .* 

Luce.  Yes,  and  will  perform 
Jly  part  exactly. 

Jasp.  I  desire  no  more. 
Farewell,  and  keep  my  heart ;  'tis  yours. 

Luce.  I  take  it ; 
He  must  do  miracles,  makes  me  forsake  it. 

[Exeunt. 

'  Cit.^  Fy  upon  'em,  little  infidels !  what  a 
matter's  here  now  ?  Well,  I'll  be  hang'd  for  a 
halfpenny,  it  there  be  not  some  abomination 
knavery  in  this  play.  Well ;  let  'em  look  to't ; 
Ealph  must  come,  and  if  there  be  any  tricks  a- 
brewing — 

'  WiJ'e.  Let  'em  brew  and  bake  too,  husband, 
a'  God's  name  ;  Ealph  will  find  all  out,  I  warrant 
you,  an  they  were  older  than  they  are. — I  pray, 
my  pretty  youth,  is  Ealph  ready  ? 

'  Boy.  He  will  be  presently. 

'  Wife.  Now,  I  pray  you,  make  my  commenda- 
tions unto  him,  and  withal,  carry  him  this  stick 
of  liquorice ;  tell  him  his  mistress  sent  it  him ; 
and  bid  him  bite  a  piece ;  'twill  open  his  pipes 
the  better,  say.'  \_Exit  Boy. 

Enter  Venterwels  and  Master  Humphrey. 

Vent.  Come,  sir,  she's  yours ;  upon  my  faith, 

she's  yours ; 
You  have  my  hand:  for  other  idle  lets  - 
Between  your  hopes  and  her,  thus  with  a  wind 
They  are  scattered,  and  no  more.    My  wanton 

prentice, 
That  like  a  bladder  blew  himself  with  love, 


1  To  distinguish  the  speeches  of  the  supposed  specta- 
tors from  those  of  the  real  dramatis  personal,  the  former 
are  included  in  inverted  commas. 

2  lets — hindrances. 


294 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


I  have  let  out,  and  sent  him  to  discover 
New  masters  yet  unknown. 

Hum.  I  thank  you,  sir, 
Indeed  I  thank  you,  sir ;  and,  ere  I  stir. 
It  shall  be  known,  however  you  do  deem, 
I  am  of  gentle  blood,  and  gentle  seem. 

Vent.  Oh,  sir,  I  know  it  certain. 

Hum.  Sir,  my  friend. 
Although,  as  wi-iters  say,  all  things  have  end, 
And  that  we  call  a  pudding  hath  his  two. 
Oh,  let  it  not  seem  strange,  I  pray  to  you, 
If  in  this  bloody  simile  I  put 
My  love,  more  endless  than  frail  things  or  gut. 

'  Wife.  Husband,  I  pr'ythee,  sweet  lamb,  tell 
me  one  thing;  but  tell  me  truly. — Stay,  youths, 
I  beseech  you,  till  I  question  my  husband. 

'  Cit.  What  is  it,  mouse  ? 

'  Wife.  Sirrah,  didst  thou  ever  see  a  prettier 
child?  How  it  behaves  itself,  I  warrant  ye !  and 
speaks,  and  looks,  and  perts  up  the  head !  I  pray 
you,  brother,  with  your  favour,  were  you  never 
none  of  Master  Moncaster's '  scholars  ? 

'  Cit.  Chicken,  I  pr'ythee  heartily  contain  thy- 
self ;  the  childer  2  are  pretty  childer ;  but  when 
Ealph  comes,  lamb — 

'  Wife.  Ay,  when  Ealpli  comes,  cony ! — "Well, 
my  youth,  you  may  proceed.' 

Vent.  Well,  sir;  you  know  my  love,  and  rest, 
I  hope. 
Assured  of  my  consent ;  get  but  my  daughter's. 
And  wed  her  when  you  please.    You  must  be 

bold. 
And  clap  in  close  unto  her ;  come,  I  know 
Tou  have  language  good  enough  to  win  a  wench. 

'  Wife.  A  whoresome  tyrant !  'hath  been  an  old 
stringer  ^  in  his  days,  I  warrant  him  ! ' 

Hum.  I  take  your  gentle  offer,  and  withal 
Yield  love  again  for  love  reciprocal. 

Vent.  What,  Luce !  within  there ! 

Enter  Luce. 

Luce.  Call'd  you,  sir  ? 

Vent.  I  did ; 
Give  entertainment  to  this  gentleman  ; 
And  see  you  be  not  froward. — To  hei-,  sir ! 
My  presence  will  but  be  an  eyesore  to  you. 

{Exit. 

Hum.  Pair  Mistress  Luce,  how  do  you  ?  are 
you  well  ? 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  then  I  pray  you  tell 
How  doth  your  little  sister,  and  your  brother  ? 
And  whether  you  love  me  or  any  other  ? 

Luce.  Sir,  these  are  quickly  answered. 

Hum.  So  they  are. 
Where  women  are  not  cruel.    But  how  far 
Is  it  now  distant  from  the  place  we  are  in, 
Unto  that  blessed  place,  your  father's  warren  ? 

hace.  What  makes  you  think  of  that,  sir  ? 

Hum.  Even  that  face ; 
For  stealing  rabbits  whilome  in  that  place, 
God  Cupid,  or  the  keeper,  I  know  not  whether, 
Unto  my  cost  and  charges  brought  you  thither, 
And  thei-e  began — 

Luce.  Your  game,  sir  ? 

Hum.  Let  no  game. 
Or  anything  that  tendeth  to  the  same. 
Be  ever  more  remember'd,  thou  fair  killer, 
For  lyhom  I  sate  me  down  and  brake  my  tiller.^ 


'  Moncaster,  or  rather  Mulcaster,  was  appointed  master 
of  Merchant  Tailor's  School  at  its  original  institution  in 
1561.— Weber. 

2  childer — this  old  plural  of  child  is  stiU  in  use  in 
Scotland. 

3  stringer — same  as  striker,  i.e.  libertine. 
♦  tiller — a  cross-how. 


'  Wife.  There's  a  kind  gentleman,  I  warrant 
you;  when  will  yoix  do  as  much  for  me,  George.'' 
Luce.  Beshrew  me,   sir,   I'm  sorry   for    your 
losses ; 
But,  as  the  proverb  says,  '  I  cannot  cry ; ' 
I  would  you  had  not  seen  me ! 

Hum.  So  would  I, 
Unless  j'ou  had  more  maw  to  do  me  good. 
Luce.  Why,   cannot  this  strange  passion  be 
withstood  ? 
Send  for  a  constable,  and  raise  the  town. 

Hu7n.  Oh,  no,  my  valiant  love  will  batter  down 
Millions  of  constables,  and  put  to  flight 
Even  that   great  watch  of  Midsummer-day  at 
night.i 
Luce.  Beshrew  me,  sir,  'twere  good  I  yielded 
then; 
Weak  women  cannot  hope,  where  valiant  men 
Have  no  resistance. 

Hum.  Yield  then ;  I  am  full 
Of  pity,  though  I  say  it,  and  can  pull 
Out  of  my  pocket  thus  a  pair  of  gloves. 
Look,  Lucy,  look;  the  dog's  tooth,  nor  the  dove's, 
Are  not  so  white  as  these  ;  and  sweet  they  be, 
And  whipt  about  with  silk,  as  you  may  see. 
If  you  desire  the  price,  shoot  from  your  eye 
A  beam  to  this  place,  and  you  shall  espy 
F  S,  which  is  to  say,  my  sweetest  honey. 
They  cost  me  three  and  twopence  or  no  money. 
Luce.  Well,  sir,  I  take  them  kindly,   and  I 
thank  you : 
What  would  you  more  ? 
Him.  Nothing. 
Luce.  Why,  then,  farewell ! 
Hum.  Nor  so,  nor  so ;  for,  lady,  I  must  tell, 
Before  we  part  for  what  we  met  together ; 
God    grant   mo   time,    and    patience,    and    fair 
weather ! 
Luce.  Speak,  and  declare  your  mind  in  terms 

so  brief. 
Hu7n.  I  shall ;  then  first  and  foremost,  for  relief 
I  call  to  you,  if  that  you  can  afford  it ; 
I  care  not  at  what  price,  for  on  my  word,  it 
Shall  be  repaid  again,  although  it  cost  me 
More  than  I'll  speak  of  now ;  for  love  hath  toss'd 

me 
In  furious  blanket  like  a  tennis-ball, 
And  now  I  rise  aloft,  and  now  I  fall. 

Luce.  Alas,  good  gentleman,  alas  the  day ! 
Hum.  1  thank  you  heartily ;  and,  as  I  say, 
Thus  do  I  still  continue  without  rest, 
r  th'  morning  like  a  man,  at  night  a  beast, 
Eoaring  and  bellowing  mine  own  disquiet, 
That  nmch  I  fear,  forsaldng  of  my  diet 
Will  bring  me  presently  to  that  quandai-y, 
I  shall  bid  all  adieu. 

Luce.  Now,  by  St.  Mary, 
That  were  great  pity ! 

Hum.  So  it  were,  beshrew  me  ; 
Then  ease  me,  lusty  Luce,  and  pity  show  me. 
Luce.  Why,  su",  you  know  my  wiU  is  nothing 
worth 
Without  my  father's  grant ;  get  his  consent. 
And  then  you  may  with  assiu-ance  tiy  me. 

Hum.  The  worshipful  your  sire  will  not  deny  me, 
For  I  have  ask'd  him,  and  he  hath  replied, 
'Sweet   Master  Humphrey,  Luce  shaU  be  thy 
bride.' 
Luce.  Sweet  Master  Humphrey,  then  I  am  con- 
tent. 
Hu7n.  And  so  am  I,  in  truth. 


1  This  prohahly  alludes  to  a  custom  of  celehrating 
the  vigil  of  St.  John  the  Baptist  after  sunset,  when, 
among  other  things,  2000  men  perambulated  the  streets. 
— Webbk. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


295 


Luct.  Yet  take  me  with  you ; 
There  is  another  clause  must  be  annex'd, 
And  this  it  is :  I  swore,  and  will  perform  it, 
No  man  shall  ever  'joy  me  as  his  wife, 
But  he  that  stole  me  hence.     If  you  dare  venture, 
I'm  yours  (you  need  not  fear ;  my  father  loves 

you); 
If  not,  farewell  for  ever ! 

Eum.  Stay,  nymph,  stay ! 
I  have  a  double  gelding,  colour'd  bay, 
Sprung  by  his  father  from  Barbarian  land ; 
Another  for  myself,  though  somewhat  blind, 
Tet  true  as  trusty  tree. 

Luce.  I  am  satisfied  ; 
And  so  I  give  my  hand.     Our  course  must  lie 
Through  Waltham-Forest,  where  I  have  a  friend 
Will  entertain  us..   So  farewell,  Sir  Humphrey, 
And  think  upon  your  business!  \Exit  Luce. 

Hum.  Though  I  die, 
I  am  resolved  to  venture  life  and  limb. 
For  one  so  young,  so  fair,  so  kind,  so  trim. 

\_Exit  Humphrey. 

'  Wife.  By  my  faith  and  troth,  George,  and  as 
I  am  virtuous,  it  is  e'en  the  kindest  young  man 
that  ever  trod  on  shoe-leather.  Well,  go  thy 
ways ;  if  thou  hast  her  not,  'tis  not  thy  fault,  faith. 

'  Cit.  I  pr'ythee,  mouse,  be  patient !  a' '  shall 
have  her,  or  I'll  make  some  of  'em  smoke  for't. 

'  Wife.  That's  my  good  lamb,  George.  Fy ! 
This  stinking  tobacco  kills  men !  'Would  there 
were  none  in  England !  Now  I  pray,  gentlemen, 
what  good  does  this  stinking  tobacco  -  do  you  ? 
nothing,  I  warrant  you  ;  make  chimneys  a'  your 
faces!' 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 

A  Grocer's  Shop, 

Enter  Ealph,  lihe  a  Grocer^  with  two  Apprentices, 
reading  Palmerin  of  England. 

'  Wife.  Oh,  husband,  husband,  now,  now ! 
there's  Ealph,  there's  Ealph.' 

'  Cit.  Peace,  fool !  let  Ealph  alone. — Hark  you, 
Ealph;  do  not  strain  yourself  too  much  at  the 
first.     Peace!     Begin,  Ealph.' 

Ralph.  {Reads.']  Then  Palmerin  and  Trineus,  snatch- 
ing their  lances  from  their  dwarfs,  dnd  clasping  their 
helmets,  galloped  amain  after  the  giant ;  and  Palmerin 
having  gotten  a  sight  of  him,  came  posting  amain, 
saying,  'Stay,  traitorous  thief!  for  thou  mayst  not  so 
carry  away  her,  that  is  worth  the  greatest  lord  in  the 
world,'  and,  with  these  words,  gave  him  a  blow  on  the 
shoulder,  that  he  struck  him  besides  his  elephant.  And 
Trineus  coming  to  the  knight  that  had  Agricola  behind 
him,  set  him  soon  besides  his  horse,  with  his  neck  broken 
in  the  fall ;  so  that  the  princess  getting  out  of  the 
throng,  between  joy  and  grief,  said,  'AH  happy  knight, 
the  mirror  of  all  such  as  foUow  arms,  now  may  1  be  well 
assm-ed  of  the  love  thou  bearest  me.'* 

I  wonder  why  the  kings  do  not  raise  an  army  of 
fourteen  or  fifteen  hundred  thousand  men,  as  big 
as  the  army  that  the  Prince  of  Portigo  brought 
against  Eosicler,*  and  destroy  these  giants;  they 
do  much  hurt  to  wandering  damsels,  that  go  in 
quest  of  their  knights. 

1  a'— he. 

2  tobacco.  At  the  time  our  authors  wrote,  tobacco, 
wine,  and  beer,  were  the  usual  accommodations  in  the 
theatre. — Reed. 

*  This  passage  is  taken,  with  some  slight  variations, 
from  Palmerin  D'Oliva,  the  Mirror  of  Nobility,  Map  of 
Honour,  d-c,  and  most  accomplished  Knight  in  all  Per- 
fections (1588). — Reed. 

*  These  were  characters  in  the  celebrated  Espeio  de 
Caballenso,  one  of  the  romances  condemned  by  the  curate 
in  Don  Quixote  to  the  flames.— Webeb. 


'  Wife.  'Faith,  husband,  and  Ealph  says  true; 
for  they  say  the  King  of  Portugal  cannot  sit  at 
his  meat,  but  the  giants  and  the  ettins  ^  wUl  come 
and  snatch  it  from  him. 

'  Cit.  Hold  thy  tongue. — On,  Ealph!' 
Ralph.  And  certainly  those  knights  are  much 
to  be  commended,  who,  neglecting  their  posses- 
sions, wander  with  a  squire  and  a  dwarf  through 
the  deserts,  to  relieve  poor  ladies. 

'  Wife.  Ay,  by  my  faith  are  they,  Ealph ;  let 
'em  say  what  they  will,  they  are  indeed.  Our 
knights  neglect  their  possessions  well  enough, 
but  they  do  not  the  rest.' 

Ralph.  There  are  no  such  courteous  and  fair 
well-spoken  knights  in  this  age.  But  what  brave 
spirit  could  be  content  to  sit  in  his  shop,  with  a 
flappet  of  'wood,  and  a  blue  apron  before  him, 
selling  Methridatani-  and  dragon's  water  to  visited 
houses,  that  might  pursue  feats  of  arms,  and, 
through  his  noble  achievements,  procure  such 
a  famous  history  to  be  written  of  his  heroic 
prowess  ? 

'  Cit.  Well  said,  Ealph ;  some  more  of  those 
words,  Ealph ! 

'  Wife.  They  go  finely,  by  my  troth.' 
Ralph.  Why  should  not  I  then  pursue  this 
course,  both  for  the  credit  of  myself  and  our 
company .''  for  amongst  all  the  worthy  books  of 
achievements,  I  do  not  call  to  mind  that  I  yet 
read  of  a  Grocer -Errant ;  I  will  be  the  said 
Knight  — Have  you  heard  of  any  that  hath  wan- 
dered unfm-nished  of  his  squire  and  dwarf  ?  My 
elder  prentice  Tim  shall  be  my  trusty  squire,  and 
little  George  my  dwarf.  Hence,  my  blue  apron ! 
Yet,  in  remembrance  of  my  former  trade,  upon 
my  shield  shall  be  portrayed  a  Burning  IPestle, 
and  I  will  be  caUed  the  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle. 

'  Wife.  Nay,  I  dare  swear  thou  wilt  not  forget 
thy  old  trade ;  thou  wert  ever  meek.' 
Ralph.  Tim! 
Tim.  Anon. 

Ralph.  My  beloved  squire,  and  George  my 
dwarf,  I  charge  you  that  from  henceforth  you 
never  call  me  by  any  other  name  but  the  Right 
courteous  and  valiant  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle ;  and  that  you  never  call  any  female  by  the 
name  of  a  woman  or  wench,  but  fair  lady,  if  she 
have  her  desires;  if  not,  distressed  damsel;  that 
you  call  all  forests  and  heaths,  deserts,  and  all 
horses,  palfries  ! 

'  Wife.  This  is  very  fine  ! — 'Faith,  do  the 
gentlemen  like  Ealph,  think  you,  husband  ? 

'  Cit.  Ay,  I  warrant  thee ;  the  plaj-ers  would 
give  all  the  shoes  in  their  shop  for  him.' 

Ralph.  My  beloved  squire  Tim,  stand  out. 
Admit  this  were  a  desert,  and  over  it  a  knight- 
errant  pricking,*  and  I  should  bid  you  inquire  of 
his  intents,  what  would  you  say  ? 

Tim.  '  Sir,  my  master  sent  me  to  know  whither 
you  are  riding .? ' 

Ralph.  No !  thus :  '  Fair  sir !  the  Aight  cour- 
ieoics  and  valiant  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle 
commanded  me  to  inquire  upon  what  adventure 
you  are  bound,  whether  to  relieve  some  distressed 
damsels,  or  otherwise.' 

'  Cit.  Whoreson  blockhead,  cannot  remember! 
'  Wife.  I'faith,  and  Ealph  told  him  ou't  before ; 


'^  ettins — giants.  Anglo-Saxon,  eton,  eoten  ;  Scotch, 
eyttyn;  probably  connected  with  Icelandic  ioiwre. 

-  selling  Methridatam,  &c. — i.e.  to  houses  visited  by 
the  plague.  For  methridate,  see  p.  230,  col.  2,  note  2. 
Dragon's  water  is  a  ludicrous  mistake  for  dragon's  blood, 
the  gum  of  the  dragon  tree. 

*  pricking — riding. 


296 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


all  the  gentlemen  heard  him ;  did  he  not,  gentle- 
men ?  did  not  Ealph  tell  him  on't  ?  ' 

George.  Right  courteous  and  valiant  Knight  of 
the  Burning  Pestle,  here  is  a  distressed  damsel,  to 
have  a  halfpenny-worth  of  pepper. 

'  Wife.  That's  a  good  boy !  See,  the  little  boy 
can  hit  it.    By  my  troth,  it's  a  fine  child.' 

Ralph.  Relieve  her  with  all  courteous  language. 
Now  shut  up  shop ;  no  more  my  'prentice,  but 
My  trusty  squire  and  dwarf.     I  must  bespeak 
My  shield,  and  arming  Pestle. 

'  Cit.  Go  thy  ways,  Ealph !  As  I  am  a  true 
man,  thou  art  the  best  on  'em  all. 

'  Wife.  Ealph,  Ealph  ! 

'  Ralph.  What  say  you,  mistress  ? 

'  Wife.  I  pr'j^thee  come  again  quickly,  sweet 
Ealph. 

'  Ral^h.  By  and  by.'  [_Exit. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  Mekrythought's  House. 
Enter  Jasper  and  Mrs.  Merrythought. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Give  thee  my  blessing?  No,  I'll 
ne'er  give  thee  my  blessing ;  I'll  see  thee  hang'd 
first ;  it  shall  ne'er  be  said  I  gave  thee  my  bless- 
ing. Thou  art  thy  father's  own  son,  of  the  right 
blood  of  the  Merrythoughts ;  I  may  curse  the  time 
that  e'er  I  knew  thy  father;  he  hath  spent  all  his 
own,  and  mine  too ;  and  when  I  tell  him  of  it,  he 
laughs,  and  dances,  and  sings,  and  cries,  'A  merry 
heart  lives  long-a.'  And  thou  art  a  wastethrift, 
and  art  run  away  from  thy  master,  that  loved 
thee  well,  and  art  come  to  me ;  and  I  have  laid 
up  a  little  for  my  younger  son  Michael,  and  thou 
thiuk'st  to  'bezzle  that,  but  thou  shalt  never  be 
able  to  do  it. 

Enter  Michael. 

Come  hither,  Michael;  come,  Michael;  down  on 
tby  knees:  thou  shalt  have  my  blessing. 

Mich.  \Jcneels.'\  I  pray  you,  mother,  pray  to 
God  to  bless  me ! 

Mrs.  Mer.  God  bless  thee!  but  Jasper  shall 
never'have  my  blessing  ;  he  shall  be  hanged  first, 
shall  he  not,  Michael .'     How  say'st  thou  ? 

Mich.  Yes,  forsooth,  mother,  and  grace  of  God. 

Mrs.  Mer.  That's  a  good  boy ! 

'  Wife.  I'faith,  it's  a  fine  spoken  child ! ' 

Jasp.  Mother,  though  you  forget  a  parent's  love, 
I  must  preserve  the  duty  of  a  child. 
I  ran  not  from  my  master,  nor  return 
To  have  your  stock  maintain  my  idleness. 

'  Wife.  Ungracious  child,  I  warrant  him !  hark, 
how  he  chops  logic  with  his  mother.  Thou  hadst 
best  tell  her  she  lies ;  do,  tell  her  she  lies. 

'  Cit.  If  he  were  my  son,  I  would  hang  him  up 
by  the  heels,  and  flay  him,  and  salt  him,  whoreson 
halter-sack!'* 

Jasp.  My  coming  only  is  to  beg  your  love. 
Which  I  must  ever,  though  I  never  gain  it ; 
And,  howsoever  you  esteem  of  me. 
There  is  no  drop  of  blood  hid  in  these  veins, 
But  I  remember  well  belongs  to  you. 
That  brought  me  forth,  and  would  be  glad  for  you 
To  rip  them  all  again,  and  let  it  out. 

Mrs.  Mer.  I'faith,  I  had  sorrow  enough  for  thee 
(God  knows),  but  I'll  hamper  thee  well  enough. — 
Get  thee  in,  thou  vagabond,  get  thee  in,  and  learn 
of  thy  brother  Michael. 

Mer.  ISinging  within.']  Nose,  nose,  jolly  red  nose, 
And  who  gave  thee  this  jolly  red  nose  ? 


'  fta/<er-saci— gallows-bird. 


Mrs.  Mer.  Hark,  my  husband !  he's  singing 
and  hoiting;*  and  I'm  fain  to  cark-  and  care, 
and  all  little  enough.  —  Husband!  Charles! 
Charles  Merrythought ! 

Enter  Old  Merrythought. 

Mer.  [Singing.]  Nutmegs  and  ginger,  cinnamon  and 
cloves; 
And  they  gave  me  this  jolly  red  nose. 

3frs.  Mer.  If  you  would  consider  your  state, 
you  would  have  little  lust  to  sing,  I  wis. 

Mer.  It  should  never  be  considered,  while  it 
were  an  estate,  if  I  thought  it  would  spoil  my 
singing. 

3frs.  Mer.  But  how  wilt  thou  do,  Charles .' 
Thou  art  an  old  man,  and  thou  canst  not  work, 
and  thou  hast  not  forty  shillings  left,  and  thou 
eatest  good  meat,  and  driukest  good  drink,  and 
laughest. 

Mer.  And  will  do. 

Mrs.  Mei:  But  how  wilt  thou  come  by  it, 
Charles  ? 

Mer.  How  ?  Why,  how  have  I  done  hitherto 
these  forty  years  ?  I  never  came  into  my  dining- 
room,  but,  at  eleven  and  six  o'clock,^  I  found 
excellent  meat  and  drink  o'  th'  table ;  my  clothes 
were  never  worn  out,  but  next  morning  a  tailor 
brought  me  a  new  suit ;  and  without  question  it 
will  be  so  ever !  Use  makes  perfectness ;  if  all 
should  fail,  it  is  but  a  little  straining  myself  extra- 
ordinary, and  laugh  myself  to  death. 

'  Wife.  It's  a  foolish  old  man  this ;  is  not  he, 
George  ? 

'  Cit.  Yes,  cony — 

'  Wi/e.  Give  me  a  penny  i'  th'  purse  while  I 
live,  George. 

'  Cit.  Ay,  by'r  lady,  cony,  hold  thee  there ! ' 

3Irs.  Mer.  Well,  Charles,  you  promised  to  pro- 
vide for  Jasper,  and  I  have  laid  up  for  Michael. 
I  pray  you  pay  Jasper  his  portion ;  he's  come 
home,  and  he  shall  not  consume  Michael's  stock. 
He  says  his  master  turned  him  away,  but  I  pro- 
mise you  truly  I  think  he  ran  away. 

'  Wife.  No,  indeed,  Mistress  Merrythought, 
though  he  be  a  notable  gallows,  yet  I'll  assure 
you  his  master  did  turn  him  away,  even  in  this 
place ;  'twas,  i'faith,  within  this  half- hour,  about 
his  daughter ;  my  husband  was  by. 

'  Cit.  Hang  him,  rogue !  he  served  him  well 
enough.  Love  his  master's  daughter  ?  By  my 
troth,  cony,  if  there  were  a  thousand  boys,  thou 
wouldst  spoil  them  all,  with  taking  their  parts ; 
let  his  mother  alone  with  him. 

'  Wife.  Ay,  George,  but  yet  truth  is  truth.' 

Mer.  Whei'e  is  Jasper  ?  he's  welcome,  however. 
Call  him  in;  he  shall  have  his  portion.  Is  he 
merry  ? 

Mrs..  Mer.  Kj,  foul  chive  *  him,  he  is  too  merry. 
Jasper!  Michael! 

Enter  Jasper  and  Michael. 

Mer.  Welcome,  Jasper !  though  thou  runn'st 
away,  welcome !  God  bless  thee !  'Tis  thy 
mother's  mind  thou  shouldst  receive  thy  portion  ; 
thou  hast  been  abroad,  and  I  hope  hast  learn'd 
experience  enough  to  govern  it ;  thou  art  of  suffi- 
cient years ;  hold  thy  hand :  one,  two,  three,  four, 


'  hotting.  To  hoit  is  to  caper,  to  indulge  in  riotous 
and  noisy  mirth.  We  still  speak  of  a  hoity-toity  person. 
— Nares. 

-  cark — care. 

^  These  were  the  dinner  and  supper  hours  in  our 
author's  time. 

*  chive.  Weber  thinks  this  may  be  a  Somersetshire 
contraction  for  shall  have  him.  However,  it  may  be 
connected  with  chevan,  to  run  away  precipitately. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


297 


five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  there  is  ten  shillings 
for  thee ;  thrust  thyself  into  the  world  with  that, 
and  take  some  settled  course.  If  Fortune  cross 
thee,  thou  bast  a  retiring  place ;  come  home  to 
me ;  I  have  twenty  shillings  left.  Be  a  good 
husband ;  that  is,  wear  ordinary  clothes,  eat  the 
best  meat,  and  drink  the  best  drink ;  be  merry, 
and  give  to  the  poor,  and,  believe  me,  thou  hast 
no  end  of  thy  goods. 

Jasp.  Long  may  you  live  free  from  all  thought 
of  ill, 
And  long  have  cause  to  be  thus  merry  still ! 
But,  father — 

Mer.  No  more  words,  Jasper ;  get  thee  gone ! 
Thou  hast  my  blessing ;  thy  father's  spirit  upon 
thee!     Farewell,  Jasper! 

But  yet,  or  ere  you  part  (oh,  cruel !) 
Kiss  me,  kiss  me,  sweeting,  mine  own  dear  jewel! 

So;  now  begone  ;  no  words  I  [£'a:t<  Jasper. 

Mrs.  Mer.  So,  Michael ;  now  get  thee  gone  too. 

Mich.  Yes,  forsooth,  mother ;  but  I'll  have  my 
father's  blessing  first. 

Mrs.  Mer.  No,  Michael ;  'tis  no  matter  for  his 
blessing  ;  thou  hast  my  blessing ;  be  gone.  I'll 
fetch  my  money  and  jewels,  and  follow  thee.  I'll 
stay  no  longer  with  him,  I  warrant  thee. — Truly, 
Charles,  I'll  be  gone  too. 

Mer.  What !  you  will  not  ? 

Mrs.  Mer.  Yes,  indeed  will  I. 

Mer.  [Sings.}  Hey-ho,  farewell,  Nan ! 
I'll  never  trust  wench  more  again,  if  I  can. 

Mrs.  Mer.  You  shall  not  think  (when  all  your 
own  is  gone)  to  spend  that  I  have  been  scraping 
up  for  Michael. 

Mer.  Farewell,  good  wife  !  I  expect  it  not ;  all 
I  have  to  do  in  this  world,  is  to  be  merry ;  which 
I  shall,  if  the  ground  be  not  taken  from  me ;  and 
if  it  be,  [Sinr/s. 


When  earth  and  seas  from  me  are  reft, 
'lliu  sliies  alott  for  me  are  left. 


END  OF  ACT  I. 


lExeunt. 


'  Wife.  I'll  be  sworn  he's  a  merry  old  gentle- 
man, for  all  that.  Hark,  hark,  husband,  hark ! 
fiddles,  fiddles!  [Ji«s/c.]  Now  surely  they  go 
finely.  They  say  'tis  present  death  for  these 
fiddlers  to  tune  their  rebecks'  before  the  great 
Turk's  grace;  is't  not,  George!  [5oy  danceih.'] 
But  look,  look !  here's  a  youth  dances !  Now, 
good  youth,  do  a  turn  o'  th'  toe.  Sweetheart, 
i'faith  I'll  have  Ealph  come  and  do  some  of  his 
gambols;  he'll  ride  the  wild-mare,  gentlemen, 
'twould  do  your  hearts  good  to  see  him.  I  thank 
you,  kind  youth ;  pray,  bid  Ealph  come. 

^Cit.  Peace,  cony! — SuTah,  you  scurvy  boy, 
bid  the  players  send  Ealph;  or,  by  God's  wounds, 
an  they  do  not,  I'll  tear  some  of  their  periwigs 
beside  their  heads ;  this  is  all  riff-raff.' 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  the  House  q/"VENTERWELS. 

Enter  Venterwels  and  Master  Humphrey. 

Vent.  And  how,  i'faith,  how  goes  it  now,  son 
Humphrey  ? 


1  A  rebeck  was  an  instrument  of  three  strings  some- 
what Oka  a  modern  fiddle. 


JJtim.  Eight  worshipful,  and  my  beloved  friend 
And  father  dear,  this  matter's  at  an  end. 

Vent.  'Tis  well ;  it  should  be  so  :  I'm  glad  the 
girl 
Is  found  so  tractable. 

Hum.  Nay,  she  must  whirl 
From  hence  (and  you  must  wink  ;  for  so,  I  say, 
The  stoi-y  tells)  to-morrow  before  day. 

'  Wije.  George,  dost  thou  think  in  thy  con- 
science now  'twill  be  a  match  ?  tell  me  but  what 
tiiou  think'st,  sweet  rogue.  Q^hou  seest  the  poor 
gentleman  (dear  heart!)  how  it  labours  and  throbs, 
I  warrant  you,  to  be  at  rest.  I'll  go  move  the 
father  for't. 

'  Cif.  No,  no ;  I  pr'ythee  sit  still,  honeysuckle ; 
thou'lt  spoil  all.  If  he  deny  him,  I'll  bring  half 
a  dozen  good  fellows  myself,  and  in  the  shutting 
of  an  evening  knock  it  up,  and  there's  an  end. 

'  WiJe.  I'll  buss  thee  for  that,  i'faith,  boy ! 
"Well,  George,  well,  you  have  been  a  wag  in  your 
days,  I  warrant  you;  but  God  forgive  you,  and 
I  do  with  all  my  heart.' 

Vent.  How  was  it,  son  ?  you  told  me  that  to- 
morrow 
Before  day-break,  you  must  convey  her  hence. 

Hum.  1  must,  I  must ;  and  thus  it  is  agreed : 
Your  daughter  rides  upon  a  brown-bay  steed, 
I  on  a  sorrel,  which  I  bought  of  Brian, 
The  honest  host  of  the  red  roaring  Lion, 
In  Walthara  situate.     Then  if  you  may, 
Consent  in  seemly  sort;  lest  by  dela.y. 
The  fatal  sisters  come,  and  do  the  office. 
And  then  you'll  sing  another  song. 

Vent.  Alas, 
Why  should  you  be  thus  full  of  grief  to  me, 
That  do  as  willing  as  yourself  agree 
To  anything,  so  it  be  good  and  fair  ? 
Then  steal  her  when  you  will,  if  such  a  pleasure 
Content  you  both  ;  I'll  sleep  and  never  see  it. 
To  make  your  joys  more  full.     But  tell  me  why 
You  may  not  here  perform  your  marriage  ? 

'  WiJe.  God's  blessing  o'  thy  soul,  old  man! 
I'faith,  thou  art  loath  to  part  true  hearts.  I  see 
a'  has  her,  George ;  and  I'm  as  glad  on't! — Well, 
go  thy  ways,  Humphrey,  for  a  fair-spoken  man  ; 
1  believe  thou  hast  not  thy  fellow  within  the 
walls  of  London ;  an  I  should  say  the  suburbs 
too,  I  should  not  lie.  Why  dost  not  rejoice  with 
me,  George  ? 

'  Cit.  If  I  oould  but  see  Ealph  again,  I  were  as 
merry  as  mine  host,  i'faith.' 

Hum.  The  cause    you  seem  to   ask,    I    thus 
declare : 
(Help    me,  oh,  muses    nine!)    Your   daughter 

sware 
A  foolish  oath,  the  more  it  was  the  pity ; 
Yet  no  one  but  myself  within  this  city 
Shall  dare  to  say  so,  but  a  bold  defiance 
Shall  meet  him,  were  he  of  the  noble  science. 
And  yet  she  sware,  and  yet  why  did  she  swear  ? 
Truly  I  cannot  tell,  unless  it  were 
For  her  own  ease  ;  for  sure  sometimes  an  oath, 
Being  sworn  thereafter,  is  like  cordial  broth : 
And  this  it  was  she  swore,  never  to  marry. 
But  such  a  one  whose  mighty  arm  could  carry 
(As  meaning  me,  for  I  am  such  a  one) 
Her  bodily  away,  through  stick  and  stone, 
Till  both  of  us  arrive  at  her  request. 
Some  ten  miles  off,  in  the  wild  Waltham'Forest. 

Vent.  If  this  be  all,  you  shall  not  need  to  fear 
Any  denial  in  your  love  :  proceed ; 
I'll  neither  follow,  nor  repent  the  deed. 

Hum.  Good  night,  twenty  good   nights,  and 
twenty  more. 
And  twenty  more  good  nights,  that  makes  three^ 
score ! 

l_Exeunt, 


298 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 

Niglit.     Waliliam  Forest. 
Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought  and  Michael. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Come,  Michael ;  art  thou  not  weary, 
boy.» 

Mick.  No,  forsooth,  mother,  not  I. 

Mi's.  Mer.  Where  be  we  now,  child  ? 

Mich.  Indeed,  forsooth,  mother,  I  cannot  tell, 
unless  we  be  at  Mile-End.  Is  not  all  the  world 
Mile-End,  mother? 

Mrs.  Mer.  No,  Michael,  not  all  the  world,  boy ; 
but  I  can  assure  thee,  Michael,  Mile-End  is  a 
goodly  matter.  There  has  been  a  pitchtield,'  my 
child,  between  the  naughty  Spaniels  and  the  Eng- 
lishmen ;  and  the  Spaniels  ran  away,  Michael, 
and  the  Englishmen  followed.  My  neighbour 
Coxstone  was  there,  boy,  and  killed  them  all 
with  a  birding-piece. 

Mich.  Mother,  forsooth! 

Mrs.  Mer.  What  says  my  white  ^  boy  ? 

Mich.  Shall  not  my  father  go  with  us  too  ? 

Mrs.  Mer.  No,  Michael,  let  thj'  father  go  snick- 
up,3  he  shall  never  come  between  a  pair  of  sheets 
with  me  again,  while  he  lives ;  let  him  staj'  at 
home  and  sing  for  his  supper,  boy. — Come,  child, 
sit  down,  and  I'll  show  my  boy  fine  knacks,  in- 
deed. [Takes  out  a  caslcet.'\  Look  here,  Michael ; 
here's  a  ring,  and  here's  a  brooch,  and  here's  a 
bracelet,  and  here's  two  rings  more,  and  here's 
money  and  gold,  by  th'  eye,  my  boy ! 

Mich.  Shall  I  have  all  this,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Mer,  Ay,  Michael,  thou  shalt  have  all, 
Michael. 

'  Cit.  How  lik'st  thou  this,  wench  ? 

'  Wife.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  woiild  have  Ealph, 
George ;  I'll  see  no  more  else,  indeed-la ;  and  I 
pray  you  let  the  youths  understand  so  much  by 
word  of  mouth  ;  for  I  tell  you  truly,  I'm  afraid  o' 
my  boy.  Come,  come,  George,  let's  be  merry  and 
wise ;  the  child's  a  fatherless  child,  and  say  they 
should  put  him  into  a  strait  pan-  of  gaskins,* 
'twere  worse  than  knot-grass ;  ^  he  would  never 
grow  after  it. 

Enter  Ealph,  Tim,  and  Geokgb. 

'  Cit.  Here's  Ealph,  here's  Ealph. 

'  Wife.  How  do  you,  Ealph  ?  you  are  welcome, 
Ealph,  as  I  may  say.  It's  a  good  boy  !  hold  up 
thy  head,  and  be  not  afraid  ;  we  are  thy  friends, 
Ealph,  The  gentlemen  will  praise  thee,  Ealph, 
if  thou  play'st  thy  part  with  audacity.  Begin, 
Ealph,  a'  God's  name!' 

Ral2)h.  My  trusty  squire,  unlace  my  helm ;  give 
me  my  hat. 
Where  are  we,  or  what  desert  may  this  be  ? 

George.  Mirror  of  knighthood,  this  is,  as  I  take 
it,  the  perilous  Waltham  Down,  in  whose  bottom 
stands  the  enchanted  valley. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Oh,  Michael,  we  are  betrayed,  we 
are  betrayed !  here  be  giants !  Fly,  boy,  fly,  boy, 
fly !  [Exit  with  Michael,  leaving  the  casket. 


1  There  has  been  a  pitchfield,  <&c.  This  must  relate  to 
some  mock  fight  which  was  fought  at  Mile-End,  where 
the  train-hands  of  the  city  were  often  exercised.— 
Weber. 

2  white  was  then  a  common  term  of  endearment. 
2  snick-vp  or  sneck-up — hang  himself. 

*  gaskins,  gascoynes,  or  galligaskins,  generally  denoted 
wide  hose,  but  was  also  used  generally  for  trousers ;  the 
article  is  supposed  to  have  been  introduced  from  Gas- 
cony. 

5  knot-grass  was  anciently  supposed  to  prevent  the 
growth  of  a  child. 


Ealph.  Lace  on  my  helm  again !  What  noise  is 
this  ? 
A  gentle  lady,  flying  the  embrace 
Of  some  uncourteous  kiught.''  I  will  relieve  her. 
Go,  squire,  and  say,  the  knight  that  wears  this 

Pestle 
In  honour  of  all  ladies,  swears  revenge 
Upon  that  recreant  coward  that  pursues  her ; 
Go,  comfort  her,  and  that  same  gentle  squire 
That  bears  her  company. 

Tim.  I  go,  brave  knight. 

Ralph.  My  trusty  dwarf  and  friend,  reach  me 
my  shield ; 
And  hold  it  while  I  swear :  First,  by  my  knight- 
hood; 
Then  by  the  soul  of  Amadis  de  Gaul, 
My  famous  ancestor ;  then  by  my  sword, 
The  beauteous  Briouella  girt  about  me  ; 
By  this  bright  burning  Pestle,  of  mine  honour 
The  living  trophy ;  and  by  all  respect 
Due  to  distressed  damsels,  here  I  vow 
Never  to  end  the  quest  of  this  fair  lady. 
And  that  forsaken  squire,  till  by  my  valour 
I  gain  their  liberty !  [Exit. 

Geo.  Heaven  bless  the  knight 
That  thus  relieves  poor  errant  gentlewomen ! 

[Exit. 

'  Wife.  Ay  marry,  Ealph,  this  has  some  savour 
in't ;  I  would  see  the  proudest  of  them  all  offer  to 
carry  his  books  after  him.  But,  George,  I  will 
not  have  him  go  away  so  soon ;  I  shall  be  sick 
if  he  go  away,  that  I  shall.  Call  Ealph  again, 
George,  call  Ealph  again  ;  I  pr'ythee,  sweetheart, 
let  him  come  fight  before  me,  and  let's  ha'  some 
drums,  and  some  trumpets,  and  let  him  kiU  all 
that  comes  near  him,  an  thou  lov'st  me,  George ! 

'  Cit.  Peace  a  little,  bird !  He  shall  Idll  them 
all,  an  they  were  twenty  more  on  'em  than  there 
are.' 

Enter  Jasper. 

Jasp.  Now,  Fortune  (if  thou  bo'st  not  oilly  ill), 
Show  me  thy  better  face,  and  bring  about 
Thy  desperate  wheel,  that  I  may  climb  at  length, 
And  stand  ;  this  is  our  place  of  meeting, 
If  love  have  any  constancy.     O  age. 
Where  only  wealthy  men  are  counted  happy  ! 
How  shall  I  please  thee,  how  deserve  thy  smiles, 
When  I  am  only  rich  in  misery  ? 
My  father's  blessing,  and  this  little  coin, 
Is  my  inheritance ;  a  strong  revenue  ! 
From  earth  thou  art,  and  to  the  earth  I  give  thee  : 
There  grow  and  multiply,  whilst  fresher  air 
Breeds  me  a  fresher  fortune. — How !  illusion  ! 

[Spies  the  casket. 
What !  hath  the  devil  coin'd  himself  before  me  ? 
'Tis  metal  good  :  it  rings  well ;  I  am  waking, 
And  taking  too,  I  hope.   Now,  God's  dear  blessing 
Upon  his  heart  that  left  it  here  !  'tis  mine ; 
These  pearls,  I  take  it,  were  not  left  for  swine. 

[Exit. 

'  Wife.  I  do  not  like  that  this  unthrifty  youth 
should  embezzle  away  the  money;  the  poor 
gentlewoman  his  mother  wUl  have  a  heavy 
heart  for  it,  God  knows. 

'  Cit.  And  good  reason,  sweetheart. 

'  Wife.  But  let  him  go.  I'll  tell  Ealph  a  tale 
in's  ear,  shall  fetch  him  again  with  a  wannion,'  I 
warrant  him,  if  he  be  above  ground;  and  besides, 
George,  here  are  a  number  of  sufficient  gentlemen 
can  witness,  and  myself,  and  yourself,  and  the 


1  with  a  leannion — a  common  proverbial  expression, 
the  precise  meaning  of  which  has  never  been  explained. 
Nares  thinks  it  is  equivalent  to  witli  a  vengeance,  or  with 
a  plague,  and  to  be  derived  from  Anglo-Saxon  wanung, 
detriment,  or  wanean,  to  bewail. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


299 


musicians,  if  we  be  call'd  in  question.  But  here 
comes  Ealph;  George,  thou  shalt  hear  him  speak 
an'  he  were  an  emperal.' 

Enter  Ealph  and  George. 

Ralph.  Comes  not  Sir  Squire  again  ? 
Geo.  Eight  courteous  knight. 
Your  squire  doth  come,  and  with  him  comes  the 
lady. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought,  Michael,  and  Tim. 

Ralph.  Fair !  and  the  Squire  of  Damsels  as  I 
Madam,  if  any  service  or  devoir  [take  it ! 

Of  a  poor  errant-knight  may  right  your  wrongs, 
Command  it ;  I  am  prest^  to  give  you  succour ; 
For  to  that  holy  end  I  bear  my  armour. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  gentlewoman, 
and  I  have  lost  my  money  in  this  forest. 

Ralph.  Desert,  you  would  say,  lady;  and  not  lost 
Whilst  I  have  sword  and  lance.  Dry  up  your  tears. 
Which  ill  befit  the  beauty  of  that  face, 
And  tell  the  story,  if  I  may  request  it, 
Of  your  disastrous  fortune. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Out,  alas !  I  left  a  thousand  pound, 
a  thousand  pound,  e'en  all  the  money  I  had  laid 
up  for  this  youth,  upon  the  sight  of  your  master- 
ship, you  look'd  so  grim,  and,  as  I  may  say  it, 
saving  your  presence,  more  like  a  giant  than  a 
mortal  man. 

Ralph.  I  am  as  you  are,  lady ;  so  are  they, 
All  mortal.    But  why  weeps  this  gentle  squire  ? 

Mrs.  Mer.  Has  he  not  cause  to  weep,  do  you 
think,  when  he  hath  lost  his  inheritance  .'' 

Ralph.  Young  hope  of  valour,  weep  not ;  I  am 
here 
That  will  confound  thy  foe,  and  pay  it  dear 
Upon  his  coward  head,  that  dares  deny 
Distressed  squires  and  ladies  equity. 
I  have  but  one  horse,  upon  which  shall  ride 
This  lady  fair  behind  me,  and  before 
This  courteous  squire.    Fortune  will  give  us  more 
Upon  our  next  adventure.     Fairly  speed 
Beside  us.  Squire  and  Dwarf,  to  do  us  need! 

[Exeunt. 

'  Cit.  Did  not  I  tell  you,  NeU,  what  your  man 
would  do  ?  By  the  faith  of  my  body,  wench,  for 
clean  action  and  good  dehvery,  they  may  aU  cast 
their  caps  at  him. 

'  Wife.  And  so  they  may,  i'faith ;  for  I  dare 
speak  it  boldly,  the  twelve  companies  of  London 
cannot  match  him,  timber  for  timber.  Well, 
George,  an  he  be  not  inveigled  by  some  of  these 
paltry  players,  I  ha'  much  marvel ;  but,  George, 
we  ha'  done  our  parts  if  the  boy  have  any  grace 
to  be  thankful. 

'  Cit.  Yes,  I  warrant  thee,  duckling.' 

Enter  Master  Humphrey  and  Luce. 

Hum.  Good  Mistress  Luce,  however  I  in  fault 
am 
For    your    lame    horse,   you're    welcome    unto 

Waltham ; 
But  which  way  now  to  go,  or  what  to  say, 
I  know  not  truly,  tUl  it  be  broad  day. 

Luce.  Oh,  fear  not,  Master  Humphrey;  I  am 
For  this  place  good  enough.  [guide 

Hum.  "Then  up  and  ride ; 
Or,  if  it  please  you,  walk  for  your  repose  ; 
Or  sit,  or,  if  you  will,  go  pluck  a  rose ; 
Either  of  which  shall  be  indifferent 
To   your   good   friend   and    Humphrey,  whose 

consent 
Is  so  entangled  ever  to  your  will. 
As  the  poor  harmless  horse  is  to  the  mill. 


'  prest — ready. 


Luce.  'Faith,  an'  you  say  tho  word,  we'll  e'en 
And  take  a  nap.  [sit  down, 

Hum.  'Tis  better  in  the  town. 
Where  we  may  nap  together ;  for,  believe  me, 
To  sleep  without  a  snatch  would  mickle  grieve  me. 

Luce.  You're  merry.  Master  Humphrey. 

Hum.  So  I  am, 
And  have  been  ever  merry  from  my  dam. 

Luce.  Your  nurse  had  the  less  labour. 

Hum.  'Faith,  it  may  be. 
Unless  it  were  by  chance  I  did  bewray  me. 

Enter  Jasper. 

Jasp.  Luce  !  dear  friend  Luce ! 

Luce.  Here,  Jasper. 

Jasp.  You  are  mine. 

Hum.  If  it  be  so,  my  friend,  you  use  me  fine ; 
What  do  you  think  I  am  ? 

Jasp.  An  arrant  noddy. 

Hum.  A  word  of  obloquy!  Now,  by  God's  body, 
I'll  tell  thy  master,  for  I  know  thee  well. 

Jasp.  Nay,  an'  you  be  so  forward  for  td  tell, 
Take  that,  and  that ;  and  tell  him,  sir,  I  gave  it ; 
And  say  I  paid  you  well.  \_Beats  him. 

Hum.  Oh,  sir,  I  have  it. 
And  do  confess  the  payment.     Pray  be  quiet ! 

Jasp).  Go,  get  j'ou  to  yom-  nightcap,  and  the 
To  cure  your  beaten  bones.  [diet, 

Luce.  Alas,  poor  Humphrey  ! 
Get  thee  some  wholesome  broth,  with  sage  and 
A  little  oil  of  roses,  and  a  feather  [cumfry  ; 

To  'noint  thy  back  withal. 

Hum.  When  I  came  hither, 
'Would  I  bad  gone  to  Paris  with  John  Doiy  !"■ 

Luce.  Farewell,  my  pretty  nump:-  I'm  very 
I  cannot  bear  thee  company.  [sorry 

Hum.  Farewell ! 
The  devil's  dam  was  ne'er  so  banged  in  hell. 

\_Exeunt  Luce  and  Jasper. 

'  Wife.  This  young  Jasper  will  prove  me  an- 
other things,  a'  my  conscience,  an'  he  may  be 
suffered.  George !  dost  not  see,  George,  how  a' 
swaggers,  and  flies  at  the  very  heads  a'  folks,  as 
he  were  a  dragon  ?  Well,  if  I  do  not  do  his 
lesson  for  wronging  this  poor  gentleman,  I  am 
no  true  woman.  His  friends  that  broiight  him 
up  might  have  been  better  occupied,  I  wis,  than 
have  taught  him  these  fegaries.^  He's  e'en  in  the 
highway  to  the  gallows,  God  -bless  him ! 

'  Cit.  You're  too  bitter,  cony ;  the  young  man 
may  do  well  enough  for  all  this. 

'  Wife.  Gome  hither,  Master  Humphrey.  Has 
he  hurt^you  ?  Now  beshrew  his  fingers  for't ! 
Here,  sweetheart,  here's  some  green  ginger  for 
thee.  Now,  beshrew  my  heart,  but  a'  has 
pepper-nel*  in's  head,  as  big  as  a  pullet's  egg! 
Alas,  sweet  lamb,  how  thy  temples  beat !  Take 
the  peace  on  him,  sweetheart,  take  the  peace  on 
him. 

Enter  Boy. 

'  Cit.  No,  no  ;  you  talk  like  a  foolish  woman ! 
I'll  ha'  Ealph  fight  with  him,  and  swinge  him 
up  well-favouredly. — Sirrah,  Iboy,  come  hither. 
Let  Ealph  come  in  and  fight  with  Jasper. 

'  Wife.  Ay,  and  beat  him  well ;  he's  an  unhappy* 
boy. 

'  Boy."  Sir,  you  must  pardon  us ;  the  plot  of 
our  play  lies  contrary ;  and  'twill  hazard  the 
spoiling  of  our  play. 


I  John  Dory  was  a  character  in  a  popular  song  of  tlie 
time. 
-  nump — bloclchead,  numsliull. 
3  fecjaries — vagaries. 

■■  pepper-nel — apparently  a  lump  or  swelling. — ^NiKEa 
*  unhappy — wiclied. 


300 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


'  Clt.  Plot  me  no  plots  !  I'll  ha'  Kalph  come 
out :  I'll  make  your  house  too  hot  for  you  else. 

'  Boy.  Why,  sir,  he  shall ;  but  if  anything  fall 
out  of  order,  the  gentlemen  must  pardon  us. 

'  Cit.  Go  your  ways,  goodman  boy  !  I'll  hold 
him  a  penny,  he  shall  have  his  bellyful  of  fight- 
ing now. — Ho  !  here  comes  Kalph  !  no  more ! ' 

Enter  Ralph,  Mrs.  Merrythought,  Michael, 
Tutf,  and  George. 

JRalph.  What  knight  is  that,  squire  ?     Ask  him 
if  he  keep 
The  passage,  bound  by  love  of  lady  fair, 
Or  else  but  prickant.^ 

hum.  Sir,  I  am  no  knight, 
But  a  poor  gentleman  that  this  same  night 
Had  stolen  from  me,  upon  yonder  green. 
My  lovely  wife,  and  suffer'd  (to  be  seen 
Yet  extant  on  my  shoulders)  such  a  greeting, 
That  whilst  I  live  I  shall  think  of  that  meeting. 

'  Wife.  Ay,  Ealph,  he  beat  him  unmercifully, 
Kalph;  an'  thou  sparest  him,  Balph,  I  would 
thou  wert  hanged. 

'  Cit.  No  more,  wife,  no  more !' 

Ealph.  Where  is  the  caitiff  wretch  hath  done 
this  deed  ? 
Lady,  your  pardon !  that  I  may  proceed 
Upon  the  quest  of  this  injurious  knight. 
And  thou,  fair  squire,  repute  me  not  the  worse, 
In  leaving  the  great  venture  of  the  purse, 
And  the  rich  casket,  till  some  better  leisure. 

Enter  Jasper  and  Luce. 

Hum.   Here  comes  the  broker  hath  purloined 
my  treasure. 

Ealjjh.  Go,  squire,  and  tell  him  I  am  here, 
An  errant  knight-at-arms,  to  crave  delivery 
Of  that  fair  lady  to  her  own  knight's  arms. 
If  he  deny,  bid  him  take  choice  of  ground, 
And  so  defy  him. 

Tim.  From  the  knight  that  bears 
The  Golden  Pestle,  I  defy  thee,  knight ! 
Unless  thou  make  fair  restitution 
Of  that  bright  lady. 

Jasj}.  Tell  the  knight  that  sent  thee 
He  is  an  ass  ;  and  I  will  keep  the  wench. 
And  knock  his  headpiece. 

Ralph.  Knight,  thou  art  but  dead, 
If  thou  recall  not  thy  uncourteous  terms. 

'  Wife.  Break  his  pate,  Ealph,  break  his  pate, 
Ealph,  soundly ! ' 

Jasp.  Come,  knight,  I'm  ready  for  you. — Now 
your  Pestle  \JSnatches  aivay  his  Pestle. 

Shall  try  what  temper,  sir,  your  mortar's  of. 
With  that  he  stood  upright  in  his  stirrups,  and 
gave  the  knight  of  the  calves-skin  such  a  knock, 
that  he  forsook  his  horse,  and  down  he  fell ;  and 
then  he  leaped  upon  him,  and  plucking  off  his 
helmet —  [Knocls  him.  down. 

Hum.  Nay,  an'  my  noble  knight  be  down  so 
soon. 
Though  I  can  scarcely  go,  I  needs  must  run. 

lExit. 

'■Wife.  Eun,  Ealph,  run,  Ealph;  run  for  thy 
life,  boy ;  Jasper  comes,  Jasper  comes ! ' 

\^Exit  Ralph,  taMng  up  the  Pestle. 

Jasp.  Come,  Luce,  we  must  have  other  arms 
for  you ; 
Humphrey  and  Golden  Pestle,  both  adieu ! 

[Exeunt. 

'  Wife.  Sure  the  devil  (God  bless  us !)  is  in 
this  springald !  ^  Why  George,  didst  ever  see  such 


_  1  firickant — pricking  or  spurring  along  on  a  journey. 

— ^VEBER. 

2  sprimjald — youth. 


a  fire-drake  ?  I  am  afraid  my  boy's  miscarried ; 
if  he  be,  though  he  were  Master  Merrythought's 
son  a  thousand  times,  if  there  be  any  law  in 
England,  I'll  make  some  of  them  smart  for't. 

'  Cit.  No,  no  ;  I  have  found  out  the  matter, 
sweetheart ;  Jasper  is  enchanted  ;  as  sure  as  we 
are  here,  he  is  enchanted  :  he  could  no  more  have 
stood  in  Ralph's  hands,  than  I  can  stand  in  my 
lord-mayor's.  I'll  have  a  ring  to  discover  all  en- 
chantments, and  Ealph  shall  beat  him  yet.  Be 
no  more  vexed,  for  it  shall  be  so.' 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IIL 
Before  the  Bell  Inn  at  Waltham. 

Enter  RALPir,  TiM,  George,  Mrs.  Mep.et- 
THOUGHT,  and  Michael. 

'  Wife.  Oh,  husband,  here's  Ealph  again ! 
Stay,  Ralph,  let  me  speak  with  thee.  How  dost 
thou,  Ralph .'  Art  thou  not  shrewdly  hurt  ? 
The  foul  great  lungies'  laid  unmercifully  on 
thee ;  there's  some  sugar-candy  for  thee.  Pro- 
ceed ;  thou  shalt  have  another  bout  with  him. 

'  Cit.  If  Ralph  had  him  at  the  fencing-school, 
if  he  did  not  make  a  puppy  of  him,  and  drive 
him  up  and  down  the  school,  he  should  ne'er 
come  in  my  shop  more.' 

Mrs.  Mer.  Truly  Master  Knight  of  the  Burn- 
ing Pestle,  I  am  wearj'. 

Mich.  Indeed-la,  mother,  and  I  am  very 
hungry. 

Ralph.  Take  comfort,  gentle  dame,  and  you, 
fair  squire! 
For  in  this  desert  there  must  needs  be  placed 
Many  strong  castles,  held  by  courteous  knights  ; 
And  till  I  bring  you  safe  to  one  of  those, 
I  swear  by  this  my  order  ne'er  to  leave  you. 

'  Wife.  Well  said,  Ralph !  George,  Ralph  was 
ever  comfortable,  was  he  not  ? 

'  Cit.  Yes,  duck. 

'  Wife.  I  shall  ne'er  forget  him :  when  we  had 
lost  our  child  (you  know  it  was  strayed  almost, 
alone,  to  Puddle  Wharf,  and  the  criers  wei-e 
abroad  for  it,  and  there  it  had  drowned  itself, 
but  for  a  sculler), 'Ralph  was  the  most  comfort- 
ablest  to  me!  "Peace,  mistress,"  says  he,  "let 
it  go!  I'll  get  another  as  good."  Did  he  not, 
George,  did  he  not  say  so  ? 

'  Cit.  Yes,  indeed  did  he,  mouse.' 

Geo.  I  would  we  had  a  mess  of  pottage,  and 
a  pot  of  drink,  squire,  and  were  going  to  bed. 

Tim.  Why,  we  are  at  Waltham-town's  end,  and 
that's  the  Bell  Inn. 

Geo.   Take  courage,  valiant  knight,  damsel, 
and  squire ! 
I  have  discovered,  not  a  stone's  cast  off. 
An  ancient  castle  held  by  the  old  knight 
Of  the  most  holy  order  of  the  Bell, 
Who  gives  to  all  knights-errant  entertain : 
There  plenty  is  of  food,  and  all  prepared 
By  the  white  hands  of  his  own  lady  dear. 
He  hath  three  squires  that  welcome  all  his  guests : 
The  first,  hight  Chamberlino  ;  who  will  see 
Our  beds  prepared,  and  bring  us  snowy  sheets, 
Where  never  footman  stretch'd  his  butter'd  hams.* 
The  second,  hight  Tapstero  ;  who  will  see 
Our  pots  full  filled,  and  no  froth  therein. 
The  third,  a  gentle  squire,  Ostlero  hight, 


1  lungies — a  long,  awkward  fellow. 

2  Wftere  never  footman,  etc.  This  alludes  to  the  run- 
ning footmen,  who,  like  the  jockeys,  were  put  upon  a 
particular  diet;  and,  in  order  to  prevent  cramps,  the 
calves  of  their  legs  were  greased,  and  to  this  the  text 
refers. — Webek. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


301 


Who  will  om-  palfreys  slick  with  wisps  of  straw, 
And  iu  the  manger  put  them  oats  enough, 
And  never  grease  their  teeth  with  candle-snuff.' 

'  Wife.  That  same  dwarf's  a  pretty  boy,  but 
the  squire's  a  groutnole.'^ 

Ralph.  Knock  at  the  gates,  my  squire,  with 
stately  lance ! 

Enter  Tapster. 

Tap.  Who's  there  ? — You're  welcome,  gentle- 
men !     Will  you  see  a  room  ? 

Geo.  Eight  courteous  and  valiant   Knight  of 
the  Burning  Pestle,  this  is  the  Squire  Tapstero. 

Jtalph.  Fair  Squire  Tapstero !  I,  a  wandering 
knight, 
Hight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  in  the  quest 
Of  this  fair  lady's  casket  and  wrought  purse, 
Losing  myself  iu  this  vast  wilderness, 
Am  to  this  castle  well  by  fortune  brought, 
Where,  hearing  of  the  goodly  entertain 
Your  knight  of  holy  order  of  the  Bell 
Gives  to  all  damsels,  and  all  errant-knights, 
I  thought  to  knock,  and  now  am  bold  to  enter. 

Tap.  An't  please  you  see  a  chamber,  you  are 
very  welcome.  \_Exeimt. 

'  Wife.  George,  I  would  have  something  done, 
and  I  cannot  tell  what  it  is. 

'  Cit.  What  is  it,  Nell  ? 

'  Wife.  Why,  George,  shall  Ealph  beat  nobody 
again  ?     Pr'ythee,  sweetheart,  let  him  ! 

'  Cit.  So  he  shall,  Nell ;  and  if  I  join  with  him, 
we'll  knock  them  all.' 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV. 

London.    A  Room  in  the  House  o/Venteewels. 

Enter  Master  Humphrey  and  Venterwels. 

'  Wife.  Oh,  George,  here's  Master  Humphrey 
again  now,  that  lost  Mistress  Luce  ;  and  Mistress 
Luce's  father.  Master  Humphrey  will  do  some- 
body's errand,  I  warrant  him.' 

Huvi.  Father,  it's  true,  in  arms  I  ne'er  shall 
clasp  her, 
For  she  is  stol'n  away  by  your  man  Jasjper. 

'  Wife.  I  thought  he  would  tell  him.' 

Vent.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  to  lose  my  child ! 
Now  I  begin  to  think  on  Jasper's  words. 
Who  oft  hath  urged  to  me  thy  foolishness : 
Why  didst  thou  let  her  go  ?    Thou  lovest  her  not, 
That  wouldst  bring  home  thy  life,  and  not  bring 
her. 

Hum.  Father,  forgive  me ;  shall  I  tell  you  true .-' 
Look  on  my  shoulders,  they  are  black  and  blue  : 
Whilst  to  and  fro  fair  Luce  and  I  were  winding. 
He  came  and  basted  me  with  a  hedge-binding. 

Vent.  Get  men  and  horses  straight !     We  will 
be  there 
Within  this  hour.    You  know  the  place  again  ? 

Hum.  I  know  the  place  where  he  my  loins  did 
swaddle ; 
I'll  get  six  horses,  and  to  each  a  saddle. 

Vent.  Meantime,  I  will  go  talk  with  Jasper's 
father.  \_Exeunt. 

'  Wife.  George,  what  wilt  thou  lay  with  me 
now,  that  Master  Humphrey  has  not  Mistress 
Luce  yet  ?  Speak,  George,  what  wilt  thou  lay 
with  me  ? 

'  Cit.  No,  Nell ;  I  warrant  thee,  Jasper  is  at 
Puckeridge  with  her  by  this. 

'  Wife.  Nay,  George,  you  must  consider  Mis- 


'^  And  never  grease,  &c.  Alluding  to  a  common  trick  of 
the  ostlers  at  the  time  to  prevent  the  horses  from  eating 
the  hay. — Webee. 

-  groutnole,  or  groutnold — thickhead,  dunce. 


tress  Luce's  feet  are  tender  ;  and,  besides,  'tis 
dark;  and  I  promise  you  truly,  I  do  not  see  how 
he  should  get  out  of  Waltham  Forest  with  her 
yet. 

'  Cit.  Nay,  cony  ;  what  wilt  thou  lay  with  me 
that  Ralph  has  her  not  yet  ? 

'  Wife.  1  will  not  lay  against  Ealph,  honey, 
because  I  have  not  spoken  with  him.  But  look, 
George ;  peace !  here  comes  the  merry  old  gentle- 
man again.' 


ACT  II.— SCENE  V. 

An  Apartment  in  Merrythought's  House. 

Enter  Old  Merrythought. 

Mer.  [Sings.]  When  it  was  grown  to  dark  midnight, 
And  all  were  fast  asleep, 
In  came  Margaret's  grimly  ghost, 
And  stood  at  William's  feet.' 

I  have  money,  and  meat,  and  drink,  beforehand, 
till  to-morrow  at  noon.  Why  should  I  be  sad  ? 
Methinks  I  have  half  a  dozen  jovial  spirits  within 
me.  [^Sings.^  '  I  am  three  merry  men,  and  three 
men-y  men!' — To  what  end  should  any  man  be 
sad  in  this  world  ?  Give  me  a  man  that  when 
he  goes  to  hanging  cries,  '  Troul"  the  black  bozvl 
to  me!'  and  a  woman  that  will  sing  a  catch  in 
her  travail!  I  have  seen  a  man  come  by  my 
door  with  a  serious  face,  in  a  black  cloak,  with- 
out a  hat-band,  carrying  his  head  as  if  he  look'd 
for  pins  in  the  street.  I  have  look'd  out  of  my 
window  half  a  year  after,  and  have  spied  that 
man's  head  upon  London  Bridge.  'Tis  vile ; 
never  trust  a  tailor  that  does  not  sing  at  his 
work !  his  mind  is  on  nothing  but  filching. 

'  Wife.  Mark  this,  George ;  'tis  worth  noting : 
Godfrey,  my  tailor,  you  know,  never  sings  ;  and 
he  had  fourteen  yards  to  make  this  gown,  and  I'll 
be  sworn.  Mistress  Penistone,  the  draper's  wife, 
had  one  made  with  twelve.' 

Mer.  'Tis  mirth  that  fills  the  veins  with  Wood, 
More  than  wine,  or  sleep,  or  food ; 
Let  each  man  keep  his  heart  at  ease, 
No  man  dies  of  that  disease. 
He  that  would  his  body  keep 
From  diseases,  must  not  weep ; 
But  whoever  laughs  and  sings, 
Never  he  his  body  brings 
Into  fevers,  gouts,  or  rheums, 
,  Or  ling'ringly  his  lungs  consumes ; 
Or  meets  with  aches  ^  in  the  lione. 
Or  catarrhs,  or  griping  stone  : 
But  contented  lives  for  aye ; 
The  more  he  laughs,  the  more  he  may. 

'  Wife.  Look,  George  ;  how  say'st  thou  by  this, 
George  ?  Is't  not  a  fine  old  man  ?  Now,  God's 
blessing  a'*  thy  sweet  lips  !  when  wilt  thou  be  so 
merry,  George .'  'Faith,  thou  art  the  frowning'st 
little  thing,  when  thou  art  angry,  in  a  country. 

'  Cit.  Peace,  cony !  Thou  shalt  see  him  took 
down  too,  I  warrant  thee. 

Enter  Venterwels. 

Here's  Luce's  father  come  now.' 

Mer.  [Sings.]  As  you  came  from  Walsingham, 
From  the  Holy  Land, 
There  met  you  not  with  my  true  love 
By  the  way  as  you  came  ? 


1  This  stanza  is  from  the  ballad  of  Fair  Margaret  and 
Siceet  William,  in  Percy's  Reliques. 

2  rroMZ— pass  about. 

3  aches,  pronounced  ailches  here,  as  was  frequently  the 
case  even  down  to  last  century. 

*  a'— on. 


302 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Vent.  Oh,  Master  Merrythought,  my  daughter's 
gone! 
This  mirth  becomes  you  not ;   my  daughter's 
gone! 

Mer.  Why,  an'  if  she  he,  what  care  I  ? 
Or  let  her  come,  or  go,  or  tarry. 

Vent.  Mock  not  my  misery ;  it  is  your  son 
(Whom  I  have  made  my  own,  when  all  forsook 

him) 
Has  stol'n  my  only  joy,  my  child,  away. 

Mer.  He  set  her  on  a  milk-white  steed, 
And  himself  upon  a  grey; 
He  never  turn'd  his  face  again. 
But  he  here  her  quite  away. 

Vent.  Unworthy  of  the  kindness  I  have  shown 
To  thee,  and  thine  ;  too  late,  I  well  perceive 
Thou  art  consenting  to  my  daughter's  loss. 

Mer.  Tour  daughter .'  What  a  stir's  here  wi' 
your  daughter.'  Let  her  go,  think  no  more  on 
her,  but  sing  loud.  If  both  my  sons  were  on  the 
gallows,  I  would  sing — 

Down,  down,  down;  they  fall 
Down,  and  arise  they  never  shall. 

Vent.  Oh,  might  I  behold  her  once  again, 
And  she  once  more  embrace  her  aged  sire  ! 

Mer.  Fie,  how  scurvily  this  goes  ! 
'  And  she  once  more  embrace  her  aged  sire  ? ' 
You'll  make  a  dog  on  her,  will  ye  ?     She  cares 
much  for  her  aged  sire,  I  warrant  you. 

She  cares  not  for  her  daddy,  nor 
She  cares  not  for  her  mammy,  for 

She  is,  she  is,  she  is. 
She  is  my  Lord  of  Lowgave's  lassy. 

Vent.  For  this  thy  scorn  I  will  pm-sue  that  son 
Of  thine  to  death. 
Mer.  Do ;  and  when  you  ha'  killed  him, 

Give  him  flowers  enow,  Palmer,  give  him  flowers  enow! 
Give  him  red  and  white,  and  blue,  green,  and  yellow. 

Vent.  I'll  fetch  my  daughter — 
Mer.   I'll  hear  no  more  o'  your  daughter ;  it 
spoils  my  mirth. 

Vent.  I  say,  I'll  fetch  my  daughter. 

Mer.  Was  never  man  for  lady's  sake, 
Down,  down, 
Tormented  as  I  poor  Sir  Gny, 
De  deiTy  down, 
For  Lucy's  sake,  that  lady  hright, 
Down,  down. 
As  ever  men  beheld  with  eye! 
De  derry  down. 

Vent.  Ill  be  revenged,  by  Heaven !      \Exeunt. 

END  OF  ACT  II.  \IIusic. 

'  Wife.  How  dost  thou  like  this,  George  ? 

'  Cit.  Why  this  is  well,  cony ;  but  if  Kalph  were 
hot  once,  thou  shouldst  see  more. 

'  Wife.  The  fiddlers  go  again,  husband. 

'  Cit.  Ay,  Nell ;  but  this  is  scurvy  music.  I 
gave  the  whoreson  gallows-money,  and  I  think 
he  has  not  got  me  the  waits  of  Southwark.  If  I 
hear  'em  not  anon,  I'll  twinge  him  by  the  ears. — 
You  musicians,  play  Baloo !  ^ 

'  Wife.  No,  good  George ;  let's  ha'  Lachrymse ! 

'  Cit.  Why  this  is  it,  cony. 

'  Wife.  It's  all  the  better,  George.  Now,  sweet 
lamb,  what  story  is  that  painted  upon  the  cloth  ?  " 
The  confutation  of  St.  Paul  ? 

'  Cit.  No,  lamb ;  that's  Ealph  and  Lucrece. 


1  Baloo — ^prohably  alluding  to  Lady  Anne  BothwelVs 
Lament — '  Baloo,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  sleep,'  &c. 
-  the  clolh—i.e.  the  drop-scene. 


'Wife.  Ealph  and  Lucrece?    Which  Ealph? 

our  Ealph  ? 

'  Cit.  No,  mouse  ;  that  was  a  Tartarian.i 
'Wife.    A    Tartarian?      Well,    I  would    the 

fiddlers  had  done,  that  we  might  see  our  Kalph 

again!' 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  I. 

Waltham  Forest. 
Enter  Jasper  and  Luce. 

Jasp.  Come,  my  dear  deer !  though  we  have  lost 
our  way, 
We  have  not  lost  ourselves.    Are  you  not  weary 
With  this  night's  wand'ring,  broken  from  your 

rest  ? 
And  frighted  with  the  terror  that  attends 
The  darkness  of  this  wild,  unpeopled  place  ? 

Luce.  No,  my  best  friend ;  I  cannot  either  fear 
Or  entertain  a  weary  thought,  whilst  you 
(The  end  of  all  my  full  desires)  stand  by  me : 
Let  them  that  lose  their  hopes,  and  live  to  languish 
Amongst  the  number  of  forsaken  lovers. 
Tell  the  long  weary  steps,  and  number  time. 
Start  at  a  shadow,  and  shrink  up  then-  blood. 
Whilst  I  (possessed  with  all  content  and  quiet) 
Thus  take  my  pretty  love,  and  thus  embrace  him. 

Jasjy.  You  have  caught  me,  Luce,  so  fast,  that 
whilst  I  live 
I  shall  become  your  faithful  prisoner. 
And  wear  these  chains  for  ever. — Come,  sit  down, 
And  rest  your  body,  too,  too  delicate 
For  these  disturbances. — So !  will  you  sleep  ? 
Come,  do  not  be  more  able  than  you  are  ; 
I  know  you  are  not  skilful  in  these  watches, 
For  women  are  no  soldiers.     Be  not  nice. 
But  take  it ;  sleep,  I  say. 

Luce.  I  cannot  sleep ; 
Indeed  I  cannot,  friend. 

Jasp.  Why  then  we'll  sing, 
And  try  how  that  will  work  upon  our  senses. 

Luce.  I'll  sing,  or  say,  or  anything  but  sleep. 

Jasp.  Come,  little  mermaid,  rob  me  of  my  heart 
With  that  enchanting  voice. 

Luce,  You  mock  me,  Jasper. 

SONG. 

Jasp.  Tell  me,  dearest,  what  is  love  ? 
Luce.  'Tis  a  lightning  from  above; 

'Tis  an  arrow,  'tis  a  Are, 

'Tis  a  boy  they  call  Desire. 
'Tis  a  smile 
Doth  beguUe 
Jasp.  The  poor  hearts  of  men  that  prove. 

Tell  me  more,  are  women  true  ? 
Luce.  Some  love  change,  and  so  do  you. 
Jasp.  Are  they  fair  and  never  kind  ? 
Luce.  Yes,  when  men  turn  with  the  wind. 
Jasp.         Are  they  froward  ? 
Luce.         Ever  toward 

Those  that  love,  to  love  anew. 

Jasp.  Dissemble  it  no  more ;  I  see  the  god 
Of  heavy  sleep  lay  on  his  heavy  mace 
Upon  your  eyelids. 

Luce.  I  am  very  heavy.  [Sleeps. 

Jasp.  Sleep,   sleep,  and  quiet  rest  crown  thy 
sweet  thoughts ! 
Keep  from  her  fair  blood  distempers,  startings. 
Horrors,  and  fearful  shapes  I  let  all  her  dreams 
Be  joys,  and  chaste  delights,  embraces,  wishes, 
vVnd  such  new  pleasures  as  the  ravish'd  soul 
Gives  to  the  senses ! — So;  my  charms  have  took. 


'  Tartarian— a,  cant  word  for  a  thief. — Webek. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


303 


Keep  her,  ye  powers  divine,  whilst  I  contem- 
plate 
Upon  the  wealth  and  beauty  of  her  mind ! 
She's  only  fair  and  constant,  only  kind. 
And  only  to  thee,  Jasper.     Oh,  my  joys! 
Whither  will  j'ou  transport  me  ?  let  not  fulness 
Of  my  poor  buried  hopes  come  up  together. 
And  overcharge  my  spirits  ;  I  am  weak ! 
Some  say  (however  ill)  the  sea  and  women 
Are  govern'd  by  the  moon  ;  both  ebb  and  flow, 
Both  full  of  changes  ;  yet  to  them  that  know, 
And  truly  judge,  these  but  opinions  are. 
And  heresies,  to  bring  on  pleasing  war 
Between  our  tempers,  that  without  these  were 
Both  void  of  after-love,  and  present  fear  ; 
Which  are  the  best  of  Ciapid.     Oh,  thou  child 
Bred  from  despair,  I  dare  not  entertain  thee. 
Having  a  love  without  the  faults  of  women. 
And  greater  in  her  perfect  goods  than  men  ; 
Which  to  make  good,    and  please  myself  the 

stronger. 
Though  certainly  I  am  certain  of  her  love, 
I'll  try  her,  that  the  world  and  memoiy 
May  sing  to  after  times  her  constancy. — 

\Draws. 
Luce !  Luce !  awake ! 

L^ice.  Why  do  you  fright  me,  friend, 
With  those  distemper'd  looks  .^  What  makes  your 

sword 
Drawn  in  your  hand  ?  who  hath  offended  you  ? — 
I  pr'ythee,    Jasper,    sleep;    thou'rt    wild   with 

watching. 
Jasp.  Come,  make  your  way  to  heaven,  and 

bid  the  world, 
With  all  the  villanies  that  stick  upon  it. 
Farewell ;  you're  for  another  life. 

Luce.  Oh,  Jasper, 
How  have  my  tender  years  committed  evil, 
Especially  against  the  man  I  love. 
Thus  to  be  cropp'd  untimely  ? 

Jasp.  Foolish  girl. 
Canst  thou  imagine  I  could  love  his  daughter 
That  flung  me  from  my  fortune  into  nothing  ? 
Discharged  me  his  service,  shut  the  doors 
Upon  my  poverty,  and  scorn'd  my  prayers. 
Sending  me,  like  a  boat  without  a  mast. 
To  sink  or  swim?     Come;   by  this  hand,  you 

die! 
I  must  have  life  and  blood,  to  satisfy 
Your  father's  wrongs. 

'  Wife..  Away,  George,  away !  raise  the  watch 
at  Ludgate,  and  bring  a  mittimus  from  the  justice 
for  this  desperate  villain !  Now  I  charge  you, 
gentlemen,  see  the  king's  peace  kept!  Oh,  my 
heart,  what  a  varlet's  this,  to  offer  manslaughter 
upon  the  harmless  gentlewoman ! 

'  Cit.  I  warrant  thee,  sweetheart,  we'll  have 
bim  hampered.' 

Luce.  Oh,  Jasper,  be  not  cruel! 
If  thou  wUt  kill  me,  smile,  and  do  it  quickly, 
And  let  not  many  deaths  appear  before  me ! 
I  am  a  woman  made  of  fear  and  love, 
A  weak,  weak  woman  ;  kill  not  with  thy  eyes ! 
They  shoot  me  through  and  through.     Strike! 

I  am  ready ; 
And,  dying,  still  I  love  thee. 

Enter  Ventekwels,  Master  Humpheet, 
,    and  Men. 

Vent.  Whereabouts  ? 

J  asp.  No  more  of  this ;  now  to  myself  again. 

Mum.  There,  there  he  stands,  with  sword,  like 
martial  knight. 
Drawn  in  his  hand ;  therefore  beware  the  fight. 
You  that  be  wise  ;  for,  were  I  good  Sir  Bevis, 
I  would  not  stay  his  coming.     By  your  leaves. 

Yent.  Sirrah,  restore  my  daughter  I 


Jasp.  Sirrah,  no. 

Vetit.  Upon  him  then ! 

[Luce  is  torn  from  Jasper. 

'  Wife.  So ;  down  with  him,  down  with  him, 
down  with  him !  exit  him  i'  th'  leg,  boys,  cut 
him  i'  th'  leg ! ' 

Vent.  Come  your  ways,  minion !    I'll  provide 
a  cage 
For  you,  you're  grown  so  tame.     Horse  her 
away! 

Hum.  Truly  I  am  glad  your  forces  have  the 
day.  [^Exeunt  all  hut  Jasper. 

Jasp.  They're  gone,  and  I  am  hurt;  my  love 
is  lost. 
Never  to  get  again.     Oh,  me  unhappy  ! 
Bleed,  bleed  and  die. — I  cannot.     Oh,  my  folly, 
Thou  hast  betray'd  me !     Hope,  where  art  thou 

fled? 
Tell  me,  if  thou  be'st  anywhere  remaining. 
Shall  I  but  see  my  love  again  ?     Oh,  no  ! 
She  will  not  deign  to  look  upon  her  butcher. 
Nor  is  it  fit  she  should ;  yet  I  must  venture. 
Oh,  Chance,  or  Fortune,  or  whate'er  thou  art, 
That  men  adore  for  powerful,  hear  my  cry, 
And  let  me  loving  live,  or  losing  die  !  [Exit. 

'  Wife.  Is  a'  gone,  George  ? 

'  Cit.  A.J,  Cony. 

'  Wife.  Marry,  and  let  him  go,  sweetheart ! 
By  the  faith  a'  my  body,  a'  has  put  me  into  such 
a  fright,  that  I  tremble  (as  they  say)  as  'twere 
an  aspen  leaf.  Look  a'  my  little  finger,  George, 
how  it  shakes !  Now  in  truth  every  member  of 
my  body  is  the  worse  for't. 

'  Cit.  Come,  hug  in  mine  arms,  sweet  mouse ; 
he  shall  not  fright  thee  any  more.  Alas,  mine 
own  dear  heart,  how  it  quivers ! ' 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IL 
A  Room  in  the  Bell  Inn. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought,  Ealph,  Michael, 
Tim,  George,  Host,  and  a  Tapster. 

'  Wife.  Oh,  Ralph !  how  dost  thou,  Ealph  ? 
How  hast  thou  slept  to-night?  has  the  knight 
used  thee  well  ? 

'  Cit.  Peace,  Nell ;  let  Ealph  alone ! ' 

Tap.  Master,  the  reckoning  is  not  paid. 

Ralph.  Eight  courteous  knight,  who,  for  the 
order's  sake 
Which  thou  hast  ta'en,  hang'st  out  the  holy  Bell, 
As  I  this  flaming  Pestle  bear  about, 
We  render  thanks  to  your  puissant  self. 
Your  beauteous  lady,  and  your  gentle  squires. 
For  thus  refreshing  of  our  wearied  limbs, 
Stiffen'd  with  hard  achievements  in  wild  desert. 

Tap.  Sir,  there  is  twelve  shUhngs  to  pay. 

Ralph.  Thou  merry  Squire  Tapstero,  thanks 
to  thee 
For  comforting  our  souls  with  double  jug ! 
And  if  adventurous  Fortune  prick  thee  forth, 
Thou  jovial  squire,  to  follow  feats  of  arms, 
Take  heed  thou  tender  every  lady's  cause. 
Every  true  knight,  and  every  damsel  fair ! 
But  spill  the  blood  of  treacherous  Saracens, 
And  false  enchanters,  that  with  magic  speUs 
Have  done  to  death  full  many  a  noble  knight. 

Host.  Thou  valiant  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle,  give  ear  to  me  ;  there  is  twelve  shilUngs 
to  pay,  and,  as  I  am  a  true  knight,  I  will  not 
bate  a  penny. 

'  Wfe.  George,  I  pray  thee  tell  me,  must 
Ealph  pay  twelve  shillings  now? 

'  Cit.  No,  Nell,  no ;  nothing,  but  the  old 
knight  is  merry  with  Ealph. 


304 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


'  Wije.  Oh,  is't  nothing  else?  Ealph  will  be 
as  merry  as  he.' 

Ralph.  Sir  Knight,  this  mirth  of  yours  be- 
comes you  well ; 
But,  to  requite  this  liberal  courtesy, 
If  any  of  your  squires  will  follow  arms, 
He  shall  receive  from  my  heroic  hand, 
A  knighthood,  by  the  virtue  of  this  Pestle. 

Host.  Fair  knight,  I  thank  you  for  your  noble 
offer;  therefore,  gentle  knight,  twelve  shillings 
you  must  pay,  or  I  must  cap'  you. 

'  Wife.  Look,  George !  did  not  I  tell  thee  as 
much  ?  the  Knight  of  the  Bell  is  in  earnest. 
Ealph  shall  not  be  beholding  to  him.  Give  him 
his  money,  George,  and  let  him  go  snick  up.^ 

'  Cit.  Cap  Ealph  ?  No,  hold  your  hand,  Sir 
Knight  of  the  Bell!  There's  your  money;  have 
you  anything  to  say  to  Ealph  now  ?    Cap  Ealph  ? 

'  Wife.  I  would  you  should  know  it,  Ealph 
has  friends  that  will  not  suffer  him  to  be  capt 
for  ten  times  so  much,  and  ten  times  to  the  end 
of  that.     Now  take  thy  course,  Ealph ! ' 

Mrs.  Mer.  Come,  Michael ;  thou  and  I  will  go 
home  to  thy  father ;  he  hath  enough  left  to  keep 
us  a  day  or  two,  and  we'll  set  fellows  abroad  to 
cry  our  purse  and  our  casket.    Shall  we,  Michael  ? 

Mich.  Ay,  I  pray,  mother;  in  truth  my  feet 
are  full  of  chilblains  with  travelling. 

'  Wi_fe.  'Faith,  and  those  chilblains  are  a  foul 
trouble.  Mistress  Merrythought,  when  your 
youth  comes  home,  let  him  rub  all  the  soles  of 
his  feet,  and  his  heels,  and  his  ankles,  with  a 
mouse-skin ;  or,  if  none  of  your  people  can  catch 
a  mouse,  when  he  goes  to  bed,  let  him  roll  his 
feet  in  the  warm  embers,  and  I  warrant  you  he 
shall  be  well;  and  you  may  make  him  put  his 
fingers  between  his  toes,  and  smell  to  them  ;  it's 
very  sovereign  for  his  head,  if  he  be  costive.' 

Mrs.  Mer.  Master  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle,  my  son  Michael  and  I  bid  you  farewell. 
I  thank  your  worship  heartily  for  your  kind- 
ness. 

Ralph.  Farewell,  fair  lady,  and  your  tender 
squire ! 
If  pricking  through  these  deserts,  I  do  hear 
Of  any  traitoi'ous  knight,  who  through  his  guile 
Hath  lit  upon  your  casket  and  your  purse, 
I  will  despoil  him  of  them,  and  restore  them. 

Mrs.  Mer.  I  thank  your  worship. 

l^Exit  with  Michael. 

Ralph.  Dwarf,  bear  my  shield  ;  squire,  elevate 
my  lance ; 
And  now  farewell,  you  Knight  of  holy  Bell ! 

'  Cit.  Ay,  ay,  Ealph,  all  is  paid.' 

Ralph.  But  yet,    before   I  go,   speak,  worthy 
knight. 
If  aught  you  do  of  sad  adventures  know. 
Where  errant-knight  may  through  his  prowess 

win 
Eternal  fame,  and  free  some  gentle  souls 
From  endless  bonds  of  steel  and  lingering  pain. 

Host.  Sirrah,  go  to  Nick  the  barber,  and  bid 
him  prepare  himself,  as  I  told  you  before, 
quickly. 

Tap.  I  am  gone,  sir.  [Exit. 

Host.  Sir  Knight,  this  wilderness  affordeth 
none 
But  the  great  venture,  where  full  many  a  knight 
Hath  tried  his  prowess,  and  come  off  with  shame ; 
And  where  I  would  not  have  you  lose  your  life. 
Against  no  man,  but  fui-ious  fiend  of  hell. 

Ralph.  Speak  on,  Sir  Knight ;  tell  what  he  is, 
and  where  : 


1  cap—arrest;  abbreviated  from  capias,  the  technical 
term  for  an  arrest. — Nares. 

2  snick-up. ~-&QQ  note  3,  p.  298. 


For  here  I  vow  upon  my  blazing  badge. 

Never  to  blaze  a  day  in  quietness ; 

But  bread  and  water  will  I  only  eat, 

And  the  green  herb  and  rock  shall  be  my  couch, 

Till  I  have  quell'd  that  man,  or  beast,  or  fiend, 

That  works  such  damage  to  all  errant-knights. 

Host.  Not  far  from  hence,  near  to  a  craggy 
cliff, 
At  the  north  end  of  this  distressed  town, 
There  doth  stand  a  lowly  house, 
Euggedly  builded,  and  in  it  a  cave 
In  which  an  ugly  giant  now  doth  won,i 
Ycleped  Barbaroso  ;  in  his  hand 
He  shakes  a  naked  lance  of  purest  steel. 
With  sleeves  turn'd  up ;  and  him  before  he  wears 
A  motley  garment,  to  preserve  his  clothes 
From  blood  of  those  knights  which  he  massacres, 
And  ladies  gent ;  '^  without  his  door  doth  hang 
A  copper  bason,  on  a  prickant  spear  ; 
At  which  no  sooner  gentle  knights  can  knock, 
But  the  shrill  sound  fierce  Barbaroso  hears. 
And  rushing  forth  brings  in  the  errant-knight, 
And  sets  him  down  in  an  enchanted  chair : 
Then  with  an  engine,  which  he  hath  prepared. 
With  forty  teeth,  he  claws  his  courtly  crown. 
Next  makes  him  wink,  and  underneath  his  chin 
He  plants  a  brazen  piece  of  mighty  bord,^ 
And  knocks  his  bullets  round  about  his  cheeks ; 
Whilst  with  his  fingers,  and  an  instrument 
With  which  he  snaps  his  hair  off,  he  doth  fill 
The  wretch's  eai's  with  a  most  hideous  noise. 
Thus  every  knight-adventurer  he  doth  trim, 
And  now  no  creature  dares  encounter  him. 

Rali^h.  In  God's  name,  I  will  fight  with  him ! 
Kind  sir. 
Go  but  before  me  to  this  dismal  cave 
Where  this  huge  giant  Barbaroso  dwells, 
And,  by  that  virtue  that  brave  Eosicler 
That  damned  brood  of  ugly  giants  slew, 
And  Palmerin  Frannarco  overthrew, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  curb  this  traitor  foul, 
And  to  the  devil  send  his  guilty  soul. 

Host.  Brave-sprighted  knight,  thus  far  I  will 
perform 
This  your  request ;  I'll  bring  you  within  sight 
Of  this  most  loathsome  place,  inhabited 
By  a  more  loathsome  man  ;  but  dare  not  stay. 
For  this  main  force  swoops  all  he  sees  away. 

Ralph.   Saint  George !    Set  on ;   before  march 
squire  and  page !  [Exeunt. 

'  Wife.  George,  dost  think  Ealph  will  con- 
found the  giant.'' 

'  Cit.  I  hold  my  cap  to  a  farthing  he  does. 
Why,  Nell,  I  saw  him  wrestle  with  the  great 
Dutchman,'*  and  hurl  him. 

'  Wife.  'Faith  and  that  Dutchman  was  a  goodly 
man,  if  all  things  were  answerable  to  his  bigness. 
And  yet  they  say  there  was  a  Scotchman  higher 
than  he,  and  that  they  two  on  a  night  met,  and 
saw  one  another  for  nothing.  But  of  all  the  sights 
that  ever  were  in  London,  since  I  was  married, 
methinks  the  little  child  that  was  so  fair  grown 
about  the  members  was  the  prettiest ;  that  and 
the  hermaphrodite. 

'  Cit.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  Nell,  Ninivie  was 
better. 

'  Wife.  Ninivie  ?  Oh,  that  was  the  story  of 
Joan  and  the  wall,*  was  it  not,  George  ? 

'  Cit.  Yes,  lamb. 


»  won — dwell;  AnKlo-Saxon,  wunnian. 

2  gent — gentle,  noble. 

3  bord — piobably  the  barber's  basin. 

■»  the  great  Dutchman  —  probably  some  well-kno;vn 
German  fencer  of  the  time. 

*  Joan  and  the  wall— Jonah  and  the  whale. — Theo- 
bald. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


305 


ACT  III.— SCENE   III. 

London.     The  Street  before  Merrythought's 
Eouse. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought. 

'  Wife.  Look,  George  ;  here  comes  Mistress 
Merrythought  again!  and  I  -would  have  Ealph 
come  and  tight  with  the  giant.  I  tell  you  true, 
I  long  to  see't. 

'  Cit.  Good  Mistress  Merrythought,  bo  gone,  I 
pray  you,  for  my  sake !  I  pray  j-ou  forbear  a 
little  ;  you  shall  have  audience  presently  ;  I  have 
a  little  business. 

'  Wife.  Mistress  Merrythought,  if  it  please  you 
to  refrain  your  passion  a  little,  till  Kalph  have 
despatched  the  giant  out  of  the  way,  we  shall 
think  ourselves  much  bound  to  thank  you.  I 
thank  you,  good  Mistress  Merrythought. 

\_Exit  Mrs.  Mekkytiiought. 

Enter  a  Boy. 

'  Cit.  Boy,  come  hither ;  send  away  Ealph  and 
this  whoreson  giant  quickly. 

'  Boy.  In  good  faith,  sir,  we  cannot.  You'll 
utterly  spoil  our  play,  and  make  it  to  be  hissed; 
and  it  cost  money ;  you  will  not  suffer  \is  to  go 
on  with  our  plot.     I  praj',  gentlemen,  rule  him  ! 

'  Cit.  Let  him  come  now  and  despatch  this, 
and  I'll  trouble  you  no  more. 

'  Boy.  Will  you  give  me  your  hand  of  that  ? 

'  Wife.  Give  him  thy  hand,  George,  do ;  and 
ril  kiss  him.  I  warrant  thee  the  youth  means 
plainly. 

\Boy.  I'll  send  him  to  you  presently. 

[Exit  Boy. 

'  Wife.  I  thank  you,  little  youth.  Taith,  the 
child  hath  a  sweet  breath,  George  ;  but  I  think  it 
be  troubled  with  the  worms  ;  Carduus  Benedictus 
and  mare's  milk  were  the  only  thing  in  the  world 
for't. — Oh,  Ealph's  here,  George  !  God  send 
thee  good  luck,  Ealph !' 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV. 
Before  a  Barber's  Shop  in  WaWiam. 
^     Enter  Ealph,  Host,  Tur,  and  George. 

Host.  Puissant  knight,  yonder  his  mansion  is. 
Lo,  where  the  spear  and  copper  bason  ai-e  ! 
Behold  that  string  on  which  hangs  many  a  tooth, 
Drawn  from  the  gentle  jaw  of  wandering  knights! 
I  dare  not  stay  to  sound  ;  he  will  appear.    [_Exit. 

Ralph.  Oh,  faint  not,  heart !     Susan,  my  lady 
dear, 
The  cobbler's  maid  in  Milk-street,  for  whose  sake 
I  take  these  arms  ;  oh,  let  the  thought  of  thee 
Carry  thy  knight  through  all  adventurous  deeds ; 
And  in  the  honour  of  thy  beauteous  self. 
May  I  destroy  this  monster  Barbaroso ! — 
Knock,  sqiure,  upon  the  bason  till  it  break 
"With  the  shrill  strokes,  or  till  the  giant  speak. 

[Tim  knocks  upon  the  bason. 

Enter  Barber. 

'  Wife.  Oh,  George,  the  giant,  the  giant !  Now, 
Ealph,  for  thy  life  ! ' 

Bar.  What  fond,  unknowing  wight  is  this  that 
dares 
So  rudely  knock  at  Barbaroso's  cell. 
Where  no  man  comes,  but  leaves  his  fleece  behind? 

Ralph.  I,  traitorous  caitiff,  who  am  sent  by  Fate 
To  punish  all  the  sad  enormities 
Thou  hast  committed  against  ladies  gent, 
And  errant-knights,  traitor  to  God  and  men  ! 


Prepare  thyself :  this  is  the  dismal  hour 
Appointed  for  thee  to  give  strict  account 
Of  all  thj'  beastly  treacherous  villanies. 

Bar.  Foolhardy  knight,  full  soon  thou  shalt 
abyi 
This  fond  reproach.     Thy  body  will  I  bang  ; 

[He  takes  down  his  pole. 
And  lo !  upon  that  sti-ing  thy  teeth  shall  hang. 
Prepare  thyself,  for  dead  thou  soon  shalt  be. 

Ralph.  Saint  George  for  me!  [They  fight. 

Bar.  Gargantua  for  me  ! 

'  Wife.  To  him,  Ealph,  to  him!  hold  iip  the 
giant ;  set  out  thy  leg  before,  Ealph ! 

'  Cit.  Falsify  a  blow,  Ealph,  falsify  a  blow  !  The 
giant  lies  open  on  the  left  side. 

'  Wife.  Bear't  off,  bear't  off  still.  There,  boy. 
— Oh,  Ealph's  almost  down,  Ealph's  almost 
down ! ' 

Ralph.  Susan,  inspire  me !  Now  have  up  again. 

'  Wife.  Up,  up,  up,  up,  up  !  so,  Ealph !  down 
with  him,  down  with  him,  Ealph  ! 

'  Cit.  Fetch  him  o'er  the  hip,  boy  ! 

[Ealph  knocks  doivn  the  Barber. 

'  Wife.  There,  boy !  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill, 
Ealph'! 

'  Cit.  No,  Ealph ;  get  all  out  of  him  first.' 

Ralph.  Presumptuous  man !   see  to  what  des- 
perate end 
Thy  treachery  hath  bi'ought  thee.    The  just  gods, 
Who  never  prosper  those  who  do  despise  them, 
For  all  the  villanies  which  thou  hast  done 
To  knights  and  ladies,  now  have  paid  thee  home, 
By  my  stiff  arm,  a  knight  adventurous. 
But  say,  vile  wretch,  before  I  send  thy  soul 
To  sad  Averuus  (whither  it  must  go). 
What  captives  holdst  thou  in  thj'  sable  cave  ? 

Bar.  Go  in,  and  free  them  all ;  thou  hast  the 
day. 

Ralph.    Go,  squire  and  dwarf,  search  in  this 
dreadful  cave, 
And  free  the  wretched  prisoners  from  their  bonds. 
[Exeunt  Tim  and  George. 

Bar.  I  crave  for  mercj',  as  thou  art  a  knight, 
And  scorn'st  to  spill  the  blood  of  those  that  beg. 

Ralph.   Thou  show'd'st  no   mercy,  nor  shalt 
thou  have  any : 
Prepare  thyself,  for  thou  shalt  surely  die, 

Enter  Tim  leading  one  winking,  with  a  bason  under 
his  chin,  as  prepared  for  shaving. 

Tim.  Behold,  brave  knight,  hei'e  is  one  j)risoner 
Whom  this  vile  man  hath  used  as  you  see. 

'  Wife.  This  is  the  first  wise  word  I  heard  the 
squire  speak.' 

Ralph.    Speak  what  thou  art,  and  how  thou 
hast  been  used. 
That  I  may  give  him  condign  punishment. 

1  Knight.  I  am  a  knight  that  took  my  journey 
post 
Northward  from  London ;  and,  in  courteous  wise, 
This  giant  trained-  me  to  his  loathsome  den. 
Under  pretence  of  killing  of  the  itch  ; 
And  all  my  body  with  a  powder  strewed, 
That  smarts  and  stings  ;  and  cut  away  my  beard 
And  curl'd  locks,  wherein  were  ribands  tied ; 
And  with  a  water  wash'd  my  tender  eyes 
(Whilst  up  and  down  about  me  still  he  skipt), 
Whose  virtue  is  that  till  my  ej'es  be  wiped 
With  a  dry  cloth,  for  this  my  foul  disgrace, 
I  shall  not  dare  to  look  a  dog  i'  th'  face. 

'  Wife.  Alas,  poor  knight !  Eelieve  him,  Ealph; 
relieve  poor  knights  whilst  you  live.' 

1  ahy — atone  or  pay  for;  from  Anglo-Saxon,  abicgan, 
connected  with  Eng.  buy.  It  is  sometimes  confounded 
with  abide. 

^  trained — drew,  enticed. 


3o6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ralph.    My  trusty  squire,  convey  him  to  the 
town, 
Where  he  may  find  relief.     Adieu,  fair  knight ! 
\_Exeunt  Knight  and  Tim. 

Enter  Geokge  leading  one  with  a  patch  over  his 
nose. 

Geo.   Puissant  knight  o'  th'  Burning  Pestle 
hight, 
See  here  another  wretch,  whom  this  foul  beast 
Hath  scotch'd  and  scored  in  this  inhuman  wise. 
Ralph.  Speak  me  thy  name,  and  eke  thy  place 
of  birth, 
And  what  hath  been  thy  usage  in  this  cave. 

2  Knight.  I  am  a  knight,  Sir  Pockhole  is  my 
And  by  my  birth  I  am  a  Londoner,  [name, 
Free  by  my  copy,  but  my  ancestors 

Were  Frenchmen  all ;  and  riding  hard  this  way. 
Upon  a  trotting  horse,  my  bones  did  ache  ; 
And  I,  faint  knight,  to  ease  my  weary  limbs, 
Lit  at  this  cave ;  when  straight  this  furious  fiend, 
With  sharpest  instrument  of  purest  steel, 
Did  cut  the  giistle  of  my  nose  away,^ 
And  in  the  place  this  velvet  plaster  stands : 
Kelieve  me,  gentle  knight,  ovit  of  his  bands ! 

'  Wijt.  Good  Ealph,  relieve  Sir  Pockhole  and 
send  him  away  ;  for  in  truth  his  breath  stinks.' 

Raljjh.  Convey  him  straight  after  the  other 
Sir  Pockhole,  fare  you  well !  [knight. 

2  Knight.  Kind  sir,  good  night ! 

[Exit  with  George. 

Man.  [  Within.]  Deliver  us  !  [Cries  within. 

Woman.  [Within.']  Deliver  us! 

'  Wife.  Hark,  George,  what  a  woful  cry  there 
is !     I  think  some  woman  lies-in  there.' 

Man.  [Within.]  Deliver  us! 

Woman.  [  Within.]  Deliver  us  ! 

.RaZpA.What  ghastly  noise  is  this  ?  Speak,  Bar- 
baroso. 
Or,  by  this  blazing  steel  thy  head  goes  off ! 

Bar.  Prisoners  of  mine,  whom  I  in  diet  keep. 
Send  lower  down  into  the  cave. 
And  in  a  tub  that's  heated  smoking  hot," 
There  they  may  find  them,  and  deliver  them. 

Ralph.  Eun,  squire  and  dwarf ;    deliver  them 
with  speed.  [Exeunt  Tim  and  George. 

'  Wife.  But  will  not  Ealph  kill  this  giant  ? 
Surely,  I  am  afraid,  if  he  let  him  go  he  will  do 
as  much  hurt  as  ever  he  did. 

'  Cit.  Not  so,  mouse,  neither,  if  he  could  con- 
vert him. 

'  Wife.  Ay,  George,  if  he  could  convert  him ; 
but  a  gi£^nt  is  not  so  soon  converted  as  one  of  us 
ordinary  people.  There's  a  pretty  tale  of  a  witch, 
that  had  the  devil's  mark  about  her  (God  bless 
us !)  that  had  a  giant  to  her  son,  that  was  called 
Lob-lie-by-the-fire ;  didst  never  hear  it,  George  ? 

Enter  Tim,  leading  third  Knight,  with  a  glass  of 
lotion  in  his  hand,  and  George  leading  a  Woma,n, 
with  diet-bread  and  drink. 

'  Cit.  Peace,  Nell,  here  comes  the  prisoners.' 
Geo.   Here  be  these  pined  wretches,   manfid 
knight, 

That  for  this  six  weeks  have  not  seen  a  wight. 
Ralph.  Deliver  what  you  are,  and  how  you  came 

To  this  sad  cave,  and  what  your  usage  was  ? 

3  Knight.  I  am  an  errant-knight  that  followed 
arms 

With  spear  and  shield ;  and  in  my  tender  years 
I  stricken  was  with  Cupid's  fiery  shaft, 
And  fell  in  love  with  this  my  lady  dear. 


1  Barbers  were  also  the  surgeons  of  the  time. 

2  These  patients  were   probably  affllicted  with  the 
venereal  disease. 


And  stole  her  from  her  friends  in  Turnbull-sf  reet,' 
And  bore  her  up  and  down  from  town  to  town. 
Where  we  did  eat  and  drink,  and  music  hear  ; 
Till  at  the  length  at  this  unhappy  town 
We  did  arrive,  and  coming  to  this  cave. 
This  beast  us  caught,  and  put  us  in  a  tub. 
Where  we  this  two  months  sweat,  and  should 

have  done 
Another  month,  if  you  had  not  relieved  us. 

Woman.  This  bread  and  water  hath  our  diet 
Together  with  a  rib  cut  from  a  neck  [been, 

Of  burned  mutton  ;  hard  hath  been  our  fare ! 
Eelease  us  from  this  ugly  giant's  snare  ! 

3  Knight.  This  hath  been  all  the  food  we  have 
received ; 
But  only  twice  a-day,  for  novelty, 
He  gave  a  spoonful  of  this  hearty  broth 
To  each  of  us,  through  this  same  slender  quill. 

[Pulls  out  a  syringe. 

Ralph.  From  this  infernal  monster  you  shall  go, 
That  useth  knights  and  gentle  ladies  so.    ■ 
Convey  them  hence. 

[Exeunt  third  Knight  and  Woman, 

'  Cit.  Oony,  I  can  tell  thee  the  gentlemen  like 
Ealph. 

'  Wife.  Aj,  George,  I  see  it  well  enough. — 
Gentlemen,  thanlc  you  all  heartily  for  gracing 
my  man  Ealph ;  and,  I  promise  you,  you  shall 
see  him  oftener.' 

Bar.  Mercy,  great  knight !  I  do  recant  my  ill. 
And  henceforth  never  gentle  blood  will  spill. 

Ralph.  I  give  thee  mercy ;  but  yet  shalt  thou 
Upon  my  Burning  Pestle,  to  perform  [swear 

Thy  promise  uttered. 

Bar.  I  swear  and  kiss.  [Kisses  the  Pestle. 

Ralph.  Depart  then,  and  amend ! — 
Come,  squire  and  dwarf ;  the  sun  grows  towards 

his  set. 
And  we  have  many  more  adventures  yet. 

VExeunt. 

'  Cit.  Now  Ealph  is  in  this  humour,  I  know  he 
would  ha'  beaten  all  the  boys  in  the  house,  if  they 
had  been  set  on  him. 

'  Wife.  Ay,  George,  but  it  is  well  as  it  is.  I 
warrant  you  the  gentlemen  do  consider  what  it  is 
to  overthrow  a  giant. 

ACT  IIL— SCENE  V. 
The  Street  before  Merrythought's  House. 
Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought  and  Michael. 

'  But  look,  George,  hei-e  comes  Mistress  Men-y- 
thought  and  her  son  Michael. — Now  you  are  wel- 
come. Mistress  Merrythought;    now  Ealph  has 
done,  you  may  go  on.' 
Mrs.  Mer.  Micke,  my  boy  ? 
Mich.  Ay,  forsooth,  mother!' 
3Irs.  Mer.  Be  merry,  Micke ;   we  are  at  home 
now;  where,  I  warrant  you,  you  will  find  the 
house  flung  out  of  the  windows.     [Singing  above.] 
Hark !  hey  dogs,  hey  !  this  is  the  old  world  i'faith 
with  my  husband.     [If]  I  get  in  among  them,  I'll 
play  them  such  a  lesson,  that  they  shall  have 
little  list  to  come  scraping  hither  again !— Why, 
Master  Merrythought!  husband!  Charles  Merry- 
thought ! 

Mer.  [Singing  at  the  window  a.love.'l 
If  you  will  sing,  and  dance,  and  laugh. 

And  hollow,  and  laugh  again ! 
And  then  cry, '  There  boys,  there;'  why  then, 
One,  two,  three,  and  four, 
We  shall  be  merry  within  this  hour. 

Mrs.  Mer.   Why,  Charles!  do  you  not  know 
1  Turniull-streel—a,  street  notorious  for  its  brothels. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


507 


your  own  natural  wife  ?  I  say,  open  the  door, 
and  turn  me  out  tliose  mangy  companions ;  'tis 
more  than  time  that  they  were  fellow  and  fellow- 
like with  you.  You  are  a  gentleman,  Charles, 
and  an  old  man,  and  father  of  two  children ;  and 
I  mj'self  (though  I  say  it),  by  my  mother's  side, 
niece  to  a  worshipful  gentleman,  and  a  conduc- 
tor; he  has  been  three  times  in  his  Majestj-'s 
service  at  Chester ;  and  is  now  the  fourth  time, 
God  bless  him  and  his  charge,  upon  his  journey. 

Mer.  [Singing.]  Go  from  my  window,  love,  go ; 
Go  from  my  window,  my  dear: 
The  wind  and  tlie  rain 
Will  drive  you  bacl£  affain, 
Tou  cannot  be  lodged  here. 

Hark  you,  Mistress  Merrythought,  you  that  walk 
upon  adventures,  and  forsake  your  husband,  be- 
cause he  sings  with  never  a  penny  in  his  purse ; 
what,  shall  1  think  myself  the  worse  ?  'Paith  no, 
I'll  be  merry.  [Singing. 

You  come  not  here,  here's  none  liv.t  lads  of  mettle, 

Lives  of  a  hundred  j^ears,  and  uii  .v  u-ds. 

Care  never  drunk  their  blood!>,  ;.  n-  want  made  them 

warble 
'  Hey-ho,  my  heart  is  heavy.' 

Mrs.  3Ier.  Why,  Master  Merrythought,  what 
am  I,  that  you  should  laugh  me  to  scorn  thus 
abruptly?  Am  I  not  your  fellow-feeler,  as  we 
may  say,  in  all  our  miseries  ?  your  comforter  in 
health  and  sickness  ?  Have  1  not  bi-ought  you 
children  ?  are  they  not  like  you,  Charles  ?  Look 
upon  thine  own  image,  hard-hearted  man!  and 
yet  for  all  this — 

Mer.  [Singing.1  Begone,  begone,  my  juggy,  my  pnggy, 
Begone,  my  love,  my  dear! 

The  weather  is  warm, 

'Twill  do  thee  no  harm ; 
Thou  canst  not  be  lodged  here. 

Be  merry,  boys!  some  light  music,  and  more 
wine !  {Exit  from  above. 

'  Wife.  He's  not  in  earnest,  I  hope,  George ;  is 
he? 

'  Cit.  What  if  he  be,  sweetheart  ? 

'  Wife.  Marry,  if  he  be,  George,  I'll  make  bold 
to  tell  him  he's  an  ingraut'  old  man,  to  use  his 
bedfellow  so  sciurvily. 

'  Cit.  What !  how  does  he  use  her,  honey  ? 

'  Wife.  Marry  come  up.  Sir  Saucebox !  I  think 
you'll  take  his  part,  will  you  not  ?  Lord,  how  hot 
you  are  grown  !  You  are  a  fine  man,  an'  you  had 
a  fine  dog ;  it  becomes  you  sweetly  ! 

'  Cit.  Nay,  prythee,  Nell,  chide  not ;  for  as  I 
am  an  honest  man,  and  a  true  Christian  grocer, 
I  do  not  like  his  doings. 

'  Wife.  I  cry  you  mercy  then,  George !  You 
know  we  are  all  frail,  and  full  of  infirmities. — 
D'ye  hear,.  Master  Merrythought  ?  May  I  crave 
a  word  with  you  ? ' 

Mer.  \_At  the  window.^  Sti'ike  up,  lively  lads ! 

'  Wife.  1  had  not  thought  in  truth.  Master 
Merrythought,  that  a  man  of  your  age  and  dis- 
cretion, as  I  may  say,  being  a  gentleman,  and 
therefore  known  by  your  gentle  conditions,  could 
have  used  so  little  respect  to  the  weakness  of  his 
wife.  For  your  wife  is  your  own  flesh,  the  staff 
of  your  age,  your  yokefellow,  with  whose  help 
you  draw  through  the  mire  of  this  transitory 
world ;  nay,  she's  your  own  rib.    And  again — ' 

Mer.  ISinging.}  I  come  not  hither  for  thee  to  teach, 
I  have  no  pulpit  for  thee  to  preach, 
I  would  thou  hadst  Idss'd  me  under  the 
breech, 
As  thou  art  a  lady  gay. 


ingrant — probably  ungrateful. 


'  Wife.  Marry,  with  a  vengeance,  I  am  heartily 
sorry  for  the  poor  gentlewoman !  but  if  I  were 
thy  wife,  i'faith,  greybeard,  i'faith — 

'  Cit.  I  prythee,  sweet  honeysuckle,  be  content! 

'  Wife.  Give  me  such  words,  that  am  a  gentle- 
woman born  ?  Hang  him,  hoary  rascal !  Get 
me  some  drink,  George ;  I  am  almost  molten  with 
fretting.     Now  beshi-ew  his  knave's  heart  for  it.' 

[Citizen  exit. 

Mer.  Play  me  a  light  lavalto.^  Come,  be  frolic ; 
fill  the  good  fellows  wine  ! 

Mrs.  Mer.  Why,  Master  MeiTythought,  are  you 
disposed  to  make  me  wait  here  ?  You'll  open,  I 
hope  ;  I'll  fetch  them  that  shall  open  else. 

Mer.  Good  woman,  if  you  will  sing,  I'll  give 
you  something ;  if  not — 

Yon  are  no  love  for  me,  Marg'ret, 
I  am  no  love  for  you. 

Come  aloft,  boys,  aloft !  [Exit  from  the  window. 
Mrs.  Mer.  Now  a  churl's  fart  in  your  teeth,  sir ! 
Come,  Micke,  we'll  not  trouble  him  ;  a'  shall  not 
ding  us  i'  th'  teeth  with  his  bread  and  his  broth, 
that  he  shall  not.  Come,  boy ;  I'll  provide  for 
thee,  I  warrant  thee.  We'll  go  to  Master  Ven- 
terwels,  the  merchant :  I'll  get  his  letter  to  mine 
host  of  the  Bell  in  Waltham ;  there  I'll  place  thee 
with  the  tapster ;  will  not  that  do  well  for  thee, 
Micke  ?  and  let  me  alone  for  that  old  cuckoldly 
knave  your  father !  I'll  use  him  in  his  Idnd,  I 
warrant  you !  [Exeunt. 

END  OF  ACT  ni. 

Re-enter  Citizen  with  beer. 

'  Wife.  Come,  George ;  where's  the  beer 

'  Cit.  Here,  love  ! 

'  Wife.  This  old  fornicating  fellow  will  not  oiit 
of  my  mind  yet.  Gentlemen,  I'll  begin  to  you 
all ;  and  I  desire  more  of  your  acquaintance  with 
all  my  heart.  Fill  the  gentlemen  some  beer, 
George.  [Boy  danceth.^  Look,  George,  the  little 
boy's  come  again  !  methinks  he  looks  something 
like  the  Prince  of  Orange  in  his  long  stocking,  if 
he  had  a  little  harness-  about  his  neck.  George, 
I  will  have  him  dance  Fading  ;3  Fading  is  a  tine 
jig,  I'll  assure  j-ou,  gentlemen.  Begin,  brother ; 
now  a'  capers,  sweetheart !  now  a  turn  a'  th'  toe, 
and  then  tunable !     Cannot  you  tumble,  youth  ? 

'' S01/.  No,  indeed,  forsooth. 

'Wife.  Nor  eat  fire? 

'Boy.  Neither. 

'  Wife.  Why  then,  I  thank  you  heartily;  there's 
twopence  to  buy  you  points*  withal.' 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  L 

A  Street. 
Enter  Jasper  and  Boy. 
Jasp.  There,  boy ;  deliver  this.    But  do  it  well. 
Hast  thou  provided  me  four  lusty  fellows. 
Able  to  carry  me  ?  and  art  thou  perfect 
In  all  thy  business  ? 

Boy.  Su-,  you  need  not  fear ; 
I  have  my  lesson  here,  and  cannot  miss  it. 
The  men  are  ready  for  you,  and  what  else 
Pertains  to  this  employment. 


1  lavalto.    See  note  1,  p.  87,  col.  1. 

-  harness — armour. 

3  Fading— the  name  of  an  Irish  dance,  and  a  common 
burden  for  a  song. — Nares. 

■*  points— tag gsd.  laces,  used  in  tying  any  part  of  the 
dress.— Nakes. 


308 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Jasp.  There,  my  boy  ; 
Take  it,  but  buy  no  laud. 

Boy.  'Faith,  sir,  'twere  rare 
To  ,see  so  young  a  purchaser.     I  ily. 
And  on  my  wings  carry  your  destiny.  [Exif. 

Jasp.  Go,  and  be  happy !    Now  my  latest  hope, 
Forsake  me  not,  but  fling  thy  anchor  out. 
And  let  it  hold!     Stand  fix'd,  thou  rolling  stone, 
Till  I  enjoy  my  dearest !     Hear  me,  all 
You  powers,  that  rule  in  men,  celestial !       \Exl/. 

•  Wife.  Go  thy  ways :  thou  art  as  crooked  a 
sprig  as  ever  grew  in  London !  1  warrant  him, 
he'll  come  to  some  naughty  end  or  other ;  for  his 
looks  say  no  less.  Besides,  his  father  (you  know, 
George)  is  none  of  the  best ;  you  heard  him  take 
me  up  like  a  flirt-gill,'  and  sing  bawdy  songs 
upon  me ;  but  i'faith,  if  I  live,  George — 

'  Cit.  Let  me  alone,  sweetheart !  1  have  a  trick 
in  my  head  shall  lodge  him  in  the  Arches  ^  for 
one  year,  and  make  him  sing  peccavi,  ere  I  leave 
Lim ;  and  yet  he  shall  never  know  who  hurt  hin) 
neither. 

'  Wife.  Do,  my  good  George,  do  I 

'  Oil.  What  shall  we  have  JRalph  do  now,  boy .' 

'■  Boy.  You  shall  have  what  you  will,  sir. 

'■  Cit.  Why,  so,  sir  ?  go  and  fetch  me  him  then, 
and  let  the  sophy  of  Persia  come  and  christen  him 
a  child. 

'  Boy.  Believe  me,  sir,  that  will  not  do  so  well ; 
'tis  stale  ;  it  has  been  had  before  at  the  Ked  Bull.^ 

'  Wifi.  George,  let  Kalph  travel  over  great  hills, 
and  let  him  be  very  weary,  and  come  to  the  King 
of  Gracovia's  house,  covered  with  velvet,  and  there 
let  the  king's  daughter  stand  in  her  window  all 
in  beaten  gold,  combing  her  golden  locks  with  a 
comb  of  ivory ;  and  let  her  sj)y  Ealj)h,  and  fall  in 
love  with  him,  and  come  down  to  him,  and  carry 
him  into  her  father's  house,  and  then  let  Ealph 
talk  with  her ! 

'  Cit.  Well  said,  Nell ;  it  shall  be  so. — Boy,  let's 
ha't  done  quickly. 

'■Boy.  Sir,  if  you  will  imagine  all  this  to  be 
done  already,  you  shall  hear  them  talk  together ; 
but  we  cannot  present  a  house  covered  with 
velvet,  and  a  lady  in  beaten  gold. 

'  Cit.  Sir  Boy,  let's  ha't  as  you  can  then. 

'■Boy.  Besides,  it  will  show  ill-favouredly  to 
have  a  grocer's  'prentice  to  court  a  king's  daugh- 
ter. 

'  Cit.  Will  it  so,  sir  ?  You  are  well  read  in 
histories !  I  pray  you,  what  was  Sir  Dagonet  ? 
Was  not  he  'prentice  to  a  grocer  in  London  ? 
Eeadthe  play  of  The  Four  Prentices  of  London.* 
where  they  toss  their  pikes  so.  I  pray  you  fetch 
him  in,  sir,  fetch  him  in ! 

'■  Bo'y.  It  shall  be  done — It  is  not  our  fault, 
gentlemen.  [Exit. 

'  Wife.  Now  we  shall  see  fine  doings,  1  war- 
rant thee,  George. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  IL 

A  Hall  in  the  King  of  Moldavia's  Court. 

Enter  Ralph,  Tim,  George,  and  Pompiona. 

'  Oh,  here  they  come !     How  prettily  the  King  of 
Gracovia's  daughter  is  dressed ! 


'  Jlirt-gill,  or  gill-flirt.  Gill  was  a  current  and  familiar 
term  for  female,  as  in  the  proverb,  '  Every  Jack  must 
have  his  G»K,'  said  to  come  from  Gillian,  i.e.  Juliana. — 
Nares. 

-  the  Arches — prohahly  a  prison  connected  witli  the 
Court  of  Arches. — Nakes. 

3  (he  Red  Bull — one  of  the  playhouses  of  the  time. 

••  The  Four  Prentices  of  London — a  play  by  Thomas 
Heywood. 


'  Cit.  Ay,  Nell,  it  is  the  fashion  of  that  country, 
I  warrant  thee.' 

Pomp.  Welcome,  Sir  Knight,  unto  my  father's 
court. 
King  of  Moldavia ;  unto  me,  Pompiona, 
His  daughter  dear !     But  sure  you  do  not  like 
Your  entertainment,  that  will  stay  with  us 
No  longer  but  a  night. 

Ralph.  Damsel  right  fair, 
I  am  on  many  sad  adventures  bound. 
That  call  me  forth  into  the  wilderness. 
Besides,  my  horse's  back  is  something  gall'd. 
Which  will  enforce  me  ride  a  sober  pace. 
r>ut  many  thanks,  fair  lady,  be  to  you. 
For  using  errant- knight  with  courtesy  ' 

Pomp.    But  say,  brave  knight,  what  is  your 
name  and  birth  ? 

Ralph.  My  name  is  Ealph,  I  am  an  Englishman 
(As  true  as  steel,  a  hearty  Englishman), 
And  'prentice  to  a  grocer  in  the  Strand, 
By  deed  indent,  of  which  I  have  ono  part : 
But  Fortune  calling  me  to  follow  arms, 
On  me  this  holy  order  I  did  take 
Of  Burning  Pestle,  which  in  all  men's  eyes 
I  bear,  confounding  ladies'  enemies. 

Pomp.  Oft  have  I  heard  of  yom-  brave  country- 
men, 
And  fertile  soil,  and  store  of  wholesome  food ; 
My  father  oft  will  tell  me  of  a  drink 
In  England  found,  and  Nipitato '  call'd, 
Which  driveth  all  the  sorrow  fi'oni  your  hearts. 

Ralph.  Lady,  'tis  true ;  you  need  not  lay  j'our 
lips 
To  better  Nipitato  than  there  is. 

Pomp.  And  of  a  wild  fowl  he  will  often  speak. 
Which  powder'd  beef  and  mtxstard  called  is  : 
For  there  have  been  great  wars'twixtus  and  you; 
But  truly,  Ealph,  it  was  not  'long  of  me. 
Tell  me  then,  Ealph,  could  you  contented  be 
To  wear  a  lady's  favour  in  your  shield .' 

Ralph.  1  am  a  knight  of  a  religious  order, 
And  will  not  wear  a  favour  of  a  lady 
That  trusts  in  Anticlu'ist,  and  false  traditions. 

'  Cit.  Well  said,  Ealph  I  convert  her,  if  thou 
canst.' 

Ralph.  Besides,  I  have  a  lady  of  my  own 
In  merry  England,  for  whose  virtuous  sake 
I  took  these  arms,  and  Susan  is  her  name, 
A  cobbler's  maid  in  Milk-street ;  whom  I  vow 
Ne'er  to  forsake,  whilst  life  and  Pestle  last. 

Pomp.  Happy  that  cobbling  dame,  whoe'er  she 
be. 
That  for  her  own,  dear  Ealph,  hath  gotten  thee ! 
Unhappy  I,  that  ne'er  shall  see  the  day 
To  see  thee  more,  that  bear'st  my  heart  away ! 

Ralph.  Lady,  farewell !     I  needs  must  take  my 
leave. 

Pomp.    Hard-hearted  Ealph,  that  ladies  dost 
deceive ! 

'  Cit.  Hark  thee,  Ealph  !  there's  money  for 
thee.  Give  something  in  the  King  of  Gracovia's 
house  ;  be  not  beholding  to  him.' 

Ralph.  Lady,  before  I  go,  I  must  remember 
Your  father's  officers,  who,  truth  to  tell, 
Have  been  about  me  very  diligent. 
Hold  up  thy  snowy  hand,  thou  princely  maid ; 
There's  twelve-pence  for  your  father's  chambei-- 

lain; 
And  there's  another  shilling  for  his  cook. 
For,  by  my  troth,  the  goose  was  roasted  well ; 
And  twelve-pence  for  your  father's  horsekeeper, 


1  Nipitato— a.  sort  of  jocular  title  applied  in  commen- 
dation chiefiy  to  ale,  but  also  to  other  strong  liquors. 
It  seems  always  to  imply  that  the  liquor  is  peculiarly 
Strong  and  good.  Nares  thinks  it  connected  with  nappy. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


309 


For  'nointing  my  horse-back,  and  for  his  butter 

There  is  another  shilling ;  to  the  maid 

That  wash'd  my  boot-hose,  there's  an  English 

groat ; 
And  twopence  to  the  boy  that  wiped  my  boots  ! 
And,  last,  fair  lady,  there  is  for  yourself 
Threepence,  to  buy  you  pins  at  Bumbo-fair  ! 
Pomp,  full  many  thanks;  and  I  will  keep  them 
safe 
Till  all  the  heads  be  off,  for  thy  sake,  Ealph. 
Ralph.  Advance,  my  squire  and  dwarf !  I  can- 
not staj'. 
Pomp.  Thou  kill'st  my  heart  in  parting  thus 
away.  Exeunt. 

'  Wife.  I  commend  Ealph  yet,  that  he  will  not 
stoop  to  a  Oracovian  ;  there's  pi'operer  women  in 
London  than  any  are  there,  I  wis.  But  here 
comes  Master  Humphrey  and  his  love  again  ; 
now,  George ! 

'  Cit.  Ay,  cony,  peace  ! ' 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 
Tha  House  o/Venterwels. 

Enter  Texterwels,  Master  Humphrey,  Luce, 
and  Boy. 

Vent.  Go,  get  you  up!  I  will  not  be  entreated! 
And,  gossip  mine,"-  I'll  keep  you  sure  hereafter 
From  gadding  out  again,  with  boys  and  unthrif ts : 
Come,  they  are  women's  tears;    I  know   your 

fashion. — 
Go,  sirrah,  lock  her  in,  and  keep  the  key 
Safe  as  you  love  your  Ufe. 

\_Exeunt  Luce  aiul  Boy. 
Now,  my  son  Humphrey, 
You  may  both  rest  assured  of  my  love 
In  this,  and  reap  your  own  desire. 
Hum.  I  see  this  love  you  speak  of,  through 
your  daughter. 
Although  the  liolo  be  little  ;  and  hereafter 
Will  yield  the  like  in  all  I  may  or  can, 
Fitting  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman. 

Vent.  I  do  believe  you,  my  good  son,  and  thank 
you; 
For  'twere  an  impudence  to  think  you  flatter'd. 

Hum,.  It  were  indeed ;  but  shall  I  tell  you  why.' 
I  have  been  beaten  twice  about  the  lie. 

Vent.  Well,  son,  no  more  of  compliment.     My 
daughter 
Is  yours  again ;  appoint  the  time  and  take  her : 
We'U  have  no  stealing  for  it ;  I  myself 
And   some   few   of    our    friends    will  see    you 
married. 
Hum.  I  would  you  would,  i'faith !  for  be  it 
known, 
I  ever  was  afraid  to  lie  alone. 

Vent.  Some  three  days  hence  then — 
Hum.  Three  days .'  let  me  see  ! 
'Tis  somewhat  of  the  most ;  yet  I  agree. 
Because  I  mean  against  the  appointed  day 
To  visit  all  my  friends  in  new  array. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir,  there's  a  gentlewoman  without  would 

speak  with  your  worship. 
Vent.  What  is  she  ? 
Serv.  Sir,  I  ask'd  her  not. 
Vent.  Bid  her  come  in. 


1  gossip  mine— i.e.  my  dausliter ;  gossip,  gossib,  godsib, 
Aiit;'lo-Saxon  godsihbe,  meant  originally  a  spon.-or  In 
baiitism  and  also  a  godchild,  and  generally  a  relation; 
sib  is  still  used  in  Scotland  m  the  sense  ot  related. 


Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought  and  Michael. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Peace  be  to  your  worship  !  I  come 
as  a  poor  suitor  to  you,  sii',  in  the  behalf  of  this 
child. 

Vent.  Are  you  not  wife  to  Merrythought  ? 

Mrs.  Mer.  Yes,  truly.  'Would  I  had  ne'er  seen 
his  eyes !  he  has  undone  me  and  himself,  and  his 
children ;  and  there  he  lives  at  home,  and  sings 
and  hoits,  and  revels  among  his  drunken  com- 
panions !  but,  I  warrant  you,  where  to  get  a 
penny  to  put  bread  in  his  mouth  he  knows  not. 
And  therefore,  if  it  like  your  worship,  I  would 
entreat  your  letter  to  the  honest  host  of  the  Bell 
in  Waltham,  that  I  may  place  my  child  under 
the  protection  of  his  tapster,  in  some  settled 
course  of  life. 

Vent.  I'm  glad  the  heavens  have  heard   my 
prayers !  Thy  husband, 
When  I  was  ripe  in  sorrows,  laiigh'd  at  me  ; 
Thy  son,  like  an  unthankful  wretch,  I  having 
Eedeem'd  him  from  his  fall,  and  made  him  mine, 
To  show  his  love  again,  first  stole  my  daughter, 
Then  wrong'd  this  gentleman  ;  and,  last  of  all. 
Gave  me  that  grief  had  almost  brought  me  down 
Unto  my  grave,  had  not  a  stronger  hand 
Believed  my  sorrows.     Go,  and  weep  as  I  did, 
And  bo  unpitied  ;  for  I  here  profess 
An  everlasting  hate  to  all  thy  name. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Will  you  so,  sir  ?  how  say  you  by 
that  ?  Come,  Micke  ;  let  him  keep  his  wind  to 
cool  his  pottage !  AVe'U  go  to  thy  nurse's,  Micke ; 
she  knits  silk  stockings,  boj',  and  we'll  knit  too, 
boy,  and  be  beholding  to  none  of  them  all. 

\_Exit  with  Michael. 

Enter  a  Boy  icith  a  letter. 

Boy.  Sir,  I  take  it  you  are  the  master  of  this 
house. 

Vent.  How  then,  boy  .' 

Boy.  Then  to  yourself,  sir,  comes  this  letter. 

Vent.  From  whom,  my  pretty  boy  'i 

Boy.  from  him  that  was  your  servant ;  but  no 
more 
Shall  that  name  ever  be,  for  he  is  dead ! 
Grief  of  your  purchased  anger  broke  his  heart : 
I  saw  him  die,  and  from  his  hand  received 
This  paper,  with  a  charge  to  bring  it  hither : 
Eead  it,  and  satisfy  yourself  in  all. 

Vent.  [Reading.]  Sir,  that  I  have  wrong'd  your  love  i 
must  confess;  in  which  1  have  purchased  to  myself,  be- 
sides mine  own  undoing,  the  ill  opinion  of  my  friends. 
Let  not  your  anger,  good  sir,  outlive  me,  but  suffer  me 
to  rest  in  peace  with  your  forgiveness.  Let  my  body  (if 
a  dying  man  may  so  much  prevail  with  you)  be  brought  ' 
to  your  daughter,  that  she  may  truly  know  my  hot  flames 
are  now  buried,  and  withal  receive  a  testimony  of  the 
zeal  I  bore  her  virtue.  Farewell  lor  ever,  and  be  ever 
happy!  Jaspek. 

God's  hand  is  great  in  this!  I  do  forgive  him  ; 
Yet  I  am  glad  he's  quiet,  where  I  hope 
He  will  not  bite  again.     Boy,  bring  the  body. 
And  let  him  have  his  will,  ii  that  be  all. 

Boy.  'Tis  here  without,  sir. 

Ve7it.  So,  sir  ;  if  you  please. 
You  may  conduct  it  in  ;  I  do  not  fear  it. 

Hum.  I'll  be  your  usher,  boy;  for,  though  I 
say  it. 
He  owed  me  something  once,  and  well  did  pay  it. 

\_Ej:eunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 

Another  room  in  the  same  House. 

Enter  Luce. 

Luce.  If  there  be  any  punishment  inflicted 


;io 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Upon  the  miserable,  more  than  yet  I  feel, 

Let  it  together  seize  me,  and  at  once 

Press  clown  my  soul !  I  cannot  bear  the  pain 

Of  these  delaying  tortures  ! — Thou  that  art 

The  end  of  all,  and  the  sweet  rest  of  all, 

Come,  come,  O  Death !  bring  me  to  thy  peace, 

And  blot  out  all  the  memory  I  nourish 

Both  of  my  father  and  my  cruel  friend ! 

Oh,  wretched  maid,  still  liviug  to  be  wretched, 

To  be  a  say  i  to  Fortune  in  her  changes. 

And  grow  to  number  times  and  woes  together! 

How  happy  had  1  been,  if,  being  born, 

My  grave  had  been  my  cradle ! 

Enter  Servant. 

/S'erv.  By  your  leave. 
Young  mistress !    Here's  a  boy  hath  brought  a 

coffin ; 
What  a'  would  say  I  know  not ;  but  your  father 
Charged  me  to  give  you  notice.    Here  they  come ! 

Enter  two  Men  heaj'ing  a  coffin,  and  the  Boy. 
Jasper  laid  out  as  a  cor])se  within  it,  covered 
with  a  cloth. 

Luce.  For  me  I  hope  'tis  come,  and  'tis  most 
welcome. 

Boy.  Fair  mistress,  let  mo  not  add  greater  grief 
To  that  great  store  you  have  already.    Jasper 
(That  whilst  he  lived  was  yours,  now  dead, 
Apd  here  inclosed)  commanded  me  to  bring 
His  body  hither,  and  to  crave  a  tear 
From  those  fair  eyes  (though  he  deserved  not 

pity), 

To  deck  his  funeral,  for  so  he  bid  me 
Tell  her  for  whom  he  died. 

Luce.  He  shall  have  many. — 
Good  friends,  depart  a  little,  whilst  I  take 
My  leave  of  this  dead  man,  that  once  I  loved. 

[Exeunt  Coffin-can-iers  and  Boy. 
Hold  yet  a  little,  life !  and  then  I  give  thee 
To  thy  first  heavenly  being.     Oh,  my  friend  ! 
Hast  thou  deceived  me  thus,  and  got  before  me  ? 
I  shall  not  long  be  after.     But,  believe  me, 
Thou  wert  too  cruel,  Jasper,  'gainst  thyself. 
In  punishing  the  fault  I  could  have  pardon'd. 
With  so  untimely  death.     Thou  didst  not  wrong 

me, 
But  ever  wert  most  kind,  most  true,  most  loving. 
And  I  the  most  unkind,  most  false,  most  cruel ! 
Didst  thou  but  ask  a  tear  ?     I'll  give  thee  all, 
Even  all  my  eyes  can  pour  down,  all  my  sighs, 
And  all  myself,  before  thou  goest  from  me : 
These  are  but  sparing  rites ;  but  if  thy  soul 
Be  yet  about  this  place,  and  can  behold 
And  see  what  I  prejiare  to  deck  thee  with, 
It  shall  go  up,  borne  on  the  wings  of  peace, 
And  satisfied.    First  will  I  sing  thy  dirge, 
Then  kiss  thy  pale  lips,  and  then  die  myself, 
And  fill  one  coffin  and  one  grave  together. 

SONG. 

Come,  you  -whose  loves  are  dead, 

And  whiles  I  sing, 

Weep  and  wring 
Every  hand;  and  every  head 
Bind  with  cypress  and  sad  yew; 
Ribbons  black  and  candles  blue, 
For  him  that  was  of  men  most  true! 

Come  witli  heavy  moaning, 

And  on  his  grave 

Let  him  have 
Sacrifice  of  sighs  and  groaning ; 
Let  him  liave  fair  flowers  enoss-, 
White  and  purple,  green  and  yellow, 
For  him  that  was  of  men  most  true ! 


1  iay — assay,  test,  trial ;  here  it  evidently  means  a 
subject  for  experiments, — ^Nakes. 


Thou  sable  cloth,  sad  cover  of  my  joys, 
I  lift  thee  up,  and  thus  I  meet  with  death. 

\_8he  takes  off  the  cloth,  and  ho 
■    rises  out  of  the  coffin. 

Jasp.  And  thus  you  meet  the  living. 

Luce.  Save  me.  Heaven ! 

Jasp.  Nay,  do  not  fly  me,  fair ;  I  am  no  spirit : 
Look  better  on  me ;  do  you  know  me  yet  7 

Luce.  Oh,  thou  dear  shadow  of  my  friend ! 

Jasp.  Dear  substance, 
I  swear  I  am  no  shadow;  feel  my  hand ! 
It  is  the  same  it  was ;  I  am  your  Jasper, 
Your  Jasper  that's  yet  living,  and  yet  loving ! 
Pardon  my  rash  attempt,  my  foolish  proof 
I  put  in  practice  of  your  constancy : 
For  sooner  should  my  sword  have  drunk  my 

blood, 
And  set  my  soul  at  liberty,  than  drawn 
The  least  drop  from  that  body ;  for  which  bold- 
ness 
Doom  me  to  anything !  if  death,  I  take  it, 
And  willingly. 

Luce.  This  death  I'll  give  you  for  it ! 

{Kisses  him. 
So  ;  now  I'm  satisfied,  you  are  no  spirit. 
But  my  own  truest,  truest,  truest  friend ! 
Why  do  you  come  thus  to  me  ? 

Jasp.  First,  to  see  you  ; 
Then  to  convey  you  hence. 

Luce.  It  cannot  be  ; 
For  I  am  lock'd  up  here,  and  watch'd  at  all  hours, 
That  'tis  imj)ossible  for  me  to  'scape. 

Jasj).  Nothing  more  possible.  Within  this  coffin 
Do  you  convey  yourself ;  let  me  alone, 
I  have  the  wits  of  twenty  men  about  me ; 
Only  I  crave  the  shelter  of  your  closet 
A  little,  and  then  fear  me  not.     Creep  in. 
That  they  may  presently  convey  you  hence. 
Fear  nothing,  dearest  love !  I'll  be  your  second ; 
Lie  close  ;  so  !  all  goes  well  yet. — Boy  ! 

[She  goes  into  the  coffin,  and  he  covers 
her  with  the  cloth. 

He-enter  Boy  aiid  Men. 

Boy.  At  hand,  sir. 

Jasp.  Convey  away  the  coffin,  and  be  wary. 

Boy.  'Tis  done  already. 

[The  Men  cai'j'y  out  the  coffin. 
Jasp.  Now  must  1  go  conjure. 

[Exit  into  a  closet. 

Enter  Venterwels. 

Vent.  Boy,  boy ! 

Boy.  Your  servant,  sir. 

Vent.  Do  me  this  kindness,  boy  (hold,  here's 
a  crown). 
Before  thou  bury  the  body  of  this  fellow, 
Cari-y  it  to  his  old  merry  father,  and  salute  him 
From  me,  and  bid  him  sing ;  he  hath  cause. 

Boy.  I  will,  sir. 

Ve7it.  And  then  bring  me  word  what  tune  he 
is  in, 
And  have  another  crown  ;  but  do  it  truly. 
I  have  fitted  him  a  bargain,  now,  will  vex  him. 

Boy.  God  bless  your  worship's  health,  sir ! 

Vent.  Farewell,  Boy!  lExeuiit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  V. 

A  Room  in  Merrythought's  House. 

Enter  Old  Merrythought. 

'  Wife.  Ah,  Old  Merrythought,  art  thou  there 
again  ?     Let's  hear  some  of  thy  songs.' 

Mer.  [Singing.]  Wlio  can  sing  a  merrier  note, 

Than  he  that  cannot  change  a  groat? 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


ill 


Not  a  denier '  left,  and  yet  my  heart  leaps.  I  do 
wonder  yet,  as  old  as  I  am,  that  any  man  will 
follow  a  trade,  or  serve,  that  maj^  sing  and  laugh, 
and  walk  the  streets.  My  wife  and  both  my  sons 
are  I  know  not  where ;  I  have  nothing  left,  nor 
know  I  how  to  come  by  meat  to  supper  ;  j^et  am 
I  merry  .still ;  for  I  know  I  shall  find  it  upon  the 
table  at  six  o'clock ;  therefore,  hang  thought ! 

\Sings. 

I  would  not  te  a  serving-man 

To  carry  the  cloak-bag  still, 
Nor  would  I  be  a  Talconer 

The  greedy  hawks  to  till; 
But  I  would  be  in  a  good  house, 

And  have  a  good  master  too ; 
But  I  would  eat  and  drink  of  the  best, 

And  no  work  would  I  do. 

This  it  is  that  keeps  life  and  scul  together,  mirth ! 
This  is  the  philosopher's  stone  that  they  write  so 
much  on,  that  keep)s  a  man  ever  young ! 

Enter  a  Boy. 

Boy.  Sir,  they  say  they  know  all  your  money 
is  gone,  and  they  will  trust  you  for  no  more  drink. 

Mer.  Will  they  not  ?  let  'em  chuse  !  The  best 
is,  I  have  mirth  at  home,  and  need  not  send 
abroad  for  that ;  let  them  keep  their  drink  to 
themselves.  \Slngs. 

For  Jillian  of  Berry  she  dwells  on  a  hill, 
And  slie  hath  good  beer  and  ale  to  sell, 
And  ol  good  fellows  she  thinks  no  ill, 
And  thither  will  we  go  now,  now,  now, 
And  thither  will  we  go  now. 

And  when  you  have  made  a  little  stay, 
You  need  not  ask  what  is  to  pay. 
But  kiss  your  hostess,  and  go  your  way. 
And  thither  will  we  go  now,  now,  now, 
And  thither  will  we  go  now. 

Enter  another  Boy. 

2  Boy.  Sir,  I  can  get  no  bread  for  supper. 

Mer.  Hang  bread  and  supper'  let's  preserve 
our  mirth,  and  we  shall  never  feel  hunger,  I'll 
warrant  you.  Let's  have  a  catch.  Boy,  follow 
me ;  come,  sing  this  catch. 

[They  sing  the  folloiuing  catch. 

ITo,  ho,  nobody  it  home, 
Meat,  nor  drink,  nor  money  ha'  we  none? 
Fill  the  pot,  Eedy, 
Never  more  need  I. 

Mer.  So,  boys;  enough.  Follow  me.  Let's 
change  our  place,  and  we  shall  laugh  afresh. 

[Exeunt. 

'  Wife.  Let  him  go,  George ;  a'  shall  not  have 
any  countenance  from  us,  nor  a  good  word  from 
any  i'  th'  company,  if  I  may  strike  stroke  in't. 

'  Cit.  No  more  a  sha'not,  love.  But,  Nell,  I 
will  have  Ralph  do  a  very  notable  matter  now, 
to  the  eternal  honour  and  glory  of  all  grocers. — 
Sirrah;  you  there!  Boy!  Can  none  of  you 
hear? 

'■Boy.  Sir,  your  pleasure .' 

'  Cit.  Let  Kalph  come  out  on  May-day  in  the 
morning,  and  speak  upon,  a  conduit,  with  all  his 
scarfs  about  him,  and  his  feathers,  and  his  rings, 
and  his  knacks. 

'  Boy.  Why,  sir,  you  do  not  think  of  our  plot ; 
what  will  become  of  that  then  ? 

'  Cit.  Why,  sir,  I  care  not  what  become  on't ! 
I'll  have  him  come  out,  or  I'll  fetch  him  out  my- 
self ;  I'll  have  something  done  in  honour  of  the 
city.  Besides,  he  hath  been  long  enough  upon 
adventures.  Bring  him  out  quickly ;  or,  if  I 
come  in  amongst  you — 


'  a  denier  is  a  French  farthing  —  half  an  English 
farthing. 


'  Boy.  Well,  sir,  he  shall  come  out ;  but  if  our 
play  miscarry,  sir,  you  are  like  to  pay  for't. 

[Exit. 

'  Cit.  Bring  him  away  then ! 

'  Wife.  This  will  be  brave,  i' faith !  George, 
shall  not  he  dance  the  morris  too,  for  the  credit 
of  the  ^trand.' 

'  Cit.  No,  sweetheart,  it  will  be  too  much  for 
the  boy.  Oh,  there  he  is,  Nell !  he's  reasonable 
well  iu  reparrel ;  but  he  has  not  rings  enough.' 

,     Enter  Ealph,  dressed  as  a  May-lord. 

Ralph.  London,  to  thee  I  do  present  the  merry 

month  of  May ; 
Let  each  true  subject  be  content  to  hear  me  what 

I  say: 
For  from  the  top  of  Conduit-Head,   as  plainly 

may  appear, 
I  will  both  tell  my  name  to  you,  and  wherefore 

I  came  here. 
My  name  is  Ralph,  by  due  descent,  though  not 

ignoble  I, 
Yet  far  inferior  to  the  flock  of  gracious  grocery : 
Aud  by  the  common  counsel  of  my  fellows  in  the 

Strand, 
With  gilded  staff,  and  crossed  scarf,  the  May- 
lord  here  I  stand. 
Rejoice,   O   English    hearts,   rejoice,   rejoice,    0 

»    lovers  dear ; 
Rejoice,  0  city,  town,  and  country,  rejoice  eke 

every  shere ! 
For  now   the   fragrant  flowers  do    spring  and 

sprout  in  seemly  sort, 
The  little  birds  do  sit  and  sisg,  the  lambs  do 

make  fine  sport; 
And  now  the  burchin-tree  doth  bud,  that  makes 

the  schoolboy  cry, 
The  morris  rings,  while  hobby-horse '  doth  foot 

it  f eatuously ; 
The  lords  and  ladies  now  abroad,  for  their  dis- 
port and  play, 
Do  kiss  sometimes  upon  the   grass,  and  some- 
times in  the  hay. 
Now  butter  with  a  leaf  of  sage  is  good  to  purge 

the  blood. 
Fly  Venus  and  phlebotomy,  for  they  are  neither 

good  I 
Now  little  fish  on  tender  stone  begin   to  cast 

their  bellies. 
And  sluggish  snails,  that  erst  were  mew'd,  do 

creep  out  of  their  shellies. 
The   rumbling  rivers  now  do  warm,   for  little 

boys  to  paddle ; 
The  sturdy  steed  now  goes  to  grass,  and  up  they 

bang  his  saddle. 
The  heavy  hart,  the  bellowing  buck,  the  rascal, 

and  the  pricket,- 
Are  now  among  the  yeoman's  pease,  and  leave 

the  fearful  thicket. 
And  be  like  them,  O  you,  I  say,  of  this  same 

noble  town. 
And  lift  aloft  your  velvet  heads,  and  slipping  off 

your  gown. 
With  bells  on  legs,  and  napkins  clean,  unto  your 

shoulders  tied. 
With  scarfs  and  garters  as  you  please,  and  '  Hey 

for  our  town ! '  cri.ed. 
March  out  and  show  your  willing  minds,  by 

twenty  and  by  twenty. 
To  Hogsdon,  or  to  Newington,  where  ale  and 

cakes  are  plenty  I 


'  holiby-horse — one  of  the  dancers- in  the  old  morris- 
dance,  repi'esented  by  the  figure  of  a  horse  fastened 
round  the  waist  of  a  man. 

-  rascal,  pricket — rascal  is  a  lean  deer,  and  pricket  a 
buck  in  the  second  year. 


312 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


And  let  it  ne'er  be  said  for  sliamo,  that  we  the 

youths  of  London, 
Lay  thrumming  of  our  caps  at  home,  and  left 

our  custom  undone. 
Up  then,  I  say,  both  young  and  old,  both  man 

and  maid  a-Maying. 
"With  drums  and  guns  that  bounce  aloud,   and 

merry  tabor  playing ! 
Which  to  prolong,  God  save  our  king,  and  send 

his  country  peace, 
And  root  out  treason  from  the  land !  and  so,  my 

friends,  I  cease.  \_Exit. 

END  OF  ACT  IV. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  L 

A  Room  in  the  House  of  Vestecwels. 

Enter  Venterwels. 

Vent.  I  will  have  no  great  store  of  company  at 
the  wedding :  a  couple  of  neiglibours  and  their 
wives;  and  we  will  have  a  capon  in  stewed 
broth,  with  marrow,  and  a  good  piece  of  beef, 
stuck  with  rosemary. 

Enter  Jasper,  his  face  mealed. 

Jasp.  Forbear  thy  pains,  fond  man!  it  is  too 

Vent.  Heaven  bless  me !  Jasper  .'  [late. 

JusiJ.  Ay,  I  am  his  ghost. 
Whom  thou  hast  injured  for  his  constant  love. 
Fond  worldly  wretch  !  who  dost  not  understand 
In  death  that  true  hearts  cannot  parted  be. 
First  know,  thy  daughter  is  quite  borne  away 
On  wings  of  angels,  through  the  liquid  air, 
Too  far  out  of  thy  reach,  and  never  more 
Shalt  thou  behold  her  face.     But  she  and  I 
Will  in  another  world  enjoy  our  loves; 
Where  neither  father's  anger,  poverty, 
Nor  any  cross  that  troubles  earthly  men, 
Shall  make  us  sever  our  united  hearts. 
And  never  shalt  thou  sit,  or  be  alone 
In  any  jjlace,  but  I  will  visit  thee 
With  ghastly  looks,  and  put  into  thy  mind 
The  great  offences  which  thou  didst  to  me. 
When  thou  art  at  thy  table  with  thy  friends, 
Merry  in  heart,  and  filled  with  swelling  wine, 
I'll  come  in  midst  of  all  thy  pride  and  mirth, 
Invisible  to  all  men  but  thyself. 
And  whisper  such  a  sad  tale  in  thine  ear. 
Shall  make  thee  let  the  cup  fall  from  thy  hand. 
And  stand  as  mute  and  pale  as  death  itself. 

Vent.  Forgive  me,  Jasper !  Oh,  what  might  I 
Tell  me,  to  satisfy  thy  troubled  ghost  ?  [do, 

Jasp.  There  is  no  means;  too  late  thou  think'st 
of  this. 

Vent.  But  tell  me  what  were  best  for  me  to  do  ? 

Jasp.  Kepent  thy  deed,  and  satisfy  my  father, 
And  beat  fond  Humphrey  out  of  thy  doors. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Humpiirey. 

'  Wife.  Look,  George ;  his  very  ghost  would 
have  folks  beaten.' 

Hum.  Father,  my  bride  is  gone,  fair  Mistress 
Luce. 
My  soul's  the  fount   of   vengeance,   mischief's 
sluice. 
Vent.  Hence,  fool,  out  of  my  sight,  with  thy 
fond  passion ! 
Thou  hast  undone  me.  [Beats  him. 

Hum.  Hold,  my  father  dear  ! 
For  Luce,  thy  daughter's  sake,  that  had  no  peer. 
Vent.  Thy  father,  fool?     There's  some  blows 
more  ;  be  gone  ! —  [Beats  him  ar/ain. 

Jasper,  I  hope  thy  ghost  be  well  appeased 


To  see  thy  will  performed.     Now  will  I  go 

To  satisfy  thy  father  for  thy  wrongs.  [Exit. 

Hum.  What  shall  I  do.'    I  have  been  beaten 
twice, 
And  Mistress  Luce  is  gone !  Help  me,  Device ! 
Since  my  true  love  is  gone,  I  never  more. 
Whilst  I  do  live,  upon  the  sky  will  pore ; 
But  in  the  dark  will  wear  out  my  shoe-soles 
In  passion,  in  Saint  Faith's  church  under  Paul's. 

[Exit. 

'  Wife.  George,  call  Ealph  hither ;  if  jou  love 
me,  call  Kalph  hither!  I  have  the  bravest  thing 
for  him  to  do. — George !  pr'y thee,  call  him  quickly. 

'  Cit.  Ealph  !  why,  Ralph,  boy ' 

Etiier  Ralph. 

^  Ealph.  Here,  sir. 

'  Cit.  Come  hither,  Ralph ;  come  to  thy  mis- 
tress, boy. 

'  Wife.  Ealph,  I  would  have  thee  call  all  the 
youths  together  in  battle-ray,  with  drums,  and 
guns,  and  flags,  and  march  to  Mile-end  i  in 
pompous  fashion,  and  thei-e  exhort  your  soldiers 
to  be  merry  and  wise,  and  to  keep  their  beards 
from  burning,  Ralph ;  and  then  skirmish,  and 
let  your  flags  fly,  and  crj%  "Kill,  kill,  kill !  "  My 
husband  shall  lend  you  his  jerkin,  Ealph,  and 
there's  a  scarf ;  for  the  rest,  the  house  shall  fur- 
nish you,  and  we'll  pay  fort.  Do  it  bravely, 
Ealph;  and  think  before  whom  you  perform, 
and  what  person  you  represent. 

'■Ralph.  I  warrant  you,  mistress;  if  I  do  it  not, 
for  the  honour  of  the  city,  and  the  credit  of  my 
master,  let  me  never  hope  for  freedom ! 

'  Wife.  'Tis  well  spoken,  i"faith  !  Go  thy  ways; 
thou  art  a  spark  indeed. 

'  Cit.  Ealph,  Ealph,  double  your  files  bravely, 
Ralph ! 

'  Ralph.  I  warrant  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

'  Cit.  Let  him  look  narrowly  to  his  service  ;  I 
shall  take  him  else.  I  was  there  mj'self  a  pike- 
man  once,  in  the  hottest  of  the  daj^,  wench  ;  had 
my  feather  shot  sheer  away,  the  fringe  of  my 
pike  burnt  off  with  powder,  my  pate  broken  with, 
a  scouring-stick,  and  yet,  I  thank  God,  I  am  here. 

[Drums  xoithin. 

'  Wife.  Hark,  George,  the  drums  ! 

'  Cit.  Ran,  tan,  tan,  tan,  tan,  tan  !  Oh,  wench, 
an'  thou  hadst  but  seen  little  Ned  of  Aldgatc, 
drum  Ned,  how  he  made  it  roar  again,  and  laid 
ou  like  a  tyrant,  and  then  struck  softly  till  the 
ward  came  up,  and  then  thundered  again,  and 
together  we  go!  Sa,  sa,  sa,  bounce,  quoth  the 
guns!  "Cotirage,  my  hearts,"  quoth  the  captains!  , 
"Saint  George,"  quoth  the  pike-men!  And 
withal,  here  they  lay,  and  there  they  lay  !  And 
yet  for  all  this  I  am  here,  wench. 

'  Wife.  Be  tliankful  for  it,  George  ;  for  indeed 
'tis  wonderful.' 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IL 
Mile-end. 

Enter  Ralph,  William  Hamerton,  Geoege 
Greengoosi*:,  and  others  of  his  Company, 
with  Drums  and  Colours. 

Ralph.  March  fair,  my  hearts  !  lieutenant,  beat 
the  rear  up.  Ancient,'-^  let  your  colours  fly  ;  but 
have  a  great  care  of  the  butchers'  hooks  at  White- 
chapel  ;  they  have  been  the  death  of  many  a  fair 
ancient.     Open  your  files,  that  I  may  take  a  view 


1  Mile-end — then  the  citizens'  training-ground. 

2  ancient — tnsign. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


;i3 


both  of  your  persons  and  munition.  Sergeant, 
call  a  muster. 

Strg.  A  stand! — William  Hamerton,  pewterer  ! 

Ham.  Here,  captain. 

Ralph.  A  corslet  and  a  Spanish  pike !  'tis  well. 
Can  you  shake  it  with  a  terror  ? 

Ham.  I  hope  so,  captain. 

Ralph.  Charge  wpon  me. — 'Tis  with  the  weakest. 
Put  more  strength,  William  Hamerton,  more 
strength.   As  you  were  again.    Proceed,  sergeant. 

Serg.  George  Greengoose,  poulterer ! 

Green.  Here ! 

Ralph.  Let  me  see  your  piece,  neighbour  Green- 
goose  ;  when  was  she  shot  in  ? 

Gree7i.  An't  like  you,  master  captain,  I  made 
a  shot  even  now,  partly  to  scour  her,  and  partly 
for  audacity.' 

Ralph.  It  should  seem  so  certainly,  for  her 
breath  is  yet  inflamed.  Besides,  there  is  a  main 
fault  in  the  touch-hole,  it  runs  and  stinketh. 
And  I  tell  you,  moreover,  and  believe  it,  ten 
such  touch-holes  would  breed  the  pox  i'  th'  army. 
Get  you  a  feather,  neighbour,  get  you  a  feather, 
sweet  oil,  and  paper,  and  your  piece  may  do  well 
enough  yet.     Where's  your  powder  ? 

Green.  Here. 

Ralph.  What,  in  a  paper  ?  As  I  am  a  soldier 
and  a  gentleman,  it  craves  a  martial-court !  You 
ought  to  die  f  or't.  Where's  your  horn  ?  Answer 
me  to  that. 

Green.  An't  like  you,  sir,  I  was  oblivious. 

Ralph.  It  like  me  not  you  should  be  so  ;  'tis  a 
shame  for  you,  and  a  scandal  to  all  our  neigh- 
bours, being  a  man  of  worth  and  estimation,  to 
leave  your  horn  behind  you ;  I  am  afraid  'twill 
breed  example.  But  let  me  tell  you,  no  more 
on't.  Stand,  tiU  I  view  you.all.  What's  become 
o'  th'  nose  of  your  flask  ? 

1  Sol.  Indeed-la,  captain,  'twas  blown  away 
with  powder. 

Ralph.  Put  on  a  new  one  at  the  city's  charge. 
Where's  the  stone  -  of  this  piece  ? 

2  Sol.  The  drummer  took  it  out  to  light 
tobacco. 

Ralph.  'Tis  a  fault,  my  friend  ;  put  it  in  again. 
You  want  a  nose,  and  you  a  stone ;  sergeant, 
take  a  note  on't,  for  I  mean  to  stop  it  in  the  pay. 
Kemove  and  march !  [They  march.~]  Soft  and 
fair,  gentlemen,  soft  and  fair !  Double  your  files ; 
as  you  were  !  faces  about !  Now,  you  with  the 
sodden  face,  keep  in  there  !  Look  to  your  match, 
sirrah  ;  it  will  be  in  your  fellow's  flask  anon. 
So ;  make  a  crescent  now  ;  advance  your  pikes  ; 
stand  and  give  ear ! — Gentlemen,  countrj'men, 
friends,  and  my  fellow-soldiers,  I  have  brought 
you  this  day  from  the  shops  of  security,  and  the 
counters  of  content,  to  measui-e  out  in  these 
furious  fields  honour  by  the  ell,  and  prowess  by 
the  pound.  Let  it  not,  oh,  let  it  not,  I  say,  be 
told  hereaftei",  the  noble  issue  of  this  city  fainted ; 
but  bear  yourselves  in  this  fair  action  like  men, 
valiant  men,  and  free  men !  Fear  not  the  face 
of  the  enemy,  nor  the  noise  of  the  guns ;  for, 
believe  me,  brethren,  the  rude  rumbling  of  a 
brewer's  cart  is  far  more  terrible,  of  which  you 
have  a  daily  experience ;  neither  let  the  stink 
of  powder  offend  you,  since  a  more  valiant  stink 
is  nightly  with  you.  To  a  resolved  mind,  his 
home  is  everywhere : 
I  speak  not  this  to  take  away 
The  hope  of  your  return  ;  for  yoix  shall  see 
(I  do  not  doubt  it),  and  that  very  shortly. 
Your  loving  wives  again,  and  your  sweet  children, 


Whose  care  doth  bear  you  company  in  baskets 
Eemember  then  whose  cause  you  have  in  hand. 
And,  like  a  sort'  of  true-born  scavengers, 
Scour  me  this  famous  realm  of  enemies. 
I  have  no  more  to  say  but  this  :  stand  to  your 
tacklings,  lads,  and  show  to  the  world  you  can 
as  well  brandish  a  sword  as  shake  an  apron. 
Saint  George,  and  on,  my  hearts  ! 

All.  Saint  George,  Saint  George  !         [Exeunt. 

'  Wife.  'Twas  well  done,  Ralph!  Ill  send 
thee  a  cold  capon  a-field.  and  a  bottle  of  March 
beer ;  and,  it  may  be,  come  myself  to  see  thee. 

'  Cit.  Nell,  the  boy  hath  deceived  me  much ! 
I  did  not  think  it  had  been  in  him.  He  has  per- 
formed such  a  matter,  wench,  that,  if  I  live,  next 
year  I'll  have  him  captain  of  the  gallifoist,^  or 
I'll  want  my  will.' 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IIL 

A  Room  in  Old  Merrythought's  House. 

Enter  Old  Merrythought. 

Mer.  Yet,  I  thank  God,  I  break  not  a  wrinkle 
more  than  I  had.  Not  a  stoop,^  boys  ?  Care, 
live  with  cats :  I  defy  thee!  My  heart_  is  as 
sound  as  an  oak ;  and  though  I  want  drink  to 
wet  my  whistle,  I  can  sing,  [Sings. 

Come  no  more  there,  boys,  come  no  more  there ; 
For  we  shall  never  whilst  we  live  come  any  more  there. 

Enter  a  Boy,  and  tioo  Men  bringing  in  the  coffin., 
with  Luce  in  it. 

Boy.  God  save  you,  sir ! 
Mer.  It's  a  brave  boy.     Canst  thou  sing  ? 
Boy.  Yes,  sir,  I  can  sing ;  but  'tis  not  so  neces- 
sary at  this  time. 

Mer.  Sins;  we,  and  chaiint  it, 
Whilst  love  dotli  grant  it. 

Boy.  Sir,  sir,  if  you  knew  what  I  have  brought 
you,  you  would  have  little  list  to  sing. 

Mer.  Oh  the  mimon  round. 

Full  long  I  have  thee  sought, 
And  now  I  have  thee  found. 
And  what  hast  thou  here  brought  ? 

Boy.  A  coffin,  sir,  and  your  dead  son  Jasper 
in  it. 

Mer.  Dead  ?    'Why,  farewell  he ! 

Tliou  wast  a  bonny  boy, 

And  I  did  love  thee. 

Enter  Jasper. 
Jasp.  Then  I  pray  you,  sir,  do  so  still. 


Mer.  Jasper's  ghost  ? 


[Sings. 


1  audacity — boldness,  bravery. 

2  stone — i.e.  Hint. 


Thou  art  welcome  from  Stygian  lake  so  soon  ; 
Declare  to  me  what  wondrous  things  in  Pluto's  court 
are  done. 

Jasp.  By  my  troth,  sir,  I  ne'er  came  there ;  'tis 
too  hot  for  me,  sir. 

Mer.  A  merry  ghost,  a  very  merry  ghost ! 

[Sings. 

And  where  is  your  true  love  ?    Oh,  where  is  yours  ? 

Jasp.  Marry,  look  you,  sir!      {Opens  the  coffin. 
Mer.  Ah,  ha !  art  thou  good  at  that,  i'f aith  ? 


1  sort— lot,  company. 

2  gallifoist—the  Loid  Mayor's  barge. 

3  stoop  or  stoup — a  drinking  vessel. 


114 


777^  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Mrs.  Merrythought  and  Michael  lo'itldn. 

Mrs.  Iter.  What,  Master  Merrytliouglit !  will 
you  not  let's  in  ?,  What  do  you  think  shall  be- 
come of  us  ? 

Mer.  What  voice  is  that  that  calleth  at  our 
door  ? 

Mrs.  Mer.  You  know  me  well  enough ;  I  am 
sure  I  have  not  been  such  a  stranger  to  you. 

Mer.  [sings.1  And  some  they  -n-liistled,  and  some  they 
sung, 

Hey  down,  down ! 
And  some  did  loudly  say, 
Ever  as  the  Lord  Barnet's  horn  blew, 
Away,  Musgrave,  away. 

Mrs.  Mer.  You  will  not  have  us  starve  here, 
will  you,  Master  Merrythought  ? 

Jasp.  jSTay,  good  sir,  be  pei'suaded ;  she's  vaj 
mother : 
If  her  offences  have  been  great  against  you, 
Let  your  own  love  remember  she  is  yours, 
And  so  forgive  her. 

Luce.  Good  Master  Merrythought, 
Let  me  entreat  you  ;  I  will  not  be  denied. 

Mrs.  Mer.  Why,  Master  Merrythought,  will 
you  be  a  vex'd  thing  still  ? 

Mer.  Woman,  I  take  j'ou  to  my  love  again ; 
but  you  shall  sing  before  you  enter ;  therefore 
despatch  your  song,  and  so  come  in. 

Airs.  Mer.  Well,  you  must  have  your  will, 
when  all's  done. — Micke,  what  song  canst  thou 
sing,  boy  ? 

Mich.  I  can  sing  none  forsooth,  but  '  A  Lady's 
Daughter  of  Paris,'  properly.  \_Sings  within. 

It  was  a  lady's  daughter,  &c. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merrythought  and  Michael. 

Mer.  Come,  you're  welcome  home  again. 

If  such  danger  be  in  playing, 

And  jest  must  to  earnest  turn, 
You  shall  go  no  more  a-Maying — 

Vent.  [_Witliin.'\  Are  you  within,  sir?  Master 
Merrythought ! 

Jasp.  It  is  my  master's  voice;   good  sir,  go 
hold  hira 
In  talk,  whilst  we  convey  ourselves  into 
Some  inward  room.  [^Exit  icith  Luce. 

Mer.  What  are  you  ?  are  you  merry  ? 
You  must  be  very  merry,  if  you  enter. 

Vent.  I  am,  sir. 

Mer.  Sing  then. 

Vent.  Nay,  good  sir,  oj)en  to  me. 

Mer.  Sing,  I  say, 
Or,  by  the  merry  heart,  you  come  not  in  ! 

Vent.  Well,  sir,  I'll  sing.  \Sings. 

Fortune  my  foe,  &c. 
Enter  Ventekwels. 

Mer.  You're  welcome,  sir ;  you're  welcome  ! 
You  see  your  entertainment ;  pray  you  be  men-y. 

Vent.  Oh,  Master  Merrythought,  I'm  come  to 
ask  you 
Forgiveness  for  the  wrongs  I  offer'd  you. 
And  your  most  virtuous  sou ;  they  are  infinite. 
Yet  my  contrition  shall  be  more  than  they. 
I  do  confess ^my  hardness  broke  his  heart, 
For  which  just  Heaven  hath  giv'n  me  punishment 
]\Iore  than  my  age  can  carry ;  his  wand'riug  spirit, 
Not  yet  at  rest,  pursues  me  everywhere, 
Crying,  '  I'll  haunt  thee  for  thy  cruelty.' 
My  daughter  she  is  gone,  I  know  not  how, 
Taken  invisible,  and  whether  living. 
Or  in  the  grave,  'tis  yet  uncertain  to  me. 


Oh,  Master  Merrythought,  these  are  the  weights 
Will  sink  me  to  mj-  grave  !     Forgive  me,  sir. 

Mer.  Why,  sir,  I  do  forgive  you;  and  be  merry  ! 
And  if  the  wag  in's  lifetime  play'd  the  knavo, 
Can  you  forgive  him  too  .' 

Vent.   With  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Mer.  Si^eak  it  again,  and  heartily. 

Vent.  I  do,  sir ; 
Now,  by  my  soul,  I  do. 

Mer.  [sings-l  With  that  came  out  his  pararoour ; 
She  was  as  white  as  the  lily  flower. 
Hey  troul,  troly,  loly ! 

Enter  Luce  and  Jasper. 

With  that  came  out  her  own  dear  knight, 
He  was  as  true  as  ever  did  fight,  <fec. 

Sir,  if  you  will  forgive  'em,  clap  their  hands 
together ;  there's  no  more  to  be  said  i'  th'  matter. 

Vent.  I  do,  I  do. 

'  Cit.  I  do  not  like  this :  peace,  boys !  Hear 
me,  one  of  you !  everybody's  part  is  come  to  an 
end  but  Ealph's,  and  he's  left  out. 

'■Boy.  'Tis  long  of  yourself,  sir;  we  have 
nothing  to  do  with  his  part. 

'  Cit.  Ralph,  come  away !  Make  [an  end]  on 
him,  as  you  have  done  of  the  rest,  boys ;  come  ! 

'  Wife.  Now,  good  husband,  let  him  come  out 
and  die. 

'■Cit.  He  shall,  Nell. — Ealph,  come  away 
quickly,  and  die,  boy. 

'  Boy.  'Twill  be  very  unfit  he  should  die,  sir, 
upon  no  occasion ;  and  in  a  comedy  too. 

'  Cit.  Take  you  no  care  of  that,  Sir  Boy ;  is 
not  his  part  at  an  end,  think  yoti,  when  he's  dead .' 
— Come  away,  Ealxih ! ' 

Enter  Ealph,  with  aforhed  arrow  through 
his  head. 

BaJph.  When  I  was  mortal,  this  my  costive 

corps 
Did  lap  up  figs  and  raisins  in  the  Strand ; 
Where  sitting,  I  espied  a  lovely  dame, 
Whose  master  wrought  vnth  lingelli  and  with 

awl. 
And  underground  he  vamped  many  a  boot : 
Straight  did  her  love  prick  forth  me,  tender  sprig. 
To  follow  feats  of  arms  in  warlike  wise. 
Through  Waltham  Desert,  where  I  did  perform 
Many  achievements,  and  did  lay  on  ground 
Huge  Barbaroso,  that  insulting  giant, 
And  all  his  captives  soon  set  at  liberty. 
Then  honour  prick'd  me  from  my  native  soil 
Into  Moldavia,  where  I  gain'd  the  love 
Of  Pompiona,  his  beloved  daughter  ; 
But  yet  proved  constant  to  the  black-thumb'd 

maid, 
Susan,  and  scorn'd  Pompiona's  love  ; 
Yet  liberal  I  was,  and  gave  her  pins, 
And  money  for  her  father's  oiBcers. 
I  then  returned  home,  and  thrust  myself 
In  action,  and  by  all  men  chosen  was 
Lord  of  the  May ;  where  I  did  flourish  it^ 
With  scarfs  and  rings,  and  poesy  in  my  hand. 
After  this  action  I  preferred  was. 
And  chosen  city-captain  at  Mile-end, 
With  hat  and  feather,  and  with  leading  staff, 
And  train'd  my  men,  and  brought  them  all  off 

clear. 
Save  one  man  that  bewrayed  him  with  the  noise. 
Btit  all  these  things  I  Ralph  did  undertake, 
Only  for  my  beloved  Susan's  sake. 
Then  coming  home,  and  sitting  in  my  shop 
With  apron  blue.  Death  came  into  my  stall 


1  Unfjell — a  shoemaker's  thread. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


15 


To  cheapen  aquaviix  ;  but  ere  I 
Could  take  tbe  bottle  down,  and  fill  a  taste, 
Death  caught  a  pound  of  pepper  in  his  hand, 
And  sprinkled  all  my  face  and  body  o'er, 
And  in  an  instant  vanished  away. 

'  Cit.  'Tis  a  pretty  fiction,  i'faith  ! ' 

Ralph.  Then  took  I  up  my  bow  and  shaft  in 
hand. 
And  walked  into  Moorfields  to  cool  myself; 
But  there  grim  cruel  Death  met  me  again, 
And  shot  this  forked  arrow  through  mj''  head ; 
And  now  I  faint ;  therefore  be  warn'd  by  me. 
My  fellows  everj'  one,  of  forked  heads  ! 
Farewell,  all  you  good  boys  in  merry  London  ! 
Ne'er  shall  wo  more  upon  Shrove-Tuesday  meet, 
And  pluck  down  houses  of  iniquity ; 
(My  pain  increaseth)  I  shall  never  more 
Hold  open,  whilst  another  pumps  both  legs, 
Nor  daub  a  satin  gown  with  rotten  eggs  ; 
Set  up  a  stake,  oh,  never  more  I  shall ! 
I  die  !  fly,  fly,  my  soul,  to  Grocers'  Hall ! 
Oh,  oh,  oh,  &c. 

'  Wife.  Well  said,  Ealph  !  Do  your  obeisance 
to  the  gentlemen,  and  go  your  ways.  Well  said, 
Kalph!'  [.£«■<  Ealph. 

Mer.  Methinks  all  we,  thus  kindly  and  unex- 
pectedly reconciled,  should  not  depart  without 
a  song. 

Vent.  A  good  motion. 

Mer.  Strike  up  then ! 


SONG. 

Better  music  ne'er  was  Iniowii, 

Than  a  quire  of  lieavts  in  one. 

Let  each  other,  that  hatli  been 

Troubled  with  the  gall  or  spleen, 

Learn  of  us  to  keep  his  brow 

Smooth  and  plain,  as  ours  are  now! 

Sing,  though  before  the  hour  of  dying; 

He  shall  rise,  and  then  be  crying, 

'  Heyho,  'tis  nouglit  but  mirth 

That  keeps  the  body  from  the  earth.'    ^Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 

'  Cit.  Come,  Nell,  shall  we  go  ?  the  play's  done. 

'  Wife.  Nay,  by  my  faith,  George,  I  have  more 
manners  than  so ;  I'll  speak  to  these  gentlemen 
first. — Ithankyouall,  gentlemen,  for  your  patience 
and  countenance  to  Ealph,  a  poor  fatherless  child  ! 
and  if  I  might  see  you  at  my  house,  it  should  go 
hard  but  I  would  have  a  pottle  of  wine  and  a 
pipe  of  tobacco  for  you  ;  for  truly  I  hope  you  do 
like  the  youth ;  but  I  would  be  glad  to  know  the 
truth  :  I  refer  it  to  your  own  discretions  whether 
you  will  applaud  him  or  no ;  for  I  will  wink, 
and,  whilst,  you  shall  do  what  you  will. — I  thank 
you,  with  all  my  heart.  God  give  you  good 
uight ! — Come,  George.'  [Exeunt. 


JOHN    WEBSTER. 


[In  the  case  of  nearly  every  one  of  the  dramatists  already  noticed,  we  have  had  to  lament 
the  scantiness  of  biographical  materials  ;  but  in  no  instance  is  this  scantiness  more  lament- 
able than  in  the  case  of  the  '  noble-minded '  John  "Webster.  Kegarding  this  author,  nearly 
all  that  is  known  for  certain  is,  that  he  was  contemi^orary  with  most  of  the  dramatists 
already  mentioned,  and  that  he  wrote  certain  dramas  of  a  high  order,  some  of  which  are  still 
extant.  On  the  title-page  of  one  of  his  works  he  is  styled  'merchant-tailor,'  and  in  the 
dedication  to  the  same  work  he  describes  himself  as  '  one  born  free  of  the  Merchant-Tailors' 
Company.'  Gildon,  who  wrote  about  1698,  asserts  that  "Webster  was  clerk  of  the  parish  of 
St.  Andrew's,  Holborn  ;  but  Dyce,  after  careful  search  of  the  registers  and  other  documents 
relating  to  that  church,  could  not  find  the  dramatist's  name  mentioned.  The  same 
industrious  editor  found  the  names  of  three  John  "Websters  who  had  been  made  free  of 
Merchant-Tailors'  C-ompany  between  1571  and  1617,  but  none  of  these  can  be  identified 
with  the  dramatist.  It  has  also  been  conjectured  that,  like  many  of  his  contemporaries,  he 
was  an  actor  as  well  as  a  writer  of  plays.  This  exhausts  nearly  all  that  is  known  or  has 
been  conjectured  concerning  this  shadowy  but  highly-gifted  dramatist,  except  the  allusions 
made  to  him  in  Henslowe's  diary,  the  first  of  which  occurrs  in  1601  in  connection  with  a 
play  entitled  The  Guise ;  but  whether  this  was  a  work  of  Webster's  own,  or  an  old  play 
which  he  had  '  doctored '  for  the  stage,  it  is  now  impossible  to  say.  To  be  as  definite  as  we 
dare,  we  may  state  that  Professor  Masson  gives  the  dates  of  Webster's  life  and  death 
approximately  as  1570-1640. 

Webster  wrote  a  number  of  dramas  in  conjunction  with  some  of  his  contemporaries.  In 
1607  were  printed  The  Famous  History  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  Westward  Hoe,  zxiH  North- 
ward Hoe,  the  joint  productions  of  Webster  and  Decker.  The  extant  dramas  undoubtedly 
Webster's  own  are  The  White  Devil,  or  Vitioria  Coromhona  (printed^  1612) ;  The  Duchess  of 
Malfi  (published  1623,  but  first  produced  about  1616) ;  The  Devil's  Law  Case  (1623) ; 
Apjyiiis  and  Virginia  (first  printed  in  1654).  All  who  have  written  on  the  subject  agree  in 
placing  Webster  in  the  very  highest  rank  of  the  second-rate  dramatists,  i.e.  of  all  those 
inferior  to  Shakespeare.  His  two  tragedies.  The  White  Devil  and  The  Duchess  of  Malfi,  are 
by  far  his  best ;  and,  according  to  Hazlitt,  '  upon  the  whole,  perhaps,  come  the  nearest  to 
Shakespeare  of  anything  we  have  upon  record. '  Webster's  genius  was  of  a  weird,  gloomy, 
morbid  cast,  like  Marlowe's  raised  to  a  higher  power  ;  his  woi'ks  are  full  of  rich  but  '  terrible 
graces. '  Comparing  Webster  with  Decker,  Hazlitt  says  :  '  Webster  gives  more  scope  to  the 
various  combinations  and  changeable  aspects  [of  the  simple  uncompounded  elements  of 
nature  and  passion],  brings  them  into  dramatic  play  by  contrast  and  comparisons,  flings 
them  into  a  state  of  confusion  by  a  kindled  fancy,  makes  them  describe  a  wider  arc  of 
oscillation  from  the  impulse  of  irnbridled  passion,  and  carries  both  terror  and  pity  to  a  more 
painful  and  sometimes  unwarrantable  excess.'  Webster  delights  'to  suggest  horrible  imagin- 
ings,' and  to  '  adorn  his  sentiments  with  some  image  of  tender  and  awful  beauty.'  We  have 
selected  as  a  specimen  of  AVebster's  dramas.  The  Duchess  of  Malfi,  in  speaking  of  which 
Charles  Lamb  says,  the  duchess  '  has  lived  among  horrors  till  she  has  become  ' '  native  and 
endowed  into  that  element,"  She  speaks  the  dialect  of  despair  ;  her  tongue  has  a  snatch  of 
Tartarus  and  the  souls  of  hell.  To  move  a  horror  skilfully,  to  touch  a  soul  to  the  quick,  to 
lay  upon  fear  as  much  as  it  can  bear  ;  to  wean  and  weary  a  life  till  it  is  ready  to  drop,  and 

then  step  in  with  mortal  instruments  to  take  its  last  forfeits  ;  this  only  a  Webster  can  do.'] 

316 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


317 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  DUCHESS  OF  MALFI. 

AS  IT  W^S  PRESENTED  PRIVATELY  AT  THE  BLACK  FRIARS,  AND  PUBLICLY 
AT  THE  GLOBE,  BY  THE  KING'S  MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 

Tlie  perfect  and  exact  copy,  with  diverse  tilings  printed  that  the  length  of  the  play 
would  not  hear  in  the  presentment. 

■WRITTEN  BY  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

London.     1623. 


TO  THE 

RIGHT   HONOURABLE  GEORGE  HARDING, 

BAEON  BERKELEY,  OF  BERKELEY  CASTLE,  AND  KNIGHT  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  THE  BATH 
TO  THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  PRINCE  CHARLES. 


My  Noble  Lord, — That  I  may  present  my  ex- 
cuse why,  being  a  stranger  to  your  lordship,  I 
offer  this  poem  to  your  patronage,  I  plead  this 
wan'ant : — men  who  never  saw  the  sea,  yet  desire 
to  behold  that  regiment  of  waters,  choose  some 
eminent  river  to  guide  them  thither,  and  make 
that,  as  it  were,  their  conduct  or  postilion :  by 
the  like  ingenious  means  has  your  fame  arrived 
at  my  knowledge,  receiving  it  from  some  of 
worth,  who,  both  in  contemplation  and  practice, 
owe  to  your  honour  their  clearest  service.  I  do 
not  altogether  look  up  at  your  title ;  the  ancientest 
nobility  being  but  a  relic  of  time  past,  and  the 
truest  honour  indeed  being  for  a  man  to  confer 
honour  on  himself,  which  your  learning  strives 
to  propagate,  and  shall  make  j'ou  arrive  at  the 
dignity  of  a  great  example.  I  am  confident  this 
work  is  not  unworthy  your  honour's  perusal ; 
for  by  such  poems  as  this  poets  have  kissed  the 
hands  of  great  princes,  and  drawn  theii-  gentle 


eyes  to  look  down  upon  their  sheets  of  paper, 
when  the  poets  themselves  were  bound  up  in 
their  winding-sheets.  The  like  courtesy  from 
your  lordship  shall  make  you  live  in  your  grave, 
and  laurel  spring  out  of  it,  when  the  ignorant 
scorners  of  the  Muses,  that  like  worms  in 
libraries  seem  to  live  only  to  destroy  learning, 
shall  wither  neglected  and  forgotten.  This  work 
and  myself  I  humbly  jiresent  to  your  approved 
censure,^  it  being  the  utmost  of  my  wishes  to 
have  your  honourable  self  my  weighty  and  per- 
spicuous comment ;  which  grace  so  done  me 
shall  ever  be  acknowledged 

By  your  lordship's 

in  all  duty  and  observance, 

John  Webster. 


1  cfn^Mre— judgment,  criticism;   from  Lat.  censeo,  to 
tliinli,  judge. 


^Tcmnnth  '^tx$onv£. 


Ferdinand,  Duhe  of  Calabria. 

Cardinal,  his  Brother. 

Antonio  Ijologna,  Steward  of  the  Household  to 

the  Duchess. 
Delio,  his  Friend. 
Daniel  de  Bosola,  Gentleman  of  the  Horse  to 

the  Duchess. 
Castruccio,  an  old  Lord. 
Marquis  of  Pescara. 
Count  Malatesti. 
Lord  Eodekigo. 
Silvio, 


Lord  Grisolan. 
Doctor. 

The  Several  Madmen. 

Duchess  of  Malfi. 
Cariola,  her  Woman. 
Julia,    Castruccid's    Wife, 

Mistress. 
Old  Lady. 


Court    Officers,    Three    Young 
Pilgi-ims,  Ladies,  &c. 


and   the    Cardinal's 


Children,    T  wo 


Scene — Italy. 


;i8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 
Enttr  Antonio  and  Delio. 

Del.  Tou  are  welcome  to  your  country,  dear 

Antonio ; 
Tou  have  been  long  in  Prance,  and  you  return 
A  very  formal  Freuchman  in  your  habit : 
How  do  you  like  the  French  coiurt  ? 

Ant.  I  admire  it : 
In  seeking  to  reduce  both  state  and  people 
To  a  fix'd  order,  their  judicious  king 
Begins  at  home ;  quits '  first  his  royal  palace 
Of  flattering  sycophants,  of  dissolute 
And  infamous  persons, — which  he  sweetly  terms 
His  master's  masterpiece,  the  work  of  heaven : 
Considering  duly  that  a  pi-ince's  court 
Is  like  a  common  fountain,  whence  should  flow 
Pure  silver  drops  in  general,  but  if't  chance 
Some  curs'd  example  poison'd  near  the  head, 
Death   and    diseases  through    the   whole  land 

spread. 
And  what  is't  makes  this  blessed  government 
But  a  most  provident  council,  who  dare  freely 
Inform  him  the  corruption  of  the  times  ? 
Though  some  o'  the  court  hold  it  presumption 
To  instruct  princes  what  they  ought  to  do. 
It  is  a  noble  duty  to  inform  them 
What  they  ought  to  foresee. — Here  comes  Bosola, 
The  only  court-gall ;  j'et  I  observe  his  railing 
Is  not  for  simple  love  of  piety : 
Indeed,  he  rails  at  those  things  which  he  wants; 
Would  be  as  lecherous,  covetous,  or  proud, 
Bloody,  or  envious,  as  any  man, 
If  he  had  means  to  be  so. — Here's  the  cardinal. 

Enter  Cardinal  and  Bosola. 

Bos.  I  do  haunt  you  still. 

Card.  So. 

Bos.  I  have  done  you  better  service  than  to 
be  slighted  thus.  Miserable  age,  where  only  the 
reward  of  doing  well  is  the  doing  of  it ! 

Card.  You  enforce  your  merit  too  much. 

Bos.  I  fell  into  the  galleys  in  your  service ; 
where,  for  two  years  together,  I  woi-e  two  towels 
instead  of  a  shirt,  with  a  knot  on  the  shoulder, 
after  the  fashion  of  a  Eoman  mantle.  Slighted 
thus !  I  will  thrive  some  way :  blackbirds  fatten 
best  in  hard  weather ;  why  not  I  in  these  dog- 
days? 

Card.  Would  you  could  become  honest ! 

Bos.  With  all  your  divinity  do  but  direct  me 
the  way  to  it.  I  have  known  many  travel  far  for 
it,  and  yet  return  as  arrant  knaves  as  they  went 
forth,  because  they  carried  themselves  always 
along  with  them.  \Exit  Cardinal.]  Are  you 
gone?  Some  fellows,  they  say,  are  possessed 
with  the  devil,  but  this  great  fellow  were  able 
to  possess  the  greatest  devil,  and  make  him 
worse. 

Ant.  He  hath  denied  thee  some  suit  ? 

Bos.  He  and  his  brother  are  like  plum-trees 
that  grow  crooked  over  standing-iDools ;  they  are 
rich  and  o'erladen  with  fruit,  but  none  but  crows, 
pies,  and  caterpillars  feed  on  them.  Could  I  be 
one  of  their  flattering  panders,  I  would  hang  on 
their  ears  like  a  horseleech,  tiU  I  were  full,  and 
then  drop  off.  I  pray,  leave  me.  Who  would 
rely  upon  these  miserable  dependencies,  in  ex- 
pectation to  be  advanced  to-morrow?  what  crea- 
tm-e  ever  fed  worse  than  hoping  Tantalus  ?  nor 
ever  died  any  man  more  fearfully  than  he  that 
hoped  for  a  pardon.    There  are  rewards  for  hawks 


^  </«!fo-— clears. 


and  dogs  when  they  have  done  us  service  ; '  but 
for  a  soldier  that  hazards  his  limbs  in  a  battle, 
nothing  but  a  kind  of  geometry  is  his  last  sup- 
portation. 

Bel.  Geometry! 

Bos.  Ay,  to  hang  in  a  fair  pair  of  slings,  take 
his  latter  swing  in  the  world  upon  an  honourable 
pair  of  crutches,  from  hospital  to  hospital.  Fare 
ye  well,  sir :  and  yet  do  not  you  scorn  us ;  for 
places  in  the  court  are  but  like  beds  in  the 
hospital,  where  this  man's  head  lies  at  this  man's 
foot,  and  so  lower  and  lower.  \_Exit. 

Del.  I   knew  this  fellow  seven  years   in   the 
galleys 
For  a  notorious  murder ;  and  'twas  thought 
The  cardinal  suborn'd  it :  he  was  releas'd 
By  the  French  general,  Gaston  de  Foix, 
When  he  recover'd  Naples. 

Ant.  'Tis  gi'eat  pity 
He  should  be  thus  neglected.     I  have  heard 
He's  very  valiant.     This  foul  melancholy 
Will  poison  all  his  goodness  ;  for,  I'll  tell  you, 
If  too  immoderate  sleep  be  truly  said 
To  be  an  inward  rust  unto  the  soul, 
It  then  doth  follow  want  of  action 
Breeds   all  black  malcontents;   and  their  close 

rearing. 
Like  moths  in  cloth,  do  hurt  for  want  of  wearing. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 

Enter  Antonio,  Delio,  Ferdinand,  Castruccio, 
Silvio,  Eoderigo,  Grisolan,  and  Attendants. 

Del.  The  presence  'gins  to  fill :  you  promis'd 
me 
To  make  me  the  partaker  of  the  natures 
Of  some  of  your  great  courtiers. 

Ant.  The  lord  cardinal's. 
And  other  strangers  that  are  now  in  court  ? 
I  shall. — Here  comes  the  great  Calabrian  duke. 

Ferd.  AVho  took  the  ring  oftenest  ?  * 

Sil.  Antonio  Bologna,  my  lord. 

Ferd.  Our  sister  duchess'  great-master  of  her 
household?  give  him  the  jewel. — When  shall 
we  leave  this  sportive  action,  and  fall  to  action 
indeed  ? 

Cast.  Methinks,  my  lord,  you  should  not  desire 
to  go  to  war  in  person. 

Ferd.  Now  for  some  gravity : — why,  my  lord  ? 

Cast.  It  is  fitting  a  soldier  arise  to  be  a  prince, 
but  not  necessary  a  prince  descend  to  be  a 
captain. 

Ferd.  No? 

Cast.  No,  my  lord ;  he  were  far  better  do  it  by 
a  deputy. 

Ferd.  Why  should  he  not  as  well  sleep  or  eat 
by  a  deputy  ?  this  might  take  idle,  offensive,  and 
base  office  from  him,  whereas  the  other  deprives 
him  of  honour. 

Cast.  Believe  my  experience,  that  reahn  is 
never  long  in  quiet  where  the  ruler  is  a  soldier. 

Ferd.  Thou  toldest  me  thy  wife  could  not 
endure  fighting. 

Cast.  True,  my  lord. 

Ferd.  And  of  a  jest  she  broke  of  a  captain  she 
met  full  of  wounds.     I  have  forgot  it. 

Cast.  She  told  him,  my  lord,  he  was  a  pitiful 


1  dogs  when  they  have  done  us  service.  The  4to  of  1623, 
'  dogges,  and  when  they  haue  done  vs  seruice,' 

a  word  having  dropt  out,  or  havmg  been  purposely- 
omitted. 

-  Who  took  the  ring  oftenest?— ie.  in  the  sport  called 
tilting  or  running  at  the  ring. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


;i9 


fellow  to  lie,  like  tlio  cliildreu  of  Ismael,  all  in 
tents.' 

Ferd.  Why,  there's  a  wit  were  able  to  undo  all 
the  chirurgeons  o'the  city,  for  although  gallants 
should  quarrel,  and  bad  drawn  their  weapons, 
and  were  ready  to  go  to  it,  yet  her  persuasions 
•\70uld  make  them  put  up. 

Cast.  That  she  would,  my  lord. — How  do  you 
like  my  Spanish  gennet .-' 

Rod.  He  is  all  fire. 

Ferd.  I  am  of  Pliny's  opinion,  I  think  he  was 
begot  by  the  wind ;  he  runs  as  if  be  were 
ballassed  with  quicksilver. 

Sil.  True,  my  lord,  be  reels  from  the  tilt 
often. 

Hod.  Gris.  Ha,  ba,  ha ! 

Ferd.  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  methinks  you  that 
are  courtiers  should  be  my  touch-wood,  take  fire 
when  I  give  fire ;  that  is,  not  laugh  but  when 
I  laugh,  were  the  subject  never  so  witty. 

Cast.  True,  my  lord.  I  myself  have  heard  a 
very  good  jest,  and  have  scorned  to  seem  to 
have  so  silly  a  wit  as  to  imderstand  it. 

Fe7-d.  But  I  can  laugh  at  your  fool,  my  lord. 

Cast.  He  cannot  speak,  j^ou  know,  but  he 
makes  faces  :  my  lady  cannot  abide  him. 

Ferd.  No? 

Cast.  Nor  endure  to  be  in  merry  company; 
for  she  says  too  much  laughing  and  too  much 
company  fills  her  too  full  of  the  wrinkle. 

Ferd.  I  would,  then,  have  a  mathematical  in- 
strument made  for  her  face,  that  she  might  not 
laugh  out  of  compass. — I  shall  shortly  visit  you  at 
Milan,  Lord  Silvio. 

Sil.  Your  grace  shall  arrive  most  welcome. 

Ferd.  You  are  a  good  horseman,  Antonio  :  you 
have  excellent  riders  in  France :  what  do  you 
think  of  good  horsemanship  ? 

Ant.  Nobly,  my  lord :  as  out  of  the  Grecian 
horse  issued  many  famous  j)rinces,  so  out  of  brave 
horsemanship  arise  the  first  sjDarks  of  growing 
resolution,  that  raise  the  mind  to  noble  action. 

Ferd.  Yoii  have  bespoke  it  worthily. 

Sil.  Your  brother  the  lord  cardinal,  and  sister 
duchess. 

Re-enter  Cardinal,  with  Duchess,  Cariola,  and 
Julia. 

Card.  Are  the  galleys  come  about? 

Gris.  They  are,  my  lord. 

Ferd.  Here's  the  Lord  Silvio  is  come  to  take 
his  leave. 

Del.    Now,   sil',    your  ;promise:    what's   that 
cardinal  ? 
I  mean  his  temper  ?  they  say  he's  a  brave  fellow. 
Will  play  his  five  thousand  crowns  at  tennis, 

dance. 
Court  ladies,  and  one  that  hath  fought  single 
combats. 

Ant.  Some  such  flashes  superficially  hang  on 
him  for  form  ;  but  observe  his  inward  character : 
he  is  a  melancholy  churchman  ;  the  spring  in  his 
face  is  nothing  but  the  engendering  of  toads  ; 
where  he  is  jealous  of  any  man,  he  lays  worse 
plots  for  them  than  ever  was  imposed  on  Her- 
cules, for  he  strews  in  his  way  flatterers,  panders, 
intelligencers,  atheists,  and  a  thousand  such  poli- 
tical monsters.  Ho  should  have  been  Pope  ;  but 
instead  of  coming  to  it  by  the  primitive  decency 
of  the  church,  he  did  bestow  bribes  so  largely 
and  so  impudentlj'  as  if  he  would  have  carried 
it  away  without  Heaven's  knowledge.  Some  good 
be  hath  done — 


'  tent  is  a  roll  of  lint  or  other  material  used  in  search- 
ing or  dilating  a  wound ;  from  Lat.  tendo,  to  stretch. 


Del.  You  have  given  too  much  of  him.    What's 
his  brother  ? 

Ant.    The  duke  there  ?   a  most-  perverse  and 
turbulent  nature : 
What  appears  in  liim  mirth  is  merely  outside  ; 
If  he  laugh  heartily,  it  is  to  laugh 
All  honesty  out  of  fashion. 

Del.  Twins? 

Ant.  In  quality. 
Ho  speaks  with  others'  tongues,  and  hears  men's 

suits 
With  others'  ears  ;  will  seem  to  sleep  o'  the  bench 
Only  to  entrap  offenders  in  their  answers ; 
Dooms  men  to  death  by  information ; 
Rewards  by  hearsay. 

Del.  Then  the  law  to  him 
Is  like  a  foul  black  cobweb  to  a  spider, — 
He  makes  it  his  dwelling,  and  a  prison 
To  entangle  those  shall  feed  him. 

Ant.  Most  true  : 
He  never  pays  debts  unless  they  be  shrewd  turns, 
And  those  he  will  confess  that  he  doth  owe. 
Last,  for  his  brother  there,  the  cardinal. 
They  that  do  flatter  him  most  say  oracles 
Hang  at  his  lips  ;  and  verily  I  believe  them, 
For  the  devil  speaks  in  them. 
Bat  for  their  sister,  the  right  noble  duchess, 
You  never  fix'd  your  eye  on  three  fair  medals 
Cast  in  one  figure,  of  so  different  temper. 
For  her  discourse,  it  is  so  full  of  rapture, 
You  only  will  begin  then  to  be  sorry 
When  she  doth  end  her  speech,  and  wish,  in 

wonder, 
She  held  it  less  vainglory  to  talk  much. 
Than  your  penance  to  hear  her  :    whilst  she 

speaks. 
She  throws  upon  a  man  so  sweet  a  look. 
That  it  were  able  to  raise  one  to  a  galliard' 
That  lay  in  a  dead  palsy,  and  to  dote 
On  that  sweet  countenance  ;  but  in  that  look 
There  speaketh  so  divine  a  continence 
As  cuts  off  all  lascivious  and  vain  hope. 
Her  days  are  practis'd  in  such  noble  virtue, 
That  sure  her  nights,  nay,  more,  her  very  sleeps, 
Are  more  in  heaven  than  other  ladies'  shrifts. 
Let  all  sweet  ladies  break  their  flattering  glasses. 
And  dress  themselves  in  her. 

Del.  Fie,  Antonio, 
You  play  the  wire-drawer  with  her  commenda- 
tions. 

Ant.  I'll  case  the  picture  up :  only  thus  much ; 
All  her  particular  worth  grows  to  this  sum, — 
She  stains  the  time  past,  lights  the  time  to  come. 

Cari.  You  must  attend  my  lady  in  the  gallery. 
Some  half  an  hour  hence. 

Ant.  I  shall.  [Exeunt  Antoxio  and  Delio. 

Ferd.  Sister,  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Duch.  To  me,  sir? 

Ferd.  A  gentleman  here,  Daniel  de  Bosola, 
One  that  was  in  the  galleys — 

Duch.  Yes,  I  know  him. 

Ferd.   A  worthy  fellow  he  is:   pray,   let  me 
entreat  for 
The  provisorship  of  your  horse. 

Duch.  Your  knowledge  of  him 
Commends  him  and  prefers  him. 

Ferd.  Call  him  hither.  [Exit  Attendant. 

We  are  now  upon  parting.     Good  Lord  Silvio, 
Do  us  commend  to  all  om-  noble  friends 
At  the  leaguer. 

Sil.  Sir,  I  shall. 

Ferd.  You  are  for  Milan  ? 

Sil.  I  am. 


1  galliard— a  lively,  leaping,  nimhle  French,  dance; 
from  gaillard,  gay. — Nakes. 


320 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Jjuch.  Bring  the  caroches.* — We'll  bring  you 

down  to  the  haven. 
[Exeunt  Duchess,  Silvio,  Castruccio,  Kode- 
EiGO,  Grisolan,  Cariola,  Julia,  and  At- 
tendants. 
Card.  Be  sure  you  entertain  that  Bosola 
For  your  intelligence  :  I  would  not  be  seen  in't ; 
Audtherefore  many  times  I  have  slighted  him  _ 
When   he   did  court  our   fui'therance,   as   this 
morning. 
Ferd.  Antonio,  the  great-master  of  her  house- 
Had  been  far  fitter.  [hold. 

Card.  You  are  deceiv'd  iu  him : 
His  nature  is  too  honest  for  such  business. — 
He  comes :  I'll  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Enter  Bosola. 

Bos.  I  was  lur'd  to  you. 

Ferd.   My   brother,  here,   the  cardinal  could 
never 
Abide  you. 

Bos.  Never  since  he  was  in  my  debt. 

Ferd.  May  be  some  oblique  character  in  your 
face 
Made  him  suspect  you. 

Bos.  Doth  he  study  physiognomy  ? 
There's  no  more  ci'edit  to.be  given  to  the  face 
Than  to  a  sick  man's  urine,  which  some  call 
The  physician's  whore  because  she  cozens  him. 
He  did  susj)ect  me  wrongfully. 

Ferd.  For  that 
You  must  give  great  men  leave  to  take  their 

times. 
Distrust  doth  cause  us  seldom  be  deceiv'd  : 
You  see  the  oft  shaking  of  the  cedar  tree 
Fastens  it  more  at  root. 

Bos.  Yet,  take  heed  ; 
For  to  suspect  a  friend  unworthily 
Instructs  him  the  next  way  to  suspect  you. 
And  prompts  him  to  deceive  you. 

Ferd.  There's  gold. 

Bos.  So : 
What  follows  ?    never  rained  such   showers  as 

these 
Without  thunderbolts  i'  the  tail  of  them.     Whose 
throat  must  I  cut .' 

Ferd.  Your  inclination  to  shed  blood  rides  post 
Before  my  occasion  to  use  you.    I  give  you  that 
To  live  i'  the  court  here,  and  observe  the  duchess ; 
To  note  all  the  particulars  of  her  'havioui-, 
What  suitors  do  solicit  her  for  marriage. 
And  whom   she  best   affects.      She's   a  young 

widow : 
I  would  not  have  her  many  again. 

Bos.  No,  sir  ? 

Ferd.    Do  not  you  ask  the  reason ;   but  be 
satisfied 
I  say  I  would  not. 

Bos.  It  seems  you  would  create  me 
One  of  your  familiars. 

Ferd.  Familiar  !  what's  that  ? 

Bos.   Why,   a  very  quaint  invisible  devil  in 
flesh,— 
An  intelligencer. 

Ferd.  Such  a  kind  of  thriving  thing 
I  would  wish  thee  ;  and  ere  long  thou  niayst 

arrive 
At  a  higher  place  by't. 

Bos.  Take  your  devils. 
Which  hell  calls  angels :-  these  curs'd  gifts  would 

make 
You  a  corrupter,  me  an  impudent  traitor ; 
And  should  I  take  these,  they'd  take  me  to  hell. 

1  earaches — coaches,  generally  large  ones. 

2  Alluding  to  the  money  the  duke  gave  him.    An 
angel  was  a  gold  coin  worth  alDout  ten  shillings. 


Ferd.   Sir,  I'll  take  nothing  from  you  that  I 
have  given : 
There  is  a  place  that  I  procur'd  for  you 
This  morning,  the  provisorship  o'  the  horse 
Have  you  heard  on't .' 

Bos.  No. 

Ferd.  'Tis  yours:  is't  not  worth  thanks? 

Bos.  I  would  have  you  curse  yourself  now,  that 
your  bounty 
(Which  makes  men  truly  noble)  e'er  should  make 

me 
A  villain.     Oh,  that  to  avoid  ingratitude 
For  the  good  deed  you  have  done  me,  I  must  do 
All  the  ill  man  can  invent !     Thus  the  devil 
Candies  all  sins  o'er ;  and  what  heaven  terms  vile, 
That  names  he  complemental. 

Fei-d.  Be  yourself; 
Keep  your  old  garb  of  melancholy ;  'twill  express 
You  envy  those  that  stand  above  your  reacli, 
Yet  strive  not  to  come  near  'em  :  this  will  gain 
Access  to  pi-ivate  lodgings,  where  yourself 
Maj',  like  a  politic  dormouse — 

Bos.  As  I  have  seen  some 
Feed  in  a  lord's  dish,  half  asleep,  not  seeming 
To  listen  to  any  talk  ;  and  yet  these  rogues 
Have  cut  his  throat  in  a  dream.     What's  my 

place  ? 
The  provisorship  o'  the  horse  ?     Say,  then,  my 

corrujotion 
Grew  out  of  horse-dung  :  I  am  your  creature. 

Ferd.  Away ! 

Bos.  Let  good  men,  for  good  deeds,  covet  good 
fame. 
Since  place  and  riches  oft  are  bribes  of  shame  : 
Sometimes  the  devil  doth  preach.  [Exit. 

lie-enter  TtvcnKSS,  Cakdinal,  a?8t^  Cariola. 

Card.  We  are  to  part  from  you ;  and  your  own 
discretion 
Must  now  be  your  director. 

Ferd.  You  are  a  widow  : ' 
You  know  alreadj'  what  man  is ;  and  therefore 
Let  not  youth,  high  promotion,  eloquence — 

Card.  No, 
Nor  anything  without  the  addition,  honour, 
Sway  your  high  blood. 

Ferd.  Marry  !  they  are  most  luxurious ' 
Will  wed  twice. 

Card.  Oh,  fie ! 

Ferd.  Their  livers  are  more  spotted 
Than  Laban's  sheep. 

Ditch.  Diamonds  are  of  most  value. 
They  say,  that  have  pass'u'  through  most  jewel- 
lers' hands. 

Ferd.  Whores  by  that  rule  are  precious. 

Buck.  Will  you  hear  me  ? 
I'll  never  marry. 

Card.  So  most  widows  say; 
But  commonly  that  motion  lasts  no  longer 
Than  the  turning  of  an  hour-glass  :  the  funeral 

sermon 
And  it  end  both  together. 

Ferd.  Now  hear  me  : 
You  live  in  a  rank  pasture,  here,  i'  the  court ; 
There  is  a  kind  of  honey-dew  that's  deadly  ; 
'Twill    poison   your  fame ;    look    to't :    be  not 

cunning ; 
For  they  whose  faces  do  belie  their  hearts 
Are  witches  ere  they  arrive  at  twenty  years,. 
Ay,  and  give  the  devil  suck. 

Buck.  This  is  terrible  good  counsel. 

Ferd.  Hj'pocrisy  is  woven  of  a  fine  small  thread, 
Subtler  than  Vulcan's  engine  ;^  yet,  believe't. 


1  luxurious— Tyanton,  lascivious. 

"  Vulcan's  engine — ie.  the  net  in  which  he  caught 
Mars  and  Venus. — Dtce. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


321 


Your  darkest  actions,  nay,  your  privat'st  thoughts, 
AVill  come  to  light.     '    ■- 

Card.  You  may  flatter  yourself, 
Aud  take  your  own  choice ;  privately  be  married 
Under  the  eves  of  night — 

Ferd.  Think't  the  best  voyage 
That  e'er  you  made  ;  like  the  irregular  crab. 
Which,  though't  goes  backward,  thinks  that  it 

goes  riglit. 
Because  it  goes  its  own  way  :  but  observe, 
Such  weddings  may  more  properly  be  said 
To  be  executed  than  celebrated. 

Card.  The  marriage  night 
Is  the  entrance  into  some  prison. 

Ferd.  And  those  joys, 
Those  lustful  pleasures,  are  like  heavy  sleeps 
AVhich  do  forerun  man's  mischief. 

Card.  Fare  you  well. 
Wisdom  begins  at  the  end  :  remember  it.    \Exit. 

Duch.  I  think  this  speech  between  you  both 
was  studied. 
It  came  so  roundly  off. 

Ferd.  You  are  my  sister ; 
This  was  my  father's  poniard,  do  jovi  see  ? 
I'd  be  loath  to  see't  look  rusty,  'cause  'twas  his. 
I  would  have  you  to  give  o'er  these  chargeable 

revels : 
A  visor  and  a  mask  are  whispering-rooms 
That  were  never  built  for  gootlness ; — fare  j-e  well ! 
And  beware  that  part,  which,  like  the  lamprey. 
Hath  never  a  bone  in't. 

Duch.  Fie,  su- ! 

Ferd.  Nay, 
I  mean  the  tongue  ;  variety  of  courtship  : 
What  cannot  a  neat  knave  with  a  smooth  tale 
Make  a  woman  believe  ?    Farewell,  lusty  widow. 

[Exit. 

Duch.  Shall  this  move  me  ?     If  all  my  royal 
Lay  in  my  way  unto  this  marriage,         [kindred 
I'd  make  them  my  low  footsteps  :  and  even  now. 
Even  in  this  hate,  as  men  in  some  great  battles, 
By  apprehending  danger,  have  achiev'd 
Almost  impossible  actions  (I  have  heard  soldiers 

say  so). 
So  I  through  frights  and  threatenings  will  assay 
This  dangerous  venture.     Let  old  wives  report 
I  wink'd  and  chose  a  husband. — Cariola, 
To  thy  known  secrecy  I  have  given  up 
More  than  my  life, — my  fame. 

Cari.  Both  shall  be  safe  ; 
For  I'll  conceal  this  secret  from  the  world 
As  warily  as  those  that  trade  in  poison 
Keep  poison  from  their  children. 

Duch.  Thy  protestation 
Is  ingenious^  and  hearty  :  I  believe  it. 
Is  Antonio  come .' 

Cari.  He  attends  you. 

Duch.  Good  dear  soul. 
Leave  me  ;  but  place  thyself  behind  the  arras, 
Where  thou  may'st  overhear  us.     Wish  me  good 
For  I  am  going  into  a  wilderness  [speed  ; 

Where  I  shall  find  nor  path  uor  friendly  clew 
To  be  my  guide.  {Exit  Cariola. 

Enter  Antonio. 

I  sent  for  you :  sit  down  ; 
Take  pen  and  ink,  and  write  :  are  you  ready  ? 

Ant.  Yes. 

Duch.  What  did  I  say  ? 

Ant.  That  I  should  write  somewhat. 

Duch.  Oh,  I  remember. 
After  these  triumphs  and  this  large  expense, 
It's  fit,  like  thrifty  husbands,  we  inquire 
What's  laid  up  for  to-morrow. 


'  ingenious — for  ingenuous.     The  terms  were  often 
transposed  by  early  writers. — Haxlwell. 


Ant.  So  please  your  beauteous  excellence. 

Duch.  Beauteous ! 
Indeed,  I  thank  you :  I  look  young  for  your  sake  : 
You  have  ta'en  my  cares  upon  you. 

Ant.  I'll  fetch  your  grace 
The  particulars  of  your  revenue  and  expense. 

Duch.  Oh,  you  are 
An  upright  treasurer :  but  you  mistook  ; 
For  when  I  said  I  meant  to  make  inquiiy 
What's  laid  up  for  to-morrow,  I  did  mean, 
What's  laid  up  yonder  for  me. 

Ant.  Where.' 

Duch.  In  heaven. 
I  am  making  my  will  (as  'tis  fit  princes  should. 
In  perfect  memory),  and,  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me. 
Were  not  one  better  make  it  smiling,  thus. 
Than  in  deep  groans  aud  terrible  ghastly  looks, 
As  if  the  gifts  we  parted  with  procur'd 
That  violent  distraction  ? 

Ant.  Oh,  much  bettor. 

Duch.  If  I  had  a  husband  now,  this  care  were 
quit ; 
But  I  intend  to  make  you  overseer. 
What  good  deed  shall  we  first  remember  ?  say. 

Ant.  Begin  with  that  first  good  deed  began 
i'  the  world 
After  man's  creation,  the  sacrament  of  marriage  : 
I'd  have  you  first  provide  for  a  good  husband  ; 
Give  him  all. 

Duch.  All! 

Ant.  Yes,  your  excellent  self. 

Duch.  In  a  winding-sheet  ? 

Ant.  In  a  couple. 

Duch.  Saint  Winifred,  that  were  a  strange  will ! 

Ant.  'Twerestrangerif  therewerenowill  in  yuu 
To  marry  again. 

Duch.  What  do  you  think  of  marriage  ? 

Ant-  I  take't,  as  those  that  deny  purgatory. 
It  locally  contains  or  heaven  or  hell ; 
There's  no  third  place  in't. 

Duch.  How  do  you  affect  it  ? 

Ant.  My  banishment,  feeding  my  melancholy. 
Would  often  reason  thus. 

Duch.  Pray  let's  hear  it. 

Ant.  Say  a  man  never  marry,  nor  have  children. 
What  takes  that  from  him  ?     Only  the  bare  name 
Of  being  a  father,  or  the  weak  delight 
To  see  the  little  wanton  ride  a-cock-horse 
Upon  a  painted  stick,  or  hear  him  chatter 
Like  a  taught  starling. 

Duch.  Fie,  fie,  what's  all  this  ? 
One  of  your  eyes  is  bloodshot ;  i;se  my  ring  to't. 
They  say  'tis  very  sovereign  :  'twas  my  wedding- 
ring, 
And  I  did  vow  never  to  part  with  it 
But  to  my  second  husband. 

Ant.  You  have  parted  with  it  now. 

Duch.  Yes,  to  help  your  eyesight. 

Ant.  You  have  made  me  stark  blind. 

Duch.  How .'' 

Ant.  There  is  a  saucy  and  ambitious  devil 
Is  dancing  in  this  circle, 

Duch.  Kemove  him. 

Ant.  How  ? 

Duch.  There  needs   small  conjuration,  when 
your  finger 
May  do  it :  thus ;  is  it  fit  ?  [He  kneels. 

Ant.  What  said  you  ? 

Duch.  Sir, 
This  goodly  roof  of  yours  is  too  low  built ; 
I  cannot  stand  upright  in't,  nor  discourse. 
Without  I  raise  it  higher.    Kaise  yourself ; 
Or,  if  you  please,  my  hand  to  help  you  :  so. 

Ant.  Ambition,  madam,  is  a  great  man's  mad- 
ness. 
That  is  not  kept  in  chains  and  close-pent  rooms, 
But  in  fair,  lightsome  lodgings,  and  is  girt 


X 


322 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


"With  the  wild  noise  of  prattling  visitants, 
Which  makes  it  lunatic  beyond  all  cure. 
Conceive  not  I  am  so  stupid  but  I  aim 
Whereto  your  favours  tend ;  but  he's  a  fool 
That,  being  a-cold,  would  thrust  his  hands  i'  the 

fire 
To  warm  them. 

Duch.  So,  now  the  ground's  broke, 
You  may  discover  what  a  wealthy  mine 
I  make  you  lord  of. 

Ant.  Oh,  my  un worthiness  ! 

Duch.  You  were  ill  to  sell  yourself. 
This  darkening  of  your  worth  is  not  like  that 
Which  tradesmen  use  i'  the  city ;  their  false  lights 
Are  to  rid  bad  wares  off.    And  I  must  tell  you, 
If  you  will  know  where  breathes  a  c6mplete  man 
(I  speak  it  without  flattery),  turn  your  eyes, 
And  progress  through  yourself. 

Ant.  Were  there  nor  heaven  nor  hell, 
I  should  be  honest.     I  have  long  serv'd  virtue, 
And  ne'er  ta'en  wages  of  her. 

Duch.  Now  she  pays  it. 
The  misery  of  us  that  are  bom  great ! 
We  are  forc'd  to  woo,  because  none  dare  ■woo  us  ; 
And  as  a  tyrant  doubles  with  his  words, 
And  fearfully  equivocates,  so  we 
Are  forc'd  to  express  our  violent  passions 
In  riddles  and  in  dreams,  and  leave  the  path 
Of  simple  virtue,  which  was  never  made 
To  seem  the  thing  it  is  not.     Go,  go  brag 
You  have  left  me  heartless ;   mine  is   in  your 

bosom. 
I    hope  'twill   multiply  love    there.      You    do 

tremble : 
Make  not  your  heart  so  dead  a  piece  of  flesh. 
To  fear  more  than  to  love  me.    Sir,  be  confldent; 
What  is't  distracts  you  ?   This  is  flesh  and  blood, 

sir-; 
'Tis  not  the  figure  cut  in  alabaster 
Kneels  at  my  husband's  tomb.     Awake,  awake, 

man! 
I  do  here  put  off  all  vain  ceremony, 
And  only  do  appear  to  you  a  young  widow 
That  claims  you  for  her  husband ;  and,  like  a 

widow, 
I  use  but  half  a  blush  in't. 

Ant.  Truth  speak  for  me  ; 
I  will  remain  the  constant  sanctuary 
Of  your  good  name. 

Duch.  I  thank  you,  gentle  love  ; 
And  'cause  you  shall  not  come  to  me  in  debt, 
Being  now  my  steward,  here  uijon  yoiu-  lij)s 
I  sign  your  Quietus  est.     This  you  should  have 

begg'd  now : 
I  have  seen  children  oft  eat  sweetmeats  thus, 
As  fearful  to  devour  them  too  soon. 

Ant.  But  for  your  brothers  ? 

Duch.  Do  not  think  of  them. 
All  discord  without  this  circumference 
Is  only  to  be  pitied,  and  not  fear'd. 
Yet,  should  they  know  it,  time  will  easily 
■Scatter  the  tempest. 

Ant.  These  words  should  be  mine. 
And  aU  the  parts  you  have  spoke,  if  some  part 

of  it 
Would  not  have  savour'd  flattery. 
Duch.  Kneel. 

Enter  Cakiola. 

Ant.  Ha! 

Duch.  Be  not  amaz'd ;    this  woman's  of  my 
counsel. 
I  have  heard  lawyers  say,  a  contract  in  a  chamber 
Per  verba presenti,^  is  absolute  marriage. 


Bless,  Heaven,  this    sacred  gordian,  which  let 

violence 
Never  untwine ! 

Ant.  And  may  our  sweet  affections,  like  the 
spheres. 
Be  still  in  motion  ! 

Duch.  Quickening,  and  make 
The  like  soft  music ! 

Ant.  That  we  may  imitate  the  loving  palms. 
Best  emblem  of  a  peaceful  marriage, 
That  never  bore  fruit  divided ! 

Duch.  What  can  the  church  force  more  ?   ,. 

Ant.  That  fortune  may  not  know  an  accident, 
Either  of  joy  or  sorrow,  to  divide 
Our  fix5d  wishes ! 

Duch.  How  can  the  church  build  faster  ? 
We  now  are  man  and  wife,  and  'tis  the  church 
That  must  but  echo  this. — Maid,  stand  ax^art ; 
I  now  am  blind. 

Ant.  What's  your  conceit  in  this  ? 

Duch.  I  would  have  you  lead  your  fortune  by 
the  hand 
Unto  your  marriage-bed : 
(You  speak  in  me  this,  for  we  now  are  one) : 
We'll  only  lie,  and  talk  together,  and  plot 
To  appease  my  humorous  kindred ;  and,  if  you 

please. 
Like  the  old  tale  in  Alexander  and  Lodowick, 
Lay  a  naked  sword  between  us,  keep  us  chaste. 
Oh,  let  me  shroud  my  blushes  La  your  bosom, 
Since  'tis  the  treasury  of  all  my  secrets ! 

[Exeunt  Duchess  and  Antonio. 

Cari.  Whether  the   spirit  of  greatness  or  of 
woman 
Eeign  most  in  her,  I  know  not ;  but  it  shows 
A  fearful  madness.     I  owe  her  much  of  pity. 

[Exit. 


1 '  By  word  of  mouth  in  th^  presence  of  ono. 


ACT  IL— SCENE  L 
Enter  Bosola  and  Castruccio. 

Bos.  You  say  you  would  fain  be  taken  for  an 
eminent  courtier  ? 

Cast.  'Tis  the  very  main  of  my  ambition. 

Bos.  Let  me  see :  you  have  a  reasonable  good 
face  for't  already,  and  your  night-cap  exjoresses 
your  ears  sufficient  largely.  I  would  have  you 
learn  to  twirl  the  strings  of  your  band  with  a 
good  grace,  and  in  a  set  speech,  at  the  end  of 
every  sentence,  to  hum  three  or  four  times,  or 
blow  your  nose  till  it  smart  again,  to  recover 
your  memoiy.  When  j'ou  come  to  be  a  president 
in  criminal  causes,  if  you  smile  upon  a  prisoner, 
hang  him ;  but  if  you  frown  upon  him  and 
threaten  him,  let  him  be  sure  to  scape  the  gal- 
lows. 

Cast.  I  would  be  a  very  merry  president. 

Bos.  Do  not  sup  o'nights  ;  'twill  beget  you  an 
admirable  wit. 

Cast.  Bather  it  would  make  me  have  a  good 
stomach  to  quarrel ;  for  they  say  your  roaring 
boys'  eat  meat  seldom,  and  that  makes  them 
so  valiant.  But  how  shall  I  know  whether  the 
people  take  me  for  an  eminent  fellow  ? 

Bos.  I  wiU  teach  a  trick  to  know  it.  Give  out 
you  lie  a-dj'ing,  and  if  you  hear  the  common 
people  cui'se  you,  be  sure  you  are  taken  for  one 
of  the  prime  night-caps.^ 

Enter  an  Old  Lady. 

You  come  from  painting  now. 
Old  Lady.  From  what  ? 


1  roaring  hoys.    See  note  3,  p.  183,  col.  2. 
J  *  night-ca]^s—tuS:  same  as  roaring  boys. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


323 


Bos.  Why,  from  your  scurvy  face-pliysic.  To 
behold  thee  not  painted  inclines  somewhat  near 
a  miracle.  These  in  thy  face  here  were  deep 
ruts  and  foul  sloughs  the  last  progress.'  There 
■was  a  lady  in  France  that,  having  had  the  small- 
pox, flayed  the  skin  off  her  face  to  make  it  more 
level ;  and  whereas  before  she  looked  like  a 
nutmeg-grater,  after  she  resembled  an  abortive 
hedge-hog. 

Old  Lady.  Do  you  call  this  painting  ? 

Bos.  No,  no,  but  j'ou  call  it  careening  of  an 
old  morphewed^  lady,  to  make  her  disembogue 
again :  there's  rough-cast  phrase  to  your  plastic. 

Old  Lady.  It  seems  you  are  well  acquainted 
with  my  closet. 

Bos.  One  would  suspect  it  for  a  shop  of  witch- 
craft, to  find  in  it  the  fat  of  serpents,  spawn  of 
snakes,  Jews'  spittle,  and  their  young  children's 
ordure ;  and  all  these  for  the  face.  I  would  sooner 
eat  a  dead  pigeon  taken  from  the  soles  of  the 
feet  of  one  sick  of  the  plague,  than  kiss  one  of 
you  fasting.     Here  are  two  of  you,  whose  sin  of 
your  youth  is  the  very  patrimony  of  the  phy- 
sician ;  makes  him  renew  his  foot-cloth^  with  the 
spring,  and  change  his  high-priced  courtezan  with 
the  fall  of  the  leaf.    I  do  wonder  you  do  not  loathe 
yourselves.     Observe  my  meditation  now. 
What  thing  is  in  this  outward  foiTii  of  man 
To  be  belov'd  ?     We  account  it  ominous. 
If  nature  do  produce  a  colt,  or  lamb, 
A  fawn,  or  goat,  in  any  limb  resembling 
A  man,  and  fly  from  't  as  a  prodigy: 
Man  stands  amaz'd  to  see  his  deformity 
In  any  other  creatm-e  but  himself. 
But  in  our  own  flesh  though  we  bear  diseases 
Which  have  their  true  names  only  ta'eu  from 

beasts, — 
As  the  most  ulcerous  wolf*  and  swinish  measle, — 
Though  we  are  eaten  up  of  lice  and  worms, 
And  though  continually  we  bear  about  us 
A  rotten  and  dead  body,  we  delight 
To  hide  it  in  rich  tissue  :  all  our  fear, 
Naj"-,  all  our  terror,  is,  lest  om-  physician 
Should  put  us  in  the  ground  to  be  made  sweet. — 
Tour  wife's  gone  to  Kome :  you  two  couple,  and 
get  you  to  the  wells  at  Lucca  to  recover  your 
aches.     I  have  other  work  on  foot. 

[^Exeunt  C^vstkuccio  and  Old  Lady. 
I  observe  our  duchess 

Is  sick  a-days,  she  pukes,  her  stomach  seethes, 
The  fins  of  her  eyelids  look  most  teeming  blue. 
She  wanes  i'the  cheek,  and  waxes  fat  i'the  flank, 
And,  contrary  to  our  Italian  fashion. 
Wears  a  loose-bodied  go^^Ti:  there's  somewhat 

in't. 
I  have  a  trick  may  chance  discover  it, 
A  pretty  one ;  I  have  bought  some  apricocks,^ 
The  first  our  sirring  yields. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Delio. 

Del.  And  so  long  since  married ! 
You  amaze  me. 

Ant.  Let  me  seal  your  lips  for  ever : 
Poi-,  did  I  think  that  anything  but  the  air 
Could  cany  these  words  from  you,  I  should  wish 
You  had  no  breath  at  all. — Now,  sir,  in  your 

contemijlation  } 
You  are  studying  to  become  a  great  wise  fellow. 


^  progress— i.e.  tlie  progress  of  the  sovereign  through 
the  kingdom. 

^  morpheiced.    Morphew  was  a  leprous  eniption. 

^foot-cloth — liousings  of  cloth  hung  over  a  horse. 

*  wolf— 3.  term  applied  to  an  eating  ulcdr. 

^  apricocks — the  old  form  of  apricots,  from  Lat.  prxcox, 
early  ripe. 


Bos.  Oh,  sir,  the  opinion  of  wisdom  is  a  foul 
tetter  "■  that  runs  all  over  a  man's  body :  if  sim- 
plicity direct  us  to  have  no  evil,  it  directs  us  to 
a  happy  being ;  for  the  subtlest  folly  proceeds 
from  the  subtlest  wisdom ;  let  me  be  simply 
honest. 

Ant.  I  do  understand  your  inside. 

Bos.  Do  you  so  ? 

Ant.  Because  you  would  not  seem  to  appear  to 
the  world 
Puff'd  up  with  your  preferment,  you  continue 
This  out-of-fashionmelancholj':  leave  it,  leave  it. 

Bos.  Give  me  leave  to  be  honest  in  any  phrase, 
in  any  compliment  whatsoever.  Shall  I  confess 
myself  to  you .'  I  look  no  higher  than  I  can 
reach:  they  are  the  gods  that  must  ride  on 
winged  horses.  A  lawj-er's  mule  of  a  slow  pace 
will  both  suit  my  disposition  and  business ;  for, 
mark  me,  when  a  man's  mind  rides  faster  than 
his  horse  can  gallop,  they  quickly  both  tire. 

Ant.  You   would  look  up   to  heaven,  but   I 
think 
The  devil,  that  rules  i'  the  air,  stands  in  your 
light. 

Bos.  Oh,  sir,  you  are  lord  of  the  ascendant, 
chief  man  with  the  duchess ;  a  duke  was  your 
cousin-german  removed.  Say  you  were  lineally 
descended  from  King  Pepin,  or  he  himself,  what 
of  this  ?  search  the  heads  of  the  greatest  rivers 
in  the  world,  you  shall  find  them  but  bubbles  of 
water.  Some  would  think  the  souls  of  princes 
were  brought  forth  by  some  more  weighty  cause 
than  those  of  meaner  persons :  they  are  deceived, 
there's  the  same  hand  to  them ;  the  like  passions 
sway  them ;  the  same  reason  that  makes  a  vicar 
to  go  to  law  for  a  tithe-pig,  and  undo  his  neigh- 
boui's,  makes  them  spoil  a  whole  province,  and 
batter  down  goodly  cities  with  the  cannon. 

Enter  Duchess  and  Ladies. 

Duck.  Your  arm,  Antonio  :  do  I  not  grow  fat  ? 
I  am  exceeding  short-winded. — Bosola, 
I  would  have  you,  sir,  i^rovide  for  me  a  litter ; 
Such  a  one  as  the  Duchess  of  Florence  rode  in. 

Bos.  The  duchess  us'd  one  when  she  was  great 
with  child. 

Duch.  I  think  she  did. — Come  hither,  mend 
my  ruff : 
Here,  when? 2  thou  art  such  a  tedious  lady ;  and 
Thy  breath  smells  of  lemon-pills:  would  thou 

hadst  done ! 
Shall  I  swoon  under  thy  fingers  ?  I  am 
So  troubled  with  the  mother !  3 

Bos.  [a.side.']  I  fear  too  much. 

Duch.  I  have  heard  you  say  that  the  French 
courtiers         " 
Wear  their  hats  on  'fore  the  king 

Ant.  I  have  seen  it. 

Duch.  In  the  i^reseuce  ? 

Ant.  Yes. 

Duch.  Why  should    not  we    bring    up    that 
fashion  ? 
'Tis  ceremony  more  than  duty  that  consists 
In  the  removing  of  a  piece  of  felt : 
Be  you  the  example  to  the  rest  o'  the  court; 
Put  on  your  hat  first. 

Ant.  You  must  pardon  me  : 
I  have  seen,  in  colder  countries  than  in  France, 
Nobles  stand  bare  to  the  prince ;  and  the  distinc- 
tion 
Methought  sliow'd  reverently. 

Bos.  I  have  a  f)reseut  for  your  grace. 


1  tetter — sldn  disease. 

-  irlien — an  exclamation  of  impatience. 

3  the  mother — hysterical  passions. 


324 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Duch.  For  me,  sir  ? 

Bos.  Apricocks,  madam. 

Duch.  Oh,  sir,  Tvhere  are  tbey  ? 
I  have  heard  of  none  to-year. 

Bos.  [aside.']  Good ;  her  colour  rises. 

Duch.  Indeed,  I  thank  you :  they  are  ■wondrous 
fair  ones. 
What  an  unskilful  fellow  is  our  gardener ! 
TVe  shall  have  none  this  month. 

Bos.  Will  not  your  grace  pare  them  ? 

Duch.  No :  they  taste  of  musk,  methinks ;  in- 
deed they  do. 

Bos.  I  know  not :  j^et  I  wish  your  grace  had 
par'd  'em. 

Duch.  Why? 

Bos.  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  the  knave  gardener, 
Only  to  raise  his  pi-ofit  by  them  the  sooner. 
Dig  ripen  them  in  horse-dung. 

Duch.  Oh,  you  jest. — 
You  shall  judge  :  pray,  taste  one. 

Ant.  Indeed,  madam, 
I  do  not  love  the  fruit. 

Duch.  Sir,  you  are  loath 
To  rob  us  of  our  dainties  :  'tis  a  delicate  fruit ; 
They  say  they  are  restorative. 

Bos.  'Tis  a  pretty  art, 
This  grafting. 

Duch.  'Tis  so  ;  bettering  of  nature. 

Bos.  To  make  a  pii^pin  grow  upon  a  crab, 
A   damson    on    a    blackthorn.  —  [Aside.']    How 

greedily  she  eats  them  ! 
A  whirlwind  strike  off  these  bawd  farthingales  ! 
For,  but  for  that  and  the  loose-bodied  gown, 
I  should  have  discover'd  apparently 
The  young  springal  i   cutting  a  caper  in   her 
belly. 

Duch.  I  thank  you,  Bosola:   they  were  right 
good  ones, 
If  they  do  not  make  me  sick. 

Ant.  How  now,  madam  I 

Duch.  This  green  fruit  and  my  stomach  are 
not  friends : 
How  they  swell  me  ! 

Bos.  [aside.']  Nay,  you  are  too  much  swell'd 
already. 

Ditch.  Oh,  I  am  in  an  extreme  cold  sweat ! 

Bos.  I  am  very  sorry. 

Duch.  Lights  to  my  chamber! — Oh  good  An- 
tonio, 
I  fear  I  am  undone  ! 

Del.  Lights  there,  lights ! 

[Exeunt  Duchess  and  Ladies. — Exit,  on  the 
other  side,  BosoLA. 

Ant.  Oh  my  most  trusty  Delio,  we  are  lost ! 
I  fear  she's  fall'n  in  labour ;  and  there's  left 
No  time  for  her  remove. 

Del.  Have  you  prepar'd 
Those  ladies  to  attend  her  ?  and  procur'd 
That  politic  safe  convej'ance  for  the  midwife 
Your  duchess  plotted  ? 

Atit.  I  have. 

Del.  Make  use,  then,  of  this  forc'd  occasion  : 
Give  out  that  Bosola  hath  poison'd  her 
With  these  apricocks  ;  that  will  give  some  colour 
For  her  keeping  close. 

Ant.  Fie,  fie  !  the  physicians 
Will  then  flock  to  her. 

Del.  For  that  you  may  pretend 
She'll  use  some  prepared  antidote  of  her  own. 
Lest  the  physicians  should  re-poison  her. 

Ant.  I  am  lost  in  amazement :    I  know  not 
what  to  think  on't.  [Exeunt. 


1  springal— l&i,  youth ;  old  Fr.,  springaUer,  to  leap, 
sport. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  XL 

Entei-  Bosola. 

Bos.  So,  so,  there's  no  question  but  her  tctchi- 
ness  and  most  vulturous  eating  of  the  apricocks 
are  apparent  signs  of  breeding. 

Enter  an  Old  Lady. 
Now? 

Old  Lady.  I  am  in  haste,  sir. 

Bos.  There  was  a  young  waiting-woman  had 
a  monsti'ous  desire  to  see  the  glasshouse — 

Old  Lady.  Nay,  pray  let  me  go. 

Bos.  And  it  was  only  to  know  what  strauge 
instrument  it  was  should  swell  up  a  glass  to  the 
fashion  of  a  woman's  belly. 

Old  Lady.  I  will  hear  no  more  of  the  glass- 
house.   You  are  still  abusing  women ! 

Bos.  Who,  I  ?  no  ;  only,  by  the  way  now  and 
then,  mention  your  frailties.  The  orange-treo 
bears  ripe  and  green  fruit  and  blossoms  all  to- 
gether ;  and  some  of  you  give  entertainment  for 
pure  love,  but  more  for  more  precious  reward. 
The  lusty  spring  smells  well  ;  but  drooping 
autumn  tastes  well.  If  we  have  the  same  golden 
showers  that  rained  in  the  time  of  Jupiter  the 
Thunderer,  you  have  the  same  Danaes  still,  to 
hold  up  their  laps  to  receive  them.  Didst  thou 
never  study  the  mathematics  ? 

Old  Lady.  What's  that,  sir  ? 

Bos.  Why,  to  know  the  trick  how  to  make  a 
many  lines  meet  in  one  centre.  Go,  go,  give 
your  foster-daughters  good  counsel :  tell  them, 
that  the  devil  takes  delight  to  hang  at  a  woman's 
girdle,  like  a  false  rusty  Avatch,  that  she  cannot 
discern  how  the  time  passes.         [Exit  Old  Lady. 

Enter  Anto^jio,  Eoderigo,  and  Giusolax. 

Ant.  Shut  up  the  court-gates. 
Rod.  Why,  sir  ?  what's  the  danger  ? 
Ant.  Shut  up  the  posterns  presently,  and  call 
All  the  officers  o'  the  court. 

Gris.  I  shall  instantly.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Who  keeps  the  key  o'  the  park  gate  ? 
Rod.  Forobosco. 
Ant.  Let  him  bring't  presently. 

Enter  Grisolan  and  Servants. 

1  Serv.  Oh,  gentlemen  o'  the  court,  the  foulest 
treason ! 

Bos.   [aside.']   If  that  these  apricocks  should 
be  poison'd  now. 
Without  my  knowledge ! 

1  Serv.  There  was  taken  even  now  a  Switzer 
in  the  duchess'  bedchamber — 

2  Serv.  A  Switzer! 

1  Serv.  With  a  pistol  in  his  great  cod-piece. 
Bos.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

1  Serv.  The  cod-piece  was  the  case  for't. 

2  Serv.  There  was  a  cunning  traitor:  who 
would  have  searched  his  cod-piece  ? 

1  Serv.  True,  if  he  had  kept  out  of  the  ladies' 
chambers  :  and  all  the  moulds  of  his  buttons 
were  leaden  bullets. 

2  Serv.  Oh,  wicked  cannibal!  a  fire-lock  in's 
cod-piece ! 

1  Serv.  'Twas  a  French  plot,  upon  ray  life. 

2  Serv.  To  see  what  the  devil  can  do? 
Ant.  Are  all  the  ofiicers  here  ? 
Servants.  We  are. 

Ant.  Gentlemen, 
We  have  lost  much  plate  you  know ;    and  but 

this  evening 
Jewels,  to  the  value  of  four  thousand  ducats, 
Are  missing  in  the  duchess'  cabinet. 
Are  the  gates  shut  ? 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


325 


Serv.  Yes. 

Ant.  'Tis  the  duchess'  pleasure 
Each  officer  be  lock'd  into  his  chamber 
Till  the  suurising  ;  and  to  send  the  keys 
Of  all  their  chests  and  of  their  outward  doors 
Into  her  bed-chamber.     She  is  very  sick. 

PmcJ.  At  her  pleasure. 

Ant.    She    entreats    you    take't  not  ill:    the 
innocent 
Shall  be  the  more  approved  by  it. 

Bos.  Gentlemen  o'  the  woodyard,  where's  your 
Switzer  now.' 

1  Serv.  By  this  hand,  'twas  credibly  reported 

by  one  o'  the  black  guard.'  / 

\Exeimt  all  except  Antonio  and  Delio. 

Del.  How  fares  it  with  the  duchess .' 

Ant.  She's  exposed 
Unto  the  worst  of  tortures, — pain  and  fear. 

Del.  Speak  to  her  all  happy  comfort. 

Ant.  How  I  do  play  the  fool  with  mine  own 
danger! 
You  are  this  night,  dear  friend,  to  post  to  Rome  : 
My  life  lies  in  your  service. 

Del.  Do  not  doubt  me. 

Ant.  Oh,  'tis  far  from  me  ;  and  yet  fear  presents 
Somewhat  that  looks  like  dangei-.  fme 

Del.  Believe  it, 
'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  your  fear,  no  more  : 
How  superstitiously  we  mind  our  evils  ! 
The  throwing  down  salt,  or  crossing  of  a  hare, 
Bleeding  at  nose,  the  stumbling  of  a  horse. 
Or  singing  of  a  cricket,  are  of  power 
To  daunt  whole  man  in  us.     Sir,  fare  you  well : 
I  wish  j'ou  all  the  joys  of  a  bless'd  father ; 
And,  for  my  faith,  lay  this  unto  your  breast, — 
Old  friends,  like  old  swords,  still  are  trusted  best. 

\_EKit. 

Enter  C.\kiola. 

Cari.  Sir,  j'ou  are  the  happy  father  of  a  son : 
Your  wife  commends  him  to  you. 

Ant.  Blessed  comfort ! — 
For  Heaven's  sake  tend  her  well :  I'll  presently 
Go  set  a  figm-e  for's  nativity.  \Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III. 
Enter  BosoLA  with  a  darh  lantern. 

Bos.  Sure  I  did  hear  a  woman  shriek  :  list,  ha  ! 
Aud  the  sound  came,  if  I  received  it  right, 
Erom    the    duchess'    lodgings.       There's    some 

stratagem 
In  the  confining  all  our  courtiers 
To  their  several  wards  :  I  must  have  part  of  it ; 
My  intelligence  will  freeze  else.     List,  again ! 
It  may  be  'twas  the  melancholy  bird. 
Best  fi-iend  of  silence  and  of  solitariness, 
The  owl,  that  screamed  so^ — Ha !  Antonio  ! 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  1  heard  some  noise. — Who's  there  ?  what 
art  thou .'  speak. 

Bos.  Antonio,  put  not  your  face  nor  body 
To  such  a  forc'd  expression  of  fear: 
I  am  Bosola,  your  friend. 

Ant.  Bosola ! — 

[Aside.]  This  mole  does  undermine  me. — Heard 
you  not 
A  noise  even  now  ? 

Bos.  From  whence .' 

Ant.  From  the  duchess'  lodgings. 

Bos.  Not  I ;  did  you  ? 


1  6/acJ-  gua7-d — the  lowest  menials  or  scullions. 


Ant.  I  did,  or  else  I  dream'd. 

Bos.  Let's  walk  towards  it. 

Ant.  No  :  it  may  be  'twas 
But  the  rising  of  the  wind. 

Bos.  Very  likely. 
Metliinks  'tis  very  cold,  and  yet  you  sweat : 
You  look  wildly. 

Ant.  I  have  been  setting  a  figure 
For  the  duchess'  jewels. 

Bos.  Ah !  and  how  falls  your  question  ? 
Do  you  find  it  radical  ? 

Ant.  What's  that  to  you  .' 
'Tis  rather  to  be  question'd  what  design. 
When  all  men  were  commanded  to  their  lodgings, 
Makes  you  a  night-walker. 

Bos.  In  sooth,  I'll  tell  you  : 
Now  all  the  court's  asleep,  I  thought  the  devil 
Had  least  to  do  here.     I  came  to  say  my  prayers  ; 
And  if  it  do  offend  you  I  do  so, 
You  are  a  fine  courtier. 

Ant.  [(tside.^  This  fellow  will  undo  me. — 
You  gave  the  duchess  apricocks  to-day: 
Pray  heaven  they  were  not  poison'd ! 

Bos.  Poison'd  !  a  Spanish  &g 
For  the  imputation. 

Ant.  Traitors  are  ever  confident 
Till  they   are   discover'd.      There  were  jewels 

stol'n  too : 
In  my  conceit.,  none  are  to  be  suspected 
More  than  yourself. 

Bos.  You  are  a  false  steward. 

Ant.  Saucy  slave,  I'll  pull  thee  up  by  the  roots. 

Bos.  May  be  the  ruin  will  crush  you  to  pieces. 

Ant.  You  ai-e  an  impudent  snake  indeed,  sir  ! 
Are  you  scarce  warm,  and  do  you  show  your 

sting  ? 
You  libel  well,  sir. 

Bos.  No,  sir ;  copy  it  out, 
And  I  will  set  my  hand  to't. 

Ant.  [aside.]  My  nose  bleeds. 
One  that  were  superstitious  would  count 
This  ominous,  when  it  merely  comes  by  chance : 
Two  letters  that  are  wrote  here  for  my  name, 
Are  drown'd  in  blood ! 

Mere  accident! — For  you,  sir,  I'll  take  order 
I'  the  morn  you  shall  be  safe  : — [aside.]  'tis  that 

must  colour 
Her  lying  in : — sir,  this  door  you  pass  not : 
I  do  not  hold  it  fit  that  you  come  near 
The  duchess'  lodgings,  till  you  have  quit  your- 
self.— 
[Aside.]  The  great  are  like  the  base,  nay,  they 

are  the  same, 
When  they  seek  shameful  ways  to  avoid  shame. 

[Exit. 

Bos.  Antonio  hereabout  did  drop  a  paper: — 
Some  of  your  help,  false  friend:' — Oh,  here  it  is. 
What's  here .'  a  child's  nativity  calculated  ! 

[Reads. 

'  The  duchess  was  delivered  of  a  son,  'tween  the 
hours   twelve   and  one   in   the  night,  Anno  Dom. 
1504,' — that's  this    year — '■decimo   nono   Decem- 
Iris,' — that's  this  night, — '■  taken  according  to  the 
meridian  of  JUalJi,' — that's  our  duchess:   happy 
discovery  !— '  The   lord    of  the  first    house  being 
combust  in  the  ascendant,  signifies  short  life;  and 
Mars  being  in  a  human  sign,  joined  to  the  tail  of 
the  Dragon,  in  the  eighth  house,  doth  threaten  a 
violent  death.     Cxtera  non  scrutantur.' 
Why,  now  'tis  most  apparent :  this  precise  fellow 
Is  the  duchess'  bawd  :■ — I  have  it  to  my  wish ! 
This  is  a  parcel  of  intelligeucy 
Our  courtiers  were  cas'd  up  for ;  it  needs  must 
follow 


^  false  friend— i.e.  his  lantern. — W.  Hazlitt. 


326 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


That  I  must  be  conitnitted  on  pretence 

Of  poisoning  her ;  which  I'll  endure,  and  laugh  at. 

If  one  could  find  the  father  now!  but  that 

Time  will  discover.     Old  Castruccio 

I'  the  morninp;  posts  to  Rome ;  by  him  I'll  send 

A  letter  that  shall  make  her  brothers'  galls 

O'erflow  their  livers.     This  was  a  thrifty  way. 

Though  lust  do  mask  in  ne'er  so  strange  disguise, 

She's  oft  found  witty,  but  is  never  wise.      \Exil. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV. 
Enter  Cardinal  and  Julia. 

Card.  Sit;  thou  art  my  best  of  wishes.  Prithee, 
tell  me 
What  trick  didst  thou  invent  to  come  to  Eome 
Without  thy  husband  ? 

Julia.  Why,  my  lord,  I  told  him 
I  came  to  visit  an  old  anchorite 
Here  for  devotion. 

Card.  Thou  art  a  witty  false  one, — 
I  mean,  to  him. 

Julia.  You  have  prev-ail'd  with  me 
Beyond  my  strongest  thoughts.  I  would  not  now 
Find  you  inconstant. 

Card.  Do  not  put  thyself 
To  such  a  voluntary  torture,  which  proceeds 
Out  of  your  own  guilt. 

Julia.  How,  my  lord ! 

Card.  You  fear 
My  constancy,  because  you  have  approv'd 
Those  giddy  and  wild  turnings  in  yourself. 

Julia.  Did  you  e'er  find  them  ? 

Card.  Sooth,  generally  for  woinen, 
A  man  might  strive  to  make  glass  malleable, 
Ere  he  should  make  them  fix^d. 

Julia.  So,  my  lord. 

Card.  We  had  need  go  borrow  that  fantastic 
glass 
Invented  by  Galileo  the  Florentine 
To  view  another  spacious  world  i'  the  moon. 
And  look  to  find  a  constant  woman  there. 

Julia.  This  is  very  well,  my  lord. 

Card.  Why  do  you  weep  .■* 
Are  tears  your  justification .''  the  self-same  tears 
AVill  fall  into  your  husband's  bosom,  lady, 
With  a  loud  protestation  that  you  love  him 
Above  the  world.     Come,  I'll  love  you  wisely, 
That's  jealously;  since  I  am  vei'y  certain 
You  cannot  make  me  cuckold. 

Julia.  I'll  go  home 
To  my  husband. 

Card.  You  may  thank  me,  lady, 
I  have  taken  you  off  your  melancholy  perch. 
Bore  you  upon  my  fist,  and  show'd  you  game, 
And  let  you  fly  at  it. — I  pray  thee,  kiss  me. — 
When  thou  wast  with  thy  husband,  thou  wast 

watch'd 
Like  a  tame  elephant,^still  you  are  to  thank 

me: — 
Thoii  hadst  only  kisses  from  him  and  high  feeding ; 
But  what  deliglit  was  that.'  'twas  just  like  one 
That  hath  a  little  fingering  on  the  lute, 
Yet  cannot  tune  it : — still  you  are  to  thank  me. 

Jidia.  You  told  me  of  a  piteous  wound  i'  the 
heart 
And  a  sick  liver,  when  you  woo'd  me  first, 
And  spake  like  one  in  physic. 

Card.  Who's  that. »— 

Enter  Servant. 

Rest  firm,  for  my  affection  to  thee, 
Lightning  moves  slow  to't. 

Serti,  Madam,  a  gentleman. 
That's  i-2me  post  from  Malfi,  desires  to  see  you. 


Card.  Let  him  enter:  I'll  withdraw.         [Exit. 

Serv.  He  says 
Your  husband,  old  Castruccio,  is  come  to  Eome, 
Most  pitifully  tir'd  with  riding  post.  [Exit. 

Enter  Delio. 

Jidia.  Signior  Delio  !  'tis  one  of  my  old  suitors. 

Del.  I  was  bold  to  come  and  see  you. 

Julia.  Sir,  you  are  welcome. 

Del.  Do  you  lie  here  ? 

Julia.  Sure,  your  own  experience 
Will  satisfy  you  no :  our  Eoman  prelates 
Do  not  keep  lodging  for  ladies. 

Del.  Very  well. 
I  have  brought  you  no  commendations  from  your 

husband, 
For  I  know  none  by  him. 

Julia.  I  hear  he's  come  to  Eome. 

Del.  I  never  knew  man  and  beast,  of  a  horse 
and  a  knight, 
So  weary  of  each  other :  if  he  had  had  a  good 

back, 
He  would  have  undertook  to  have  borne  his  horse, 
His  breech  was  so  pitifully  sore. 

Julia.  Your  laughter 
Is  my  pity. 

Del.  Lady,  I  know  not  whether 
You  want  money,  but  I  have  brought  you  some. 

Julia.  From  my  husband  .•* 

Del.  No,  from  mine  own  allowance. 

Julia.  I  must  hear  the  condition,  ere  I  be  bound 
to  take  it. 

Del.  Look  on't,  'tis   gold ;    hath  it  not  a  fine 
colour? 

Jidia.  I  have  a  bird  more  beautiful. 

Del.  Try  the  sound  on't. 

Julia.  A  lute-string  far  exceeds  it : 
It  hath  no  smell,  like  cassia  or  civet ; 
Nor  is  it  phj'sical,^  though  some  fond  doctors 
Persuade  us  seethe't  in  cuUises.^    I'll  tell  you, 
This  is  a  creature  bred  by^- 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Your  husband's  come, 
Hath  deliver'd  a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Calabria 
That,  to  my  thinking,  hath  put  him  out  of  his  wits. 

[Exit. 

Jidia.  Sir,  yoii  hear : 
Pray,  let  me  know  your  business  and  your  smt 
As  briefly  as  can  be. 

Del.  With  good  speed.     I  would  wish  you, 
At  such  time  as  you  are  non-resident 
With  your  husband,  my  mistress. 

Julia.  Sir,  I'll  go  ask  my  husband  if  I  shall, 
And  straight  return  your  answer.  [Exit. 

Del.  Very  fine ! 
Is  this  her  wit,  or  honesty,  that  speaks  thus  ? 
I  heard  one  say  the  duke  was  highly  mov'd 
With  a  letter  sent  from  Malfi.     I  do  fear 
Antonio  is  betray'd ;  how  fearfully 
Shows  his  ambition  now!  unfortunate  fortune! 
They  pass  through  whirlpools,  and  deep  woes  do 

shun. 
Who  the  event  weigh  ere  the  action's  done.  [Exit. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  V. 

Enter  Cardinal,  and  Ferdinand  with  a  letter. 

Ferd.  I  have  this  night  digg'd  up  a  mandrake. 

Card.  Say  you  ? 

Ferd.  And  I  am  grown  mad  with't. 

Card.  What's  the  prodigy  ? 

1  physical— oi  the  nature  of  phj'sic,  medicinal. 
"  cullises.    See  note  1,  p.  52,  col.  1. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


327 


Ferd.  Eead  there, — a  sister  damn'd ;  she's  loose 
i'  the  hilts ; 
Grown  a  notorious  strumpet. 

Card.  Speak  lower. 

Ferd.  Lower! 
Kogues  do  not  whisper't  now,  but  seek  to  pubhsh't 
(As  servants  do  the  bounty  of  their  lords) 
Aloud ;  and  with  a  covetous  searching  eye. 
To  mark  who  note  them.    Oh,  confusion  seize  her ! 
She  hath  had  most  cunning  bawds  to  serve  her 

turn,  ' 

And  more  secure  conveyances  for  lust 
Than  towns  of  gan-ison  for  service. 

Card.  Is't  possible  ? 
Can  this  be  certain  ? 

Fred.  Ehubarb,  oh,  for  rhubarb 
To  purge  this  choler !  here's  the  cursed  day 
To  prompt  my  memory ;  and  here't  shall  stick 
Till  of  her  bleeding  heart  I  make  a  sponge 
To  wipe  it  out. 

Card.  Why  do  you  make  yourself 
So  wild  a  tempest .' 

Ferd.  Would  I  could  be  one. 
That  I  might  toss  her  palace  'bout  her  ears, 
Koot  up  her  goodly  forests,  blast  her  meads, 
And  lay  her  general  territory  as  waste 
As  she  hath  done  her  honours. 

Card.  Shall  our  blood, 
The  royal  blood  of  Arragon  and  Castile, 
Be  thus  attainted.' 

Ferd.  Apply  desperate  physic: 
We  must  not  now  use  balsamum,  but  fire. 
The  smarting  cupping-glass,  for  that's  the  mean 
To  purge  infected  blood,  such  blood  as  hers. 
There  is  a  kind  of  pity  in  mine  eye, — 
I'll  give  it  to  my  handkerchief:  and  now  'tis  here, 
I'll  bequeath  this  to  her  bastard. 

Card.  What  to  do  .? 
'  Ferd.  Why,  to  make  soft  lint  for  his  mother's 
wounds. 
When  I  have  hew'd  her  to  pieces. 

Card.  Cursfed  creature ! 
Unequal  nature,  to  place  women's  hearts 
So  far  upon  the  left  side ! 

Ferd.  Foolish  men. 
That  e'er  will  tmst  their  honour  in  a  bark 
Made  of  so  slight  weak  bulrush  as  is  woman, 
Apt  every  minute  to  sink  it ! 

Card.  Thus 
Ignorance,  when  it  hath  purchas'd  honour, 
It  cannot  wield  it. 

Ferd.  Methinks  I  see  her  laughing, — 
Excellent  hyena!  Talk  to  me  somewhat  quickly. 
Or  my  Imagination  will  carry  me 
To  see  her  in  the  shameful  act  of  sin. 

Card.  With  whom  ? 

Ferd.  Happily  with  some  strong-thigh'd  barge- 
man, 
Or  one  o'  the  woodyard  that  can  quoit  the  sledge. 
Or  toss  the  bar,  or  else  some  lovely  squire 
That  carries  coals  up  to  her  privy  lodgings. 

Card.  You  fly  beyond  your  reason. 

Ferd.  Go  to,  mistress ! 
'Tis  not  your  whore's  milk  that  shall  quench  my 

wild-fire. 
But  your  whoi-e's  blood. 

Card.  How  idly  shows  this  rage,  which  carries 

As  men  convey'd  by  witches  through  the  air. 
On  violent  whirlwinds !  this  intemperate  noise 
Fitly  resembles  deaf  men's  shrill  discourse, 
Who  talk  aloud,  thinking  all  other  men 
To  have  their  imperfection. 

Ferd.  Have  not  you 
My  palsy  ? 

Card.  Yes ;  I  can  be  angry 
Without  this  rupture :  there  is  not  in  nature 


A  thing  that  makes  man  so  deform'd,  so  beastly, 
As  doth  intemperate  anger.     Chide  yourself. 
You  have  divers  men  who  never  yet  express'd 
Their  strong  desire  of  rest  but  by  unrest. 
By  vexing  of  themselves.     Come,  put  yourself 
In  tune. 

Ferd.  So  I  will  only  study  to  seem 
The  thing  I  am  not.     I  could  kill  her  now, 
In  you,  or  in  myself ;  for  I  do  think 
It  is  some  sin  in  us  heaven  doth  revenge 
By  her. 

Card.  Are  you  stark  mad  ? 
Ferd.  I  would  have  their  bodies 
Burnt  in  a  coal-pit  with  the  ventage  stopp'd. 
That  their  curs'd  smoke  might  not  ascend  to 

heaven ; 
Or    dip    the    sheets    they    lie  in    in    pitch    or 

sulphur, 
Wrap  them  in't,  and  then  light  them  like  a  match: 
Or  else  to  boil  their  bastard  to  a  cullis,' 
And  give't  his  lecherous  father  to  renew 
The  sin  of  his  back. 
Card.  I'll  leave  you. 
Ferd.  Nay,  I  have  done. 
I  am  confident,  had  I  been  damn'd  in  hell. 
And  should  have  heard  of  this,  it  would  have 

put  me 
Into  a  cold  sweat.     In,  in  ;  I'll  go  sleep. 
Till  I  know  who  leaps  my  sister,  I'll  not  stir: 
That  known,   I'll  find  scorpions  to  string  my 

whips. 
And  fix  her  in  a  general  eclipse.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Delio. 

Ant.  Our  noble  friend,  my  most  belovfed  Delio! 
Oh,  you  have  been  a  stranger  long  at  court: 
Came  you  along  with  the  Lord  Ferdinand  ? 

Del.   I   did,   sk:   and  how  fares   your  noble 
duchess  ? 

Ant.  Eight  fortunately  well :  she's  an  excellent 
Feeder  of  pedigrees;  since  you  last  saw  her. 
She  hath  had  two  children  moi'e,   a  son  and 
daughter. 

Bel.   Methinks  'twas  yesterday:   let  me  but 
wink. 
And  not  behold  your  face,  which  to  mine  eye 
Is  somewhat  leaner,  verily  I  should  di-eam 
It  were  within  this  half  hour. 

Ant.  You  have  not  been  in  law,  friend  Delio, 
Nor  in  prison,  nor  a  suitor  at  the  court. 
Nor  begg'd  the  reversion  of  some  great  man's 

place, 
Nor  troubled  with  an  old  wife,  which  doth  make 
Your  time  so  insensibly  hasten. 

Del.  Pray,  sir,  tell  me. 
Hath  not  this  news  arriv'd  yet  to  the  ear 
Of  the  lord  cardinal .' 

Ant.  I  fear  it  hath  : 
The  Lord  Ferdinand,  that's  newly  come  to  court, 
Doth  bear  himself  right  dangerously. 

Del.  Pray,  why? 

Ant.  He  is  so  quiet  that  he  seems  to  sleep 
The  tempest  out,  as  dormice  do  in  winter : 
Those  houses  that  are  haunted  are  most  still 
Till  the  devil  be  up. 

Del.  What  say  the  common  people  ? 

Ant.  The  common  rabble  do  directly  say 
She  is  a  strumpet. 

Del.  And  your  graver  heads 
Which  would  be  politic,  what  censure  2  they  ? 

1  cullU — See  note  1,  p.  52,  col.  1.       *  censure— thvak. 


328 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Ant.   They   do    observe    I    grow  to    infinite 
l^urcliase, ' 
The  left-hand  way ;  and  all  suppose  the  duchess 
Would  amend  it,  if  she  could;  for,  say  tbe.y, 
Great  princes,  though  they  grudge  their  officers 
Should  have  such  large  audunconiinfid  means 
To  get  wealth  under  them,  will  not  complain, 
Lest  thereby  they  should  make  them  odious 
Unto  the  people:  for  other  obligation 
Of  love  or  marriage  between  her  and  me 
They  never  dream  of. 

Dd.  The  Lord  Ferdinand 
Is  going  to  bed. 

Enter  Duchess,  Ferdinand,  Bosola,  and 

Attendants. 

Ferd.  I'll  instantly  to  bed. 
For  I  am  weary. — I  am  to  bespeak 
A  husband  for  you. 

Duch.  For  me,  sir !  pray,  who  is't  ? 

Ferd.  The  great  Count  Malatesti. 

Duch.  Fie  upon  him ! 
A  count !  he's  a  mere  stick  of  sugai'-candy  : 
You  may   look   quite  through   him.      When   I 
choose  a  husband,  I  will  marry  for  your  honour. 

Ferd.  You  shall  do  well'in't. — How  is't,  worthy 
Antonio  ? 

Duch.  But,  sir,  I  am  to  have  private  conference 
with  you 
About  a  scandalous  report  is  spread 
Touching  mine  honour, 

Ferd.  Let  me  be  ever  deaf  to't : 
One  of  Pasquil's  paper-bullets,-  court-calumny, 
A  pestilent  air,  which  princes'  palaces 
Are  seldom  purg'd  of.     Yet  say  that  it  were  true, 
I  pour  it  in  your  bosom,  my  fix'd  love 
Would  strongly  excuse,  extenuate,  nay,  deny 
Faults,  were  they  apparent  in  you.     Go,  be  safe 
In  your  own  innocency. 

Duch.  [aside.']  Oh  bless'd  comfort ! 
This  deadly  air  is  purg'd. 

[Exewit  Duchess,  Antonio,  Delio, 
and  Attendants. 

Ferd.  Her  guilt  treads  on 
Hot-burning  coulters. — Now,  Bosola, 
How  thrives  our  intelligence  ? 

Bos.  Sir,  uncertainly: 
'Tis  rumoui-'d  she  hath  had  three  bastards,  but 
By  whom  we  may  go  read  i'  the  stars. 

Ferd.  Why,  some 
Hold  opinion  all  things  are  written  tliere. 

Bos.  Yes,  if  we  could  find  spectacles  to  read 
them. 
I  do  suspect  there  hath  been  some  sorcery 
Us'd  on  the  duchess. 

Ferd.  Sorcery  !  to  what  purpose .' 

Bos.  To   make    her    dote   on  some  desertless 
fellow 
She  shames  to  acknowledge. 

Ferd.  Can  your  faith  give  way 
To  think  thei^e's  power  in  potions  or  in  charms. 
To  make  i;s  love  whether  we  will  or  no  ? 

Bos.  Most  certainly. 

Ferd.  Away !  these  are  mere  gulleries,  horrid 
things. 
Invented  by  some  cheating  mountebanks 


1  purcJiase  —  gains,  riches,  generally  acquired  clis- 
honestly. 

-  i.e.  a  pasquinade,  so  named  from  Pasquino,  a  witty 
and  sarcastic  Roman  tailor  of  tlic  15th  century.  AftuV 
his  death,  a  fragment  of  a  statue  was  dug  up  opposite 
his  shop  and  placed  at  the  end  of  tlie  Brachi  palace, 
and  named  after  him.  On  this  fragment  it  hecame 
customary  to  tix  placards  containing  satires  and  jests  on 
the  public  and  private  affairs  of  the  day. 


To   abuse   us.      Do    you   think   that    herbs    or 

charms 
Can  force  the  will  ?    Some  trials  have  been  made 
In  this  foolish  practice,  but  the  ingredients 
Were  lenitive  poisons,  such  as  are  of  force 
To   make   the)  patient  mad;    and   straight  the 

witch 
Swears  by  equivocation  they  are  in  love. 
The  witchcraft  lies  in  her  rank  blood.      This 

night 
I  will  force  confession  from  her.     You  told  me 
You  had  got,  within  these  two  days,  a  false  key 
Into  her  bedchamber. 

Bos.  I  have. 

Fei'd.  As  I  would  wish. 

Bos.  What  do  you  intend  to  do  ? 

Fej-d.  Can  you  guess  ? 

Bos.  No. 

Fei-d.  Do  not  ask,  then : 
He  that  can  compass  me,  and  know  my  drifts, 
May  say  he  hath  put  a  girdle  'bout  the  world, 
And  sounded  all  her  quicksands. 

Bos.  I  do  not 
Think  so. 

Ferd.  What  do  you  think,  then,  pray  / 

Bos.  That  you  are 
Your  own  chronicle  too  much,  and  grossly 
Flatter  yourself. 

Ferd.  Give  me  thy  hand  ;  I  thank  thee : 
I  never  gave  pension  but  to  flatterers, 
Till  I  entertained  thee.     Farewell. 
That  friend  a  great  man's  ruin  strongly  checks, 
Who  rails  into  his  belief  all  his  defects. 

l_Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 
Enter  Duchess,  Antonio,  a7id  Caktola. 

Duch.  Bring  me   the   casket  hithei',  and  tho 
glass. — 
You  get  no  lodging  here  to-night,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Indeed,  I  must  pei-suade  one. 

Duch.  Veiy  good : 
I  hope  in  time  'twill  grow  into  a  custom. 
That  noblemen  shall  come  with  cap  and  knee 
To  purchase  a  night's  lodging  of  their  wives. 

Ant.  I  must  lie  here. 

Duch.  Must!  you  are  a  lord  of  misrule. 

Ant.  Indeed,  my  rule  is  only  in  the  night. 

Duch.  To  what  use  will  j'ou  put  me .' 

Ant.  We'll  sleep  together. 

Duch.  Alas, 
What  pleasure  can  two  lovers  find  in  sleep ! 

Cari.  M3'  lord,  I  lie  with  her  often;  and  I  know 
She'll  much  disquiet  you. 

Ant.  See,  you  are  complain'd  of. 

Carl.  For  she's  tho  sprawling'st  bedfellow. 

Ant.  I  shall  like  her  the  better  for  that. 

Cari.  Sir,  shall  I  ask  you  a  question  ? 

Ant.  Ay,  pray  thee,  Cariola, 

Cari.  Wherefore  still,  when  you  lie  with  mj 
lady,_ 
Do  you  rise  so  early  ? 

Ant.  Labouring  men 
Count  the  clock  oftenest,  Cariola, 
Are  glad  when  their  task's  ended. 

Duch.  I'll  stop  your  mouth.  [Kisses  him. 

Ant.  Nay,  that's  but  one  ;  Venus  had  two  soft 
doves 
To  draw  her  chariot;  I  must  have  another. — 

[She  l:isses  him  again. 

When  wilt  thou  marry,  Cariola.' 
Cari.  Never,  my  lord. 
Ant.  Oh,  fie  upon  this  single  life  !  forego  it. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


529 


We  read  how  Dapline,  for  her  peevish  "■  flight, 
Became  a  fruitless  bay-tree  ;  Syrinx  tui'ii'd 
To  the  pale  empty  reed  ;  Auaxarete 
Was  frozen  into  marble :  whereas  those 
Which  married,  or  pi'ov'd  kind  unto  their  friends, 
Were  by  a  gracious  influence  transhap'd 
Into  the  olive,  pomegranate,  mulberry, 
Became  flowers,  precious  stones,  or  eminent  stars. 
Carl.  This  is  a  vaiu  poetry :  but  I  pray  you, 
tell  me. 
If  there  were  propos'd  me,  wisdom,  riches,  and 

beauty. 
In   three   several   young  men,  which  should   I 
choose. 
Ant.  'Tis  a  hard  question :  this  was  Paris'  case. 
And  he  was  blind  in't,    and   there    was  great 

cause ; 
For  how  was't  possible  he  could  Judge  right, 
Having  three  amorous  goddesses  in  view, 
And  they  stark  naked .'  'twas  a  motion 
Were  able  to  benight  the  apprehension 
Of  the  severest  counsellor  of  Europe. 
Now  I  look  on  both  your  faces  so  well  form'd. 
It  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  question  I  would  ask. 
Can.  Whatis't? 

Ant.  I  do  wonder  why  hard-favour'd  ladies, 
Por  the  most  part,  keep  worse-favour'd  waiting- 
women 
To  attend  them,  and  cannot  endure  fair  ones. 

Duch.  Oh,  that's  soon  answered. 
Did  you  ever  in  your  life  know  an  ill  painter 
Desire  to  have  his  dwelling  next  door  to  the  shop 
Of  an  excellent  picture-maker .'  'twould  disgrace 
His  face-making,  and  undo  him.     I  pr'ythee. 
When  were  we  so  merry  ? — My  hair  tangles. 
Ant.  Pray  thee,  Cariola,  let's  steal  forth  the 
room. 
And  let  her  talk  to  herself:  I  have  divers  times 
Serv'd  her  the  like,  when  she  hath  chaf'd  ex- 
tremely. 
I  love  to  see  her  angry.     Softly,  Cariola. 

\_Exeunt  Antonio  and  Cariola. 
Duch.  Doth  not  the  colour  of  ■my  hair  'gin  to 
change  ? 
When  I  wax  grey,  I  shall  have  all  the  court 
Powder  their  hair  with  arras,^  to  be  like  me. 
You  have  cause  to  love  me ;  I  enter'd  you  into 

my  heart 
Before  you  would  vouchsafe  to  call  for  the  keys. 

Enter  Ferdinand  behind. 

We  shall  one  day  have  my  brothers  take  you 

napping: 
Methinks  his  presence,  being  now  in  court. 
Should  make  you  keep  your  own  bed ;  but  you'll 

say 
Love  mix'd  with  fear  is  sweetest.    I'll  assure  you. 
You  shall  get  no  more  children  till  my  brothers 
Consent  to  be  your  gossips.^    Have  you  lost  your 

tongue  ? 
'Tis  welcome : 

For  know,  whether  I  am  dooni'd  to  live  or  die, 
I  can  do  both  like  a  prince. 

Ferd.  Die,  then,  quickly ! 

[^Giving  her  a  poniard. 
Virtue,  where  art  thou  hid  ?  what  hideous  thing 
Is  it  that  doth  eclipse  thee  ? 

Duch.  Pray,  sir,  hear  me. 

Ferd.  Or  is  it  true  thou  art  but  a  bare  name. 
And  no  essential  thing  ? 

Duch.  Sir — 

Ferd.  Do  not  speak. 


1  peevish — foolish. 

2  arras — Dyce  thinks  this  should  be  orris. 

3  gossips  or  godsibs—i.e.  godfathers,  sponsors.      See 
note  1,  col.  1,  p.  a09. 


Duch.  No,  sir : 
I  will  plant  my  soul  in  mine  ears,  to  hear  you. 

Ferd.  O  most  imperfect  light  of  human  reason, 
That  mak'st  us  so  unhappy  to  foresee 
What  we  can  least  prevent !  Pursue  thy  wishes, 
And  glory  in  them  :  there's  in  shame  no  comfort 
But  to  be  past  all  bounds  and  sense  of  shame. 

Duch.  I  pray,  sir,  hear  me:  I  am  married. 

Ferd.  So  I 

Duch.  Happily,' not  to  yotir  liking;  butforthat, 
Alas,  your  shears  do  come  untimely  now 
To  clip  the  bird's  wings  that's  already  flown  ! 
Will  you  see  my  husband.' 

Ferd.  Yes,  if  I  could  change 
Eyes  with  a  basilisk. 

Duch.  Sure,  you  came  hither 
By  his  confederacy. 

Ferd.  The  howling  of  a  wolf 
Is  music  to  thee,  screech-owl :  pr'ythee,  peace.— 
Whate'er  thou  art  that  hast  eujoy'd  my  sister. 
For  I  am  sure  thou  hear'st  me,  for  thine  own  sake 
Let  me  not  know  thee.     I  came  hither  prepar'd 
To  work  thy  discovery ;  yet  am  now  persuaded 
It  would  beget  such  violent  effects 
As  would  damn  us  both.     I  would  not  for  ten 

millions 
I  had  beheld  thee :  therefore  use  all  means 
I  never  may  have  knowledge  of  thy  name ; 
Enjo}'  thy  lust  still,  and  a  wretched  life. 
On  that  condition. — And  for  thee,  vile'woman. 
If  thou  do  wish  thy  lecher  may  grow  old 
In  thy  embracements,  I  would  have  thee  btiild 
Such  a  room  for  him  as  our  anchorites 
To  holier  tise  inhabit.     Let  not  the  sun 
Shine  on  him  till  he's  dead;  let  dogs  and  monkeys 
Only  converse  with  him,  and  such  dumb  things 
To  whom  nature  denies  use  to  sound  his  name ; 
Do  not  keep  a  paraquito,  lest  she  learn  it ; 
If  thou  do  love  him,  cut  out  thine  own  tongue, 
Lest  it  bewray  liim. 

Duch.  Why  might  not  I  marry  ? 
I  have  not  gone  about  in  this  to  create 
Any  new  world  or  custom. 

Ferd.  Thou  art  undone  ; 
And  thou  hast  ta'en  that  massy  sheet  of  lead 
That  hid  thy  husband's  bones,  and  folded  it 
About  my  heart. 

Duch.  Mine  bleeds  for't. 

Ferd.  Thine  !  thy  heart ! 
What  should  I  name't  unless  a  hollow  bullet 
Fill'd  with  unquenchable  wild-fire  ? 

Duch.  You  are  in  this 
Too    strict ;    and  were    you    not    my  princely 

brother, 
I  would  say,  too  wilful :  my  reputation 
Is  safe. 

Ferd.  Dost  thou  know  what  reputation  is  ? 
I'll  tell  thee, — to  small  purpose,  since  the  instruc- 
tion 
Comes  now  too  late. 

Upon  a  time  Keputation,  Love,  and  Death, 
Would  travel  o'er  the  world ;  and  it  was  con- 
cluded 
That  they  should  part,  and  take  three  several 

ways. 
Death  told  them,  they  should  find  him  in  great 

battles. 
Or  cities  plagu'd  with  plagues :  Love  gives  them 

counsel 
To  inquire  for  him  'mongst  unambitious  shep- 
herds. 
Where  dowries  were  not  talli'd  of,  and  some- 
times 
'Mongst  quiet  kindi-ed  that  had  nothing  left 


1  Happily— i.e.  haply,  perchance. 


330 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


By  their  dead  parents  :  '  Stay,'  quoth  Keputation, 

'  Do  not  foi'sake  me  ;  for  it  is  my  nature, 

If  once  I  part  from  any  man  I  meet, 

I  am  never  found  again.'     And  so  for  you : 

You  have  shook  hands  with  Keputation, 

And  made  him  invisible.     So,  fare  you  vrell! 

I  will  never  see  you  more. 

Duch.  Why  should  only  I, 
Of  all  the  other  princes  of  theworld. 
Be  cas'd  up,  like  a  holy  relic  ?     I  have  youth 
And  a  little  beauty. 

Ferd.  So  you  have  some  virgins 
That  are  witches.    I  wUl  never  see  thee  more. 

\Exit. 

Re-enter  Antonio  witli  a  pistol,  and  Cariola. 

Duch.  Tou  saw  this  apparition  ? 
Ant.  Tes  :  we  are 
Betray'd.     How  came  he  hither  ?     I  should  turn 
This  to  thee,  for  that. 

Cari.  Pray,  sir,  do  ;  and  when 
That  you  have  cleft  my  heart,  you  shall  read 

there 
Mine  innocence. 

Buck.  That  gallery  gave  him  entrance. 
Ant.  I  would  this  terrible  thing  would  come 
again, 
That,  standing  on  my  guard,  I  might  relate 
My  warrantable  love. — 

[»S%e  shows  the  poniard. 
Ha!  what  means  this  ? 
Duch.  He  left  this  with  me. 
Ant.  And  it  seems  did  wish 
You  would  use  it  on  yourself. 

Duch.  His  action 
Seem'd  to  intend  so  much. 

Ant.  This  hath  a  handle  to't, 
As  well  as  a  point :  turn  it  towards  him, 
And  so  fasten  the  keen  edge  in  his  rank  gall. 

[Knocking  loithin. 
How  now !  who  knocks .'    More  earthquakes .' 

Duch.  I  stand 
As  if  a  mine  beneath  my  feet  were  ready 
To  be  blown  up. 
Cari.  'Tis  Bosola. 
Duch.  Aw&j ! 
Oh  misery  !  methinks  unjust  actions 
Should  wear  these  masks  and  curtains,  and  not 

we. 
You  must  instantly  part  hence :  I  have  fashiou'd 
it  already. 

[Exit  Antonio. 

Enter  B0SOL.V. 

Bos.  The  duke  your  brother  is  ta'en  up  in  a 
whirlwind ; 
Hath  took  horse,  and's  rid  post  to  Eome. 

Duch.  So  late  ? 

Bos.  He  told  me,  as  he  mounted  into  the  saddle, 
You  were  undone. 

Duch.  Indeed,  I  am  very  near  it. 

Bos.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Duch.  Antonio,  the  master  of  our  household, 
Hath  dealt  so  falsely  with  me  iu's  accounts : 
My  brother  stood  engag'd  with  mo  for  money 
Ta'en  up  of  certain  Neapolitan  Jews, 
And  Antonio  lets  the  bonds  be  forfeit. 

Bos.  Strange ! — lAsidcl  This  is  cunning. 

Duch.  And  hereupon 
My  brother's  bills  at  Naples  are  protested 
Against. — Call  up  our  officers. 

Bos.  1  shall.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Antonio. 

Duch.    The   place    that    you   must  fly   to   is 
Ancona : 
Hire  a  house  there;  I'll  send  after  you 


My  treasure  and  my  jewels.     Our  weak  safety 
Buns  upon  enginous^  wheels :  short  syllables 
Must  stand  for  periods.     I  must  now  accuse  you 
Of  such  a  feigned  crime  as  Tasso  calls 
^lagnanima  menzogna,  a  noble  lie, 
'Cause  it  must  shield  our  honours. — Hark !  they 
are  coming. 

Enter  Bosola  and  OfBcers. 

Ant.  Will  your  grace  hear  me  ? 

Duch.   I   have   got  well   by   you;   you  have 
yielded  me 
A  million  of  loss :  I  am  like  to  inherit 
The  people's  curses  for  your  stewardship. 
You  had  the  trick  in  audit-time  to  be  sick, 
Till  I  had  sign'd  your  quietus ;  and  that  cur'd 

you 
Without  help  of  a  doctor. — Gentlemen, 
I  would  have  this  man  be  an  example  to  you  all ; 
So  shall  you  hold  my  favoiir ;  I  pray,  let  him ; 
For  h'as  done  that,  alas,  you  would  not  think  of. 
And,  because  I  intend  to  be  rid  of  him, 
I  mean  not  to  publish. — Use  your  fortune  else- 
where. 

Ant.  I  am  strongly  arm'd  to  brook  my  over- 
throw, 
As  commonly  men  bear  with  a  hard  year : 
I  M'ill  not  blame  the  cause  ou't  ;•  but  do  think 
The  necessity  of  my  malevolent  star 
Procures  this,  not  her  humour.     Oh  the  incon- 
stant 
And  rotten  ground  of  service!  you  may  see, 
'Tis  even  like  him,  that  in  a  winter  night 
Takes  a  long  slumber  o'er  a  dying  fire, 
Aloath  to  part  froni't ;  yet  parts  thence  as  cold 
As  when  he  first  sat  down. 

Duch.  We  do  confiscate, 
Towards  the  satisfying  of  your  accounts. 
All  that  you  have. 

Ant.  I  am  all  yours ;  and  'tis  very  fit 
All  mine  should  be  so. 

Duch.  So,  sir,  you  have  your  pass. 

Ant.    You  may  see,    gentlemen,  what  'tis   to 
serve 
A  prince  with  body  and  soul.  [Exit. 

Bos.  Here's  an  example  for  extortion :  what 
moisture  is  drawn  out  of  the  sea,  when  foul 
weather  comes,  pours  down,  and  runs  into  the 
sea  again. 

Duch.  I  would  know  what  are  yom-  opinions 
Of  this  Antonio. 

2  Off.  He  could  not  abide  to  see  a  pig's  head 
gaping  :  I  thought  your  grace  would  find  him  a 
Jew. 

3  Off.  I  would  you  had  been  his  ofiBcer,  for 
your  own  sake. 

4  Off.  You  would  have  had  more  money. 

1  Off.  He  stopped  his  ears  with  black  wool, 
and  to  those  came  to  him  for  money  said  lie  was 
thick  of  hearing. 

2  Off.  Some  said  he  was  an  hermaphrodite, 
for  he  could  not  abide  a  woman. 

4  Off.  How  scurvy  proud  he  would  look  when 
the  treasury  was  full !     Well,  let  him  go. 

1  Off.  Yes,  and  the  chippings  of  the  buttery 
fly  after  him,  to  scour  his  gold  chain. 

Duch.  Leave  us. — 

[Exeunt  Officers. 
What  do  you  think  of  these  ? 

Bos.  That  these  are  rogues  that  in's  prosperity, 
But  to  have  waited  on  his  fortune,  could  have 

wish'd 
His  dirty  stirrup  riveted  through  their  noses, 


1  enginovs  —  engine-like,    mechanical,    complicated  ; 
perliaps  ingenious. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


And  follow'd  after's  mule,  like  a  bear  in  a  ring; 
Would  have  prostituted  their  daughters  to  his 

lust ; 
Made   their   first-bom  intelligencers ;  >  thought 

none  happy 
But  such  as  were  bora  under  his  blest  planet, 
And  wore  his  livery :  and  do  these  lice  drop  off 

now? 
Well,  never  look  to  have  the  like  again : 
He  hath  left  a  sort-  of  flattering  rogues  behind 

him; 
Their  doom  must  follow.     Princes  pay  flatterers 
In  their  own  money.     Flatterers  dissemble  their 

vices. 
And  they  dissemble  their  lies  ;  that's  justice. 
Alas,  poor  gentleman ! 
Duch.  Poor !  he  hath  amply  fill'd  his  coffers. 
Bos.  Sure,  he  was  too  honest.,    Pluto,  the  god 

of  riches. 
When  he's  sent  by  Jupiter  to  any  man, 
He  goes  limping,  to  signify  that  wealth 
That  comes  on  God's  name  comes  slowly ;  but 

wlien  he's  sent 
On  the  devil's  ei-rand,  he  rides  post,  and  comes 

in  by  scuttles. 
Let  me  show  you  what  a  most  unvalu'd  jewel 
Tou  have  in  a  wanton  humour  thrown  away, 
To  bless  the  man  shall  find  him.     He  was  an 

excellent 
Courtier    and    most    faithful ;    ia,    soldier    that 

thought  it 
As  beastly  to  know  his  own  value  too  little 
As  devilish  to  acknowledge  it  too  much. 
Both  his  virtue  and  form  deserv'd  a  far  better 

fortune. 
His  discourse  rather  delighted  to  judge  itself  than 

show  itself. 
His  breast  was  fill'd  with  all  perfection, 
And  yet  it  seem'd  a  private  whispering- room, 
It  made  so  little  noise  oft. 
Duch.  But  he  was  basely  descended. 
Bos.  Will  you    make    yourself    a  mercenary 

herald, 
Ealher  to  examine  men's  pedigrees  than  virtues .'' 
You  shall  want  him  : 

For  know,  an  honest  statesman  to  a  prince 
Is  like  a  eedar  planted  by  a  spring  ; 
The  spring  bathes  the  tree's  root,  the  grateful 

tree 
Kewards  it  with  his  shadow  :  you  have  not  done 

so. 
I  would  sooner  swim  to  the  Bermoothes  ^  on 
Two  politicians'  rotten  bladders,  tied 
Together  with  an  intelligencer's  heart-string. 
Than  depend  on  so  changeable  a  prince's  favour. 
Fare  thee  well,  Antonio !  since  the  malice  of  the 

world 
Would  needs  down  with  thee,  it  cannot  be  said 

yet 

That  any  ilLhappen'd  unto  thee,  considering  thy 

fall 
Was  accompanied  with  virtue. 

Duch.  Oh  !  you  render  me  excellent  music. 

Bos.  Say  you .' 

Duch.  This  good  one  that  you  speak  of  is  my 
husband. 

Bos.  Do  I  not  dream  ?  can  this  ambitious  age 
Have  so  much  goodness  in't  as  to  prefer 
A  man  merely  for  worth,  without  these  shadows 
Of  wealth  aud  painted  honours  ?  possible  .' 

Duch.  I  have  had  three  children  by  him. 

Bos.  Fortunate  lady ! 


1  intelligencers— miovrasxs. 

*  sort— lot,  set. 

'  £ermoothes—the  Bermudas. 


For  you  have  made  your  private  nuptial  bed 
The  humble  and  fair  seminary  of  peace. 
No  question  but  many  an  unbenefic'd  scholar 
Shall  pray  for  j'ou  for  this  deed,  and  rejoice 
That  some  preferment  in  the  world  can  yet 
Arise  from  merit.     The  virgins  of  your  land. 
That  have  no  dowries,  shall  hope  your  exam^Jle 
Will  raise  them  to  rich  husbands.     Should  you 

want 
Soldiers,  'twould  make  the  very  Turks  and  Moors 
Turn  Christians,  and  servo  you  for  this  act. 
Last,  the  neglected  poets  of  your  time. 
In  honour  of  this  trophy  of  a  man, 
Rais'd  by  that  curious  engine,  your  white  hand. 
Shall  thank  you,  in  your  grave,  for't ;  and  make 

that 
More  reverend  than  all  the  cabinets 
Of  living  princes.     For  Antonio, 
His  fame  shall  likewise  flow  from  many  a  pen, 
When  heralds  shall  want  coats  to  sell  to  men. 

Duch.  As  I  taste  comfort  in  this  friendly  speech. 
So  would  I  find  concealment. 

Bos.  Oh,  the  secret  of  my  prince. 
Which  I  will  wear  on  the  inside  of  my  heart ! 

Duch.  You  shall  take  charge  of  all  my  coin 
and  jewels, 
And  follow  him ;  for  he  retires  himself 
To  Ancona. 

Bos.  So. 

Duch.  Whither,  within  few  days, 
I  mean  to  follow  thee. 

Bos.  Let  me  think : 
I  would  wish  your  grace  to  feign  a  pilgrimage 
To  our  Lady  of  Loretto,  scarce  seven  leagues 
From  fair  Ancona  ;   so  may  you  depart 
Your  country  with  more  honour,  and  your  flight 
Will  seem  a  princely  progress,  retaining 
Your  usual  train  about  you. 

Duch.  Sir,  your  direction 
Shall  lead  me  by  the  hand. 

CarL  In  my  opinion, 
She  were  better  progress  to  the  baths  at  Lucca, 
Or  go  visit  the  Spa 

In  Germany ;  for,  if  you  will  believe  me, 
I  do  not  like  this  jesting  with  religion, 
This  feigned  pilgrimage. 

Duch.  Thou  art  a  superstitious  fool : 
Prepare  us  instantly  for  our  departure. 
Past  sorrows,  let  us  moderately  lament  them ; 
For  those  to  come,  seek  wisely  to  prevent  them. 
[Exeunt  Duchess  and  Cariola. 

Bos.  A  politician  is  the  devil's  quilted  anvil ; 
He  fashions  all  sins  on  him,  and  the  blows 
Are  never  heard.      He  may  work  in  a  lady's 

chamber. 
As  here  for  proof.     What  rests  but  I  reveal 
All  to  my  lord .'     Oh,  this  base  quality 
Of  intelligencer  !  why,  every  quality  i'  the  world 
Prefers  but  gain  or  commendation. 
Now,  for  this  act  I  am  certain  to  be  rais'd, 
And  men  that  paint  weeds  to  the  life  are  prais'd. 

[Exit. 

ACT  IIL— SCENE  IIL 

Enter  Cardinal,  Ferdinand,  Malatesti, 
Pescaka,  Delio,  and  Silvio. 

Card.  Must  we  turn  soldier,  then  ? 

Mai.  The  emperor, 
Hearing  your  worth  that  way,  ere  you  attain'd 
This  reverend  gannent,  joins  you  in  commission 
With  the  right  fortunate  soldier  the  Marquis  of 

Pescara, 
And  the  famous  Lannoy. 

Card.  He  that  had  the  honour 
Of  taking  the  French  king  prisoner  ? 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Mai.  The  same. 
Here's  a  plot'  drawn  for  a  new  fortification 
At  Naples. 

Ferd.  Tliis  great  Count  Malatesti,  I  perceive, 
Hath  got  employment  ? 

Dd.  No  employment,  my  lord  ; 
A  marginal  note  in  the  muster-book,  that  he  is 
A  voluntary  lord. 

Ferd.  He's  no  soldier. 

Del.  He  has  worn  gunpowder  in's  hollow  tooth 
for  the  toothache. 

S'll.  He  comes  to  the  leaguer  with  a  full  intent 
To  eat  fresh  beef  and  garlic,  means  to  stay 
Till  the  scent  be  gone,  and  straight  return  to 
court. 

Dd.  He  hath  read  all  the  late  service 
As  the  City  Chronicle  relates  it ; 
And  keeps  two  pewterers  going,  only  to  express 
Battles  in  model.^ 

8il.  Then  he'll  fight  by  the  book. 

Del.  By  the  almanac,  I  think, 
To  choose  good  days  and  shun  the  critical ; 
That's  his  mistress'  scarf. 

Sil.  Yes,  he  protests 
He  would  do  much  for  that  taffeta. 

Del.  I  think  he  would  run  away  from  a  battle, 
To  save  it  from  taking  prisoner. 

Sil.  He  is  horribly  afraid 
Gunpowder  will  spoil  the  perfume  on't. 

Dd.  I  saw  a  Dutchman  break  his  pate  once 
For  calling  him  pot-gun  ;  he  made  his  head 
Have  a  bore  iii't  like  a  musket. 

Sil.  I  would  he  had  made  a  touch-hole  to't. 
He  is  indeed  a  guarded  3  sumpter-cloth, 
Only  for  the  remove  of  the  court. 

Fnler  Bosola. 

Pes.  Bosola  arriv'd !  what  should  be  the  busi- 
ness? 
Some  falling-out  amongst  the  cardinals. 
These  factions  amongst  great  men,  they  are  like 
Foxes,  when  their  heads  are  divided. 
They  carry  fire  in  their  tails,  and  all  the  country 
About  them  goes  to  wreck  for't. 

Sil.  What's  that  Bosola  "> 

Del.  I  knew  him  in  Padua,  —  a  fantastical 
scholar,  like  such  who  study  to  know  how  many 
knots  was  in  Hercules'  club,  of  what  colour 
Achilles'  beard  was,  or  whether  Hector  were  not 
troubled  with  the  toothache.  He  hath  studied 
himself  half  blear-eyed  to  know  the  true  sym- 
metry of  Caosar's  nose  by  a  shoeing-horn ;  and 
this  he  did  to  gain  the  name  of  a  speculative 
man. 

Pes.  Mark  Prince  Ferdinand  : 
A  very  salamander  lives  in's  eye. 
To  mock  the  eager  violence  of  fire. 

Sil.  That  cardinal  hath  made  more  bad  faces 
with  his  oppression  than  ever  Michael  Angelo 
made  good  ones :  he  lifts  up's  nose,  like  a  foul 
porpoise  before  a  storm. 

Pes.  The  Lord  Ferdinand  laughs. 

Delio.  Like  a  deadly  cannon 
That  lightens  ere  it  smokes. 

Pes.  These  are  your  true  pangs  of  death, 
The  pangs  of  life,  that  struggle  with  great  states- 
men. 

Del.  In  such  a  deformed  silence  witches  whis- 
per their  charms. 

Card.  Doth  she  make  religion  her  riding-hood 
To  keep  her  from  the  sun  and  tempest  ? 


i/'^oC— plan. 

"  I.e.  to  make  models  of  tattles.    Pewter  was  formerly 
considered  very  costly. 
2  guarded— trimmed. 


Ferd.  That, 
That  damns  her.    Methinks  her  fault  and  beauty. 
Blended  together,  show  like  leprosj'. 
The  whiter,  the  fouler.     I  make  it  a  question 
Whether  her  beggarly  brats  were  ever  christen'd. 

Card.  I  will  instantly  solicit  the  state  of  An- 
cona 
To  have  them  banish'd. 

Ferd.  You  are  for  Loretto  : 
I  shall  not  be  at  your  ceremony ;  fare  you  well. — 
Write  to  the  Duke  of  Malfi,  my  young  nephew 
She  had  by  her  first  husband,  and  acquaint  him 
With's  mother's  honesty. 

Bos.  I  will. 

Ferd.  Antonio ! 
A  slave  that  only  smell'd  of  ink  and  counters, 
And  never  in's  hfe  look'd  like  a  gentleman. 
But  in  the  audit-time. — Go,  go  presently. 
Draw  me  out  an  hundred  and  fifty  of  our  horse, 
And  meet  me  at  the  fort-bridge.  [^Exeunt. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Two  Pilgrims  to  the  Shrine  of  our  Lady 
of  Loretto. 

1  Pil.  I  have  not  seen  a  goodlier  shrine  than 
til  is; 

Yet  I  have  visited  many. 

2  Pil.  The  Cardinal  of  Arragon 

Is  this  day  to  resign  his  cardinal's  hat : 
His  sister  duchess  likewise  is  arriv'd 
To  pay  her  vow  of  pilgrimage.     I  expect 
A  noble  ceremony. 
1  Pil.  No  question. — They  come. 

[Sere  the  ceremony  of  the  Cardinal's  instal- 
ment, in  the  habit  of  a  soldier,  performed 
in  delivering  up  his  cross,  hat,  robes,  and 
ring,  at  the  shrine,  and  investing  him  loith 
sword,  helmet,  shield,  and  spurs ;  then  An- 
tonio, the  DuciiESS,  and  their  children, 
having  presented  themselves  at  the  shrine, 
are,  by  a  form,  of  banishment  in  dumb-show 
expressed  toioards  them  by  the  Cardinal 
and  the  state  of  Ancona,  banished:  during  all 
which  ceremony  this  ditty  is  sung,  to  very 
solemn  mtcsic,  by  divers  churchmen :  and 
then  exeunt  all  except  the  Two  Pilgrims.] 

Arms  and  honours  deck  thy  story,i 

To  thy  fame's  eternal  glory ! 

Adverse  fortune  ever  fly  thee; 

No  disastrous  fate  come  nigh  thee  1 

I  alone  will  sing  thy  praises, 

Whom  to  honour  virtue  raises; 

And  thy  study,  that  divine  is, 

Bent  to  martial  discipline  is. 

Lay  aside  all  those  Vobes  lie  by  thee ; 

Crown  thy  arts  with  arms,  they'll  beautify  thee. 

0  worthy  of  worthiest  name,  adorn'd  in  this  manner. 

Lead  bravely  thy  forces  on  under  war's  warlike 
banner! 

Oh  mayst  thou  prove  fortunate  in  all  martial  courses ! 

Guide  thou  still  by  skill  in  arts  and  forces! 
Victory  attend  thee  nigh,  whilst  fame  sings  loud  thy 

powers ; 
Triumphant  conquest  crown  thy  head,  and  blessings 

pour  down  shovrers ! 

1  Pil.  Here's  a   strange  turn  of  state !   who 
would  have  thought 

So  great  a  lady  would  have  match'd  herself 
Unto  so  mean  a  person  ?  yet  the  cardinal 
Bears  himself  much  too  cruel. 

2  Pil.  They  are  banish'd. 


1  On  this  song,  in  the  4to  of  1623,  is  the  following 
marginal  note:  'The  author  disclaimes  this  ditty  to  be 
his.'— Dice. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


333 


1  Pil.  But  1  would  ask  what  power  hath  this 
state 

Of  Ancona  to  determine  of  a  free  prince  ? 

2  Pil.  They  are  a  free  state,  sir,  and  her  brother 
show'd 

How  that  the  Pope,  forehearing  of  her  looseness, 
Hath  seiz'd  into  the  protection  of  the  church 
The  dukedom  which  she  held  as  dowager. 

1  Pil.  But  by  what  justice  ? 

2  Pil.  Sure,  I  think  by  none, 
Only  her  brother's  instigation. 

1  Pil.  What  was  it  with  such  violence  he  took 
Off  from  her  finger .' 

2  Pil.  'Twas  her  wedding-ring. 
Which  he  vow'd  shortly  he  would  sacrifice 
To  his  revenge. 

1  Pil.  Alas,  Antonio  ! 
IE  that  a  man  be  thrust  into  a  well, 
No  matter  who  sets  hand  to't,  his  own  weight 
Will  bring  him  sooner  to  the  bottom.     Come, 

let's  hence. 
Fortune  makes  this  conclusion  general. 
All  things  do  help  the  unhappy  man  to  fall. 

\_Exeunl. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V. 

£;i/ec  Duchess,  Antonio,  Children,  Cakiola, 
and  Servants. 

Duch.  Banish'd  Ancona ! 

Ant.  Yes,  you  see  what  power 
Lightens  in  great  men's  breath. 

Duch.  Is  all  our  train 
Shrunk  to  this  poor  remainder  ? 

Ant.  These  poor  men, 
Which  have  got  little  in  your  service,  vow 
To  take  your  fortune ;  but  your  wiser  buntings,' 
Now  they  are  fledg'd,  are  gone. 

Duch.  They  have  done  wisely. 
This  puts  me  in  mind  of  death :  physicians  thus, 
With  their  hands  full  of  money,  use  to  give  o'er 
Their  patients. 

Ant,  Eight  the  fashion  of  the  woi'ld : 
From  decay'd  fortunes  every  flatterer  shrinks  ; 
Men  cease  to  build  where  the  foundation  sinks. 

Duch.  I  had  a  very  strange  dream  to-night. 

Ant.  What  was't  ? 

Duch.  Methought  I  wore  my  coronet  of  state. 
And  on  a  sudden  all  the  diamonds 
Were  chang'd  to  pearls. 

Ant.  My  interpretation 
Is,  you'll  weep  shortly ;  for  to  me  the  pearls 
Do  signify  your  tears. 

Duch.  The  birds  that  live  i'the  field, 
On  the  wild  benefit  of  nature,  live 
Happier  than  we ;  for  they  may  choose  their  mates, 
And  carol  their  sweet  pleasures  to  the  spring. 

Enter  Bosola  with  a  letter. 

Bos.  You  are  happily  o'erta'en. 

Duch.  From  my  brother  ? 

Bos.   Yes,    from   the    Lord  Ferdinand,   your 
brother. 
All  love  and  safety. 

Duch.  Thou  dost  blanch  mischief, 
Wouldst  make  it  white.     See,  see,  like  to  calm 

weather 
At  sea  before  a  tempest,  false  hearts  speak  fair 
To  those  they  intend  most  mischief.  [Reads. 

'  Send  Antonio  to  me ;  I  want  his  head  in  a  business.' 

A  politic  equivocation ! 

He  doth  not  want  j'our  counsel,  but  your  head ; 


buntings — woodlarks. — Halliwell. 


That  is,  he  cannot  sleep  till  you  be  dead. 
And  here's  another  pitfall  that's  strew'd  o'er 
With  roses ;  mark  it,  'tis  a  cunning  one :  [Reads. 

'  I  stand  engaged  for  your  husband  for  several  debts 
at  Naples ;  let  not  that  trouble  him ;  I  had  rather  have 
his  heart  than  his  money :' — 

And  I  believe  so  too. 

Bos.  What  do  you  believe  ? 

Duch.  That  he  so  much  distrusts  my  husband's 
love. 
He  will  by  no  means  believe  his  heart  is  with  him 
Until  he  see  it :  the  devil  is  not  cunning  enough 
To  circumvent  us  in  riddles. 

Bos.  Will  you  reject  that  noble  and  free  league 
Of  amity  and  love  which  I  present  you  ? 

Duch.  Their  league  is  like  that  of  some  politic 
kings, 
Onlj'  to  make  themselves  of  strength  and  power 
To  be  our  aftei'-ruin  :  tell  them  so. 

Bos.  And  what  from  j'ou  ? 

Ant.  Thus  tell  him  :  I  will  not  come. 

Bos.  And  what  of  this  ? 

Ant.  My  brothers  have  dispers'd 
Bloodhounds   abroad ;    which    till    I   hear    ai*e 

muzzled. 
No  truce,  though  hatch'd  with  ne'er  such  politic 

skill. 
Is  safe,  that  hangs  upon  our  enemies'  will. 
I'll  not  come  at  them. 

Bos.  This  proclaims  your  breeding  : 
Every  small  thing  draws  a  base  mind  to  fear. 
As  the  adamant'  draws  iron.   Fare  you  well,  sir: 
You  shall  shortly  hear  from's.  [Exit. 

Duch.  1  suspect  some  ambush  : 
Therefore  by  all  my  love  I  do  conjure  you 
To  take  your  eldest  son,  and  fly  towards  Milan. 
Let  \is  not  venture  all  this  poor  remainder 
In  one  unlucky  bottom. 

Ant.  You  counsel  safely. 
Best  of  my  life,  farewell,  since  we  must  part : 
Heaven  hath  a  hand  in't ;  but  no  otherwise 
Than  as  some  curious  artist  takes  in  sunder 
A  clock  or  watch  when  it  is  out  of  frame. 
To  bring't  in  better  order. 

Duch.  I  know  not  which  is  best. 
To  see  you  dead  or  part  with  you. — Farewell,  boy : 
Thou  art  happy  that  thou  hast  not  understanding 
To  know  thy  misery  ;  for  all  our  wit 
And  reading  brings  us  to  a  truer  sense 
Of  sorrow. — In  the  eternal  church,  sir, 
I  do  hope  we  shall  not  part  thus. 

Ant.  Oh,  be  of  comfort !  ^ 

Make  patience  a  noble  fortitude. 
And  think  not  how  unkindly  we  are  used : 
Man,  like  to  cassia,  is  prov'd  best,  being  bruis'd. 

Duch.  Must  I,  like  to  a  slave-born  Russian, 
Account  it  praise  to  suffer  tyranny  ? 
And  j^et,  0  Heaven,  thy  heavy  hand  is  in't ! 
I  have  seen  my  little  boy  oft  scourge  his  top. 
And  compar'd  myself  to't :  naught  made  me  e'er 
Go  right  but  Heaven's  scom-ge-stick. 

Ant.  Do  not  weep  : 
Heaven  fashion'd  us  of  nothing ;  and  we  strive 
To  bring  ourselves  to  nothing. — Farewell,  Cariola, 
And  thy  sweet  armful.  If  I  do  never  see  thee  more. 
Be  a  good  mother  to  your  little  ones, 
And  save  them  from  the  tiger.    Fare  you  well ! 

Duch.  Let  me  look  upon  you  once  more,  for 
that  speech 
Came  from  a  dying  father :  your  kiss  is  colder 
Than  that  I  have  seen  an  holy  anchorite 
Give  to  a  dead  man's  skull. 


1  adamant.    This  word  was  formerly  applied  to  the 
maguet  or  loadstone. 


334 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TJSTS. 


Ant.  My  heart  is  turu'd  to  a  heavy  lump  of  lead, 
With  which  I  sound  my  danger :  fare  you  well. 
[Exeunt  Antonio  and  his  son. 

Duch.  My  laurel  is  all  wither'd. 

Cari.  Look,  madam,  what  a  troop  of  armfed  man 
Make  towards  us! 

Duch.  Oh,  they  are  very  welcome  : 
"When  Fortune's  wheel  is  overcharg'd  with  princes, 
The  weight  makes  it  move  swift :  I  would  have 
Be  sudden.  [my  ruin 

Re-enter  Bosola  visarded,  with  a  guard. 

I  am  your  adventure,  am  I  not  ? 

Bos.  You  are.     You  must  see  your  husband  no 
more. 

Duch.  What  devil  art  thou  that  counterfeit'st 
heaven's  thunder  ? 

Bos.  Is  that  terrible  ?     I  would  have  you  tell 
me  whether 
Is  that  note  worse  that  frights  the  silly  birds 
Out  of  the  corn,  or  that  which  doth  allure  them 
To  the  nets  ?  you  have  hearken'd  to  the  last  too 
much. 

Duch.  0  misery!    like  to  a  rusty  o'ercharg'd 
cannon. 
Shall  I  never  fly  in  pieces? — Come,  to  what  prison? 

Bos.  To  none. 

Duch.  Whither  then  ? 

Bos.  To  your  palace. 

Duch.  I  have  heard 
That  Charon's  boat  serves  to  convey  all  o'er 
The  dismal  lake,  but  brings  none  back  again. 

Bos.  Your  brothers  mean  you  safety  and  pity. 

Duch.  Pity! 
With  such  a  pitj'  men  preserve  alive 
Pheasants  and,quails,when  they  are  not  fat  enough 
To  be  eaten. 

Bos.  These  are  your  children  ? 

Duch.  Yes. 

Bos.  Can  they  prattle  ? 

Duch.  No: 
But  I  intend,  since  they  were  born  accurs'd, 
Curses  shall  be  their  first  language. 

Bos.  Fie,  madam ! 
Forget  this  base,  low  fellow — 

Duch.  Were  I  a  man, 
I'd  beat  that  counterfeit  face  into  thy  other. 

Bos.  One  of  no  birth. 

Duch.  Say  that  he  was  born  mean, 
Man  is  most  happy  when's  own  actions 
Be  arguments  and  examples  of  his  virtue. 

Bos.  A  barren,  beggarly  virtue. 

Duch.  I  pr'ythee,  who  is  greatest  ?  can  you  tell  ? 
Sad  tales  befit  my  woe :  I'll  tell  you  one. 
A  salmon,  as  she  swam  unto  the  sea, 
Met  with  a  dog-fish,  who  encounters  her 
With  this  rough  language :  '  Why  art  thou  so  bold 
To  mix  thyself  with  oiu*  high  state  of  floods. 
Being  no  eminent  courtier,  but  one 
That  for  the  calmest  and  fresh  time  o'  the  year 
Dost  live  in  shallow  rivers,  rank'st  thyself 
With  silly  smelts  and  shrimps  ?  and  darest  thou 
Pass  by  our  dogship  without  reverence  ?  ' 
'  Oh,'  quoth  the  salmon,  'sister,  be  at  peace: 
Thank  Jupiter  we  both  have  pass'd  the  net ! 
Our  value  never  can  be  truly  known, 
Till  in  the  fisher's  basket  we  be  shown : 
I'  the  market  then  my  price  may  be  the  higher. 
Even  when  I  am  nearest  to  the  cook  and  fire.' 
So  to  great  men  the  moral  may  be  stretch'd: 
Men  are  oft  valu'd  high,   when   they're  most 

wretch'd. — 
But  come,  whither  you  please.  I  am  arm'd  'gainst 

misery ; 
Bent  to  all  sways  of  the  oppressor's  will : 
There's  no  deep  valley  but  near  some  great  hill. 

\_Exeunt, 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 
Enter  Ferdinand  and  Bosola. 

Ferd.  How  doth  our  sister  duchess  bear  herself 
In  lier  imprisonment  ? 

Bos.  Nobly ;  I'll  describe  her. 
She's  sad  as  one  long  us'd  to't,  and  she  seems 
Rather  to  welcome  the  end  of  misery 
Than  shun  it ;  a  behaviour  so  noble 
As  gives  a  majesty  to  adversity  : 
You  may  discern  the  shape  of  loveliness 
More  perfect  in  her  tears  than  in  her  smiles. 
She  will  muse  for  ho\irs  together ;  and  her  silence, 
!Methinks,  expresseth  more  than  if  she  spake. 

Ferd.  Her  melancholy  seems  to  be  fortified 
With  a  strange  disdain. 

Bos.  'Tisso;  and  this  restraint, 
Like  English  mastives  that  grow  fierce  with  tying, 
Makes  her  too  passionately  apprehend 
Those  pleasures  she's  kept  from. 

Ferd.  Curse  upon  her ! 
I  will  no  longer  study  in  the  book 
Of  another's  heart.     Inform  her  what  I  told  you. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Duchess. 

Bos.  All  comfort  to  your  grace  ! 

Duch.  I  will  have  none. 
Pray  thee,  why  dost  thou  wrap  thy  poison'd  pills 
In  gold  and  sugar  ? 

Bos.  Your  elder  brother,  the  Lord  Ferdinand, 
Is  come  to  visit  you,  and  sends  you  word, 
'Cause  once  he  rashly  made  a  solemn  vow 
Never  to  see  you  more,  he  comes  i'  the  night ; 
And  prays  you  gently  neither  torch  nor  taper 
Shine  in  your  chamber  :  he  Avill  kiss  your  hand, 
And  reconcile  himself;  but  for  his  vow 
He  dares  not  see  you. 

Duch.  At  his  pleasure. — 
Take  hence  the  lights. — He's  come. 

Enter  Ferdinand. 

Ferd.  Where  are  you  ? 

Duch.  Here,  sir. 

Ferd.  This  darkness  suits  you  well. 

Duch.  I  would  ask  you  pardon. 

Ferd.  You  have  it ; 
For  I  count  it  the  honoui'abl'st  revenge. 
Where  I  raaykill,  to  pardon.  Where  are  your  cubs? 

Duch.  Whom? 

Ferd.  Call  them  your  children  ; 
For  though  our  national  law  distinguish  bastards 
From  true  legitimate  issue,  compassioaate  nature 
Makes  them  all  equal. 

Duch.  Do  you  visit  me  for  this  ? 
You  violate  a  sacrament  o'  the  church 
Shall  make  you  howl  in  hell  for't. 

Ferd.  It  had  been  well, 
Could  you  have  liv'd  thus  always ;  for,  indeed, 
You  were  too  much  i'  the  light : — but  no  more  ; 
I  come  to  seal  my  peace  with  you.  Here's  a  hand 
[Gives  her  a  dead  man's  hand. 
To  which  you  have  vow'd  much  love ;  the  ring 
You  gave.  [upon't 

Duch.  I  affectionately  kiss  it. 

Ferd.  Pray,  do,  and  bury  the  print  of  it  in  your 
heart. 
I  wiU  leave  this  ring  with  you  for  a  love-tcken : 
And  the  hand  as  sure  as  the  ring ;  and  do  not 

doubt 
But  you  shall  have  the  heart  too:   when  you 

need  a  friend. 
Send  it  to  him  that  ow'd'  it ;  you  shall  see 
Whether  he  can  aid  you. 

1  ow'd — owned. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


335 


Duch.  You  are  very  cold : 
I  fear  you  are  not  well  after  your  travel. — 
Ha!  lights! -Oh,  horrible! 

Ferd.  Let  her  have  lights  enough.  \Exit. 

Duch.  What  witchcraft  doth  he  practise,  that 
he  hath  left 
A  dead  man's  hand  here  ? 

\IIere  is  discovered,  behind  a  travei'se,^  the  arti- 
Jicicd  figures  of  Antonio  and  his  children, 
aj)2}earing  as  if  they  were  dead. 
Bos.  Look  you,   here's  the  piece  from  which 
'twas  ta'en. 
He  doth  present  you  this  sad  spectacle. 
That,  now  you  know  directly  they  are  dead, 
Hereafter  you  may  wisely  cease  to  grieve 
For  that  which  cannot  be  recovered. 

Duch.  There  is  not  between  heaven  and  earth 
one  wish 
I  stay  for  after  this :  it  wastes  me  more 
Than  were't  my  25icture,  fashiou'd  out  of  wax, 
ytuck  with  a  magical  needle,  and  then  buried 
lu  some  foul  dunghill ;  -  and  yond's  an  excellent 

property 
For  a  tyrant,  which  I  would  account  mercy. 
Bos.  What's  that? 

Duch.  If  they  would  bind  me  to  that  lifeless 
trunk, 
And  let  me  freeze  to  death. 
Bos.  Come,  you  must  live. 
Duch.  That's  the  greatest  torture  souls  feel  in 
hell, 
In  hell,  that  they  must  live,  and  cannot  die. 
Portia,  I'll  new  kindle  thy  coals  again, 
And  revive  the  rare  and  almost  dead  example 
Of  a  loving  wife. 

Bos.  Oh,  fie !  despair  ?  remember 
You  are  a  Christian. 

Duch.  The  church  enjoins  fasting : 
I'll  starve  myself  to  death. 

Bos.  Leave  this  vain  sorrow. 
Things  being  at  the  worst  begin  to  mend :  the 

bee 
When  he  hath  shot  his  sting  into  your  hand, 
May  then  play  with  your  eyelid. 

Duch.  Good  comfortable  fellow, 
Persuade  a  wretch  that's  broke  upon  the  wheel 
To  have  all  his  bones  new  set ;  entreat  him  live 
To  be  executed  again.     Who  must  despatch  me .' 
I  account  this  world  a  tedious  theatre. 
For  I  do  play  a  part  in't  'gainst  my  will. 
Bos.  Come,  be  of   comfort ;  I  will  save  your 

life. 
Duch.  Indeed,  I  have  not  leisure  to  tend 
So  small  a  business. 
Bos.  Now,  by  my  life,  I  pity  you. 
Duch.  Thou  art  a  fool,  then. 
To  waste  thy  pity  ou  a  thing  so  wretched 
As  cannot  pity  itself.     I  am  full  of  daggers. 
Puff,  let  me  blow  these  vipers  from  me. 

Enter  Servant. 
What  are  you  ? 
Serv.  One  that  wishes  you  long  life. 
Duch.    I    would  thou  wert   hang'd  for  the 
horrible  curse 
Thou  hast  given  me  :  I  shall  shortly  grow  one 
Of  the  miracles  of  pity.     I'll  go  pray ; — 
No,  I'll  go  curse. 
Bos.  Oh,  fie ! 

Duch.  1  could  curse  the  stars. 
Bos.  Oh,  fearful ! 

Duch.  And  those  three  smiling  seasons  of  the 
year 


1  traverse— a  sliding  door  or  moveable  screen. 
■2  Alluding  to  the  practice  of  witches  in  compassing 
the  death  of  any  one. 


Into  a  Eussian  winter:  nay,  the  world 
To  its  first  chaos. 

Bos.  Look  you,  the  stars  shine  still. 

Duch.  Oh,  but  you  must 
Eemember,  my  curse  hath  a  great  way  to  go. — 
Plagues,  that  make  lanes  thi'ough  largest  fami- 
lies. 
Consume  them ! — 

Bos.  Fie,  lady ! 

Duch.  Let  them,  like  tyrants. 
Never  be  remember'd  but  for  the  ill  they  have 

done ; 
Let  all  the  zealous  prayers  of  mortified 
Churchmen  forget  them ! —  . 

Bos.  Oh,  uncharitable ! 

Duch.  Let  Heaven  a  little  while  cease  crowning 
martyrs. 
To  punish  them  ! — 

Go,  howl  them  this,  and  say,  I  long  to  bleed  : 
It  is  some  mercy  when  men  kill  with  speed. 

lExit. 

Re-enter  Ferdinand. 

Ferd.   Excellent,    as   I    would    wish ;    she's 
plagu'd  in  art : 
These  presentations  are  but  fram'd  in  was 
By  the  cm'ious  master  in  that  quality, 
Viuceutio  Lauriola,  and  she  takes  them 
For  true  substantial  bodies. 

Bos.  Why  do  you  do  this? 

Ferd.  To  bring  her  to  despair. 

Bos.  Faith,  end  here. 
And  go  no  farther  in  your  cruelty : 
Send  her  a  penitential  garment  to  put  on 
Next  to  her  delicate  skin,  and  furnish  her 
With  beads  and  prayer-books. 

Ferd.  Damn  her !  that  body  of  hers, 
While  that  my  blood  ran  pure  in't,  was  more 

worth 
Than  that  which  thou  wouldst   comfort,  call'd 

a  soul. 
I  will  send  her  masks  of  common  courtezans, 
Have  her  meat  serv'd  up  by  bawds  and  rufiians, 
And,  'cause  she'll  needs  be  mad,  I  am  resolv'd 
To  remove  forth  the  common  hospital 
All   the    mad  folk,  and  place  them  near  her 

lodging;  ;  _ 

There  let  them  practise  together,  smg  and  dance, 
And  act  their  gambols  to  the  full  o'  the  moon  : 
If  she  can  sleep  the  better  for  it,  let  her. 
Your  work  is  almost  ended. 

Bos.  Must  I  see  her  again  ? 

Ferd.  Yes. 

Bos.  Never. 

Ferd.  You  must. 

Bos.  Never  in  mine  own  shape ; 
That's  forfeited  by  my  intelligence  ^ 
And  this  last  cruel  lie  :  when  you  send  me  next, 
The  business  shall  be  comfort. 

Ferd.  Very  likely ; 
Thy  pity  is  nothing  of  kin  to  thee.     Antonio 
Lurks  about  Milan  :  thou  shalt  shortly  thither, 
To  feed  a  fire  as  great  as  my  revenge. 
Which  never  will  slack  till  it  have  spent  his 

fuel: 
Intemperate  agues  make  physicians  cruel. 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IL 

Enter  Duchess  and  Cariola. 
Duch.  What  hideous  noise  was  that  ? 

1  My  having  turned  informer. — W.  Hazliti. 


336 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Cari.  'Tis  the  wild  consort  i 
Of  madmen,  lady,  which  your  tyrant  brother 
Hath  plac'd  about  your  lodging  :  this  tyranny, 
I  think,  was  never  practis'd  till  this  hour. 

Duck-  Indeed,  I  thank  him  :  nothing  but  uoise 
and  folly 
Can  keep  me  in  my  right  wits ;  whereas  reason 
And  silence  make  me  stark  mad.     Sit  down; 
Discourse  to  me  some  dismal  tragedy. 

Cari.  Oh,  'twill  increase  your  melancholy. 

Duch.  Thou  art  deceiv'd : 
To  hear  of  greater  grief  would  lessen  mine. 
This  is  a  prison  ? 

Cari.  Yes,  but  you  shall  live 
To  shake  this  durance  off. 

Duch.  Thou  art  a  fool  : 
The  robin-redbreast  and  the  nightingale 
Never  live  long  in  cages. 

Cari.  Pray,  dry  your  eyes. 
What  think  you  of,  madam.' 

Duch.  Of  nothing; 
When  I  muse  thus,  I  sleep. 

Cari.  Like  a  madman,  with  your  eyes  open  ? 

Duch.  Dost  thou  think  we   shall   know   one 
another 
In  the  other  world  ? 

Cari.  Yes,  out  of  question. 

Duch.  Oh  that  it  were  possible  we  might 
But  hold  some  two  days'  conference  with  the 

dead! 
From  them  I  should  learn  somewhat,  I  am  sure, 
I  never  shall  know  here.     I'll  tell  thee  a  miracle ; 
I  am  not  mad  yet,  to  my  cause  of  sorrow: 
The  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten 

brass. 
The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur,  yet  I  am  not  mad. 
I  am  acquainted  with  sad  misery 
As  the  tann'd  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar ; 
Necessity  makes  me  suffer  constantly, 
And  custom  makes  it  easy.     Who  do  I  look  like 
now  ? 

Cari.  Like  to  your  picture  in  the  gallerj^, 
A  deal  of  life  in  show,  but  none  in  practice  ; 
Or  rather  like  some  reverend  monument 
Whose  ruins  are  even  jDitied. 

Duch.  Very  proper ; 
And  Fortune  seems  only  to  have  her  eyesight 
To  behold  my  tragedy. — How  now ! 
What  noise  is  that  ? 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  I  am  come  to  tell  j'ou 
Your  brother  hath  intended  you  some  sport. 
A  great  physician,  when  the  Pope  was  sick 
Of  a  deep  melancholy,  i^resented  him 
With    several    sorts    of    madmen,    which   wild 

object 
Being  full  of   change  and  sport,  forc'd  him  to 

laugh. 
And  so  the  imposthurae  broke :    the  self -same 

cure 
The  duke  intends  on  yoii. 
Duch.  Let  them  come  in. 
Serv.  There's  a  mad  lawyer;   and  a  secular 

priest ; 
A  doctor  that  hath  forfeited  his  wits 
By  jealousy;  an  astrologian 
That  in  his  works  said  such  a  day  o'  the  month 
yhould  be  the  day  of  doom,  and,  failing  oft, 
Run  mad;  an  English  tailor  craz'd  i'  the  brain 
With  the  study  of  new  fashions ;  a  gentleman 

usher 
Quite  beside  himself  with  care  to  keep  in  mind 
The  number  of  his  lady's  salutations 


1  conwr/— company,  concert. 


Or  '  How  do  you '   she  employ'd  him   in  each 

morning ; 
A  farmer,  too,  an  excellent  knave  in  grain, 
Mad  'cause  he  was  hinder'd  transportation  :  * 
And  let  one  broker  that's  mad  loose  to  these, 
You'd  think  the  devil  were  among  them. 
Duch.  Sit,  Cariola. — Let  them  loose  when  you 
please, 
?or  I  am  chain'd  to  endure  all  your  tyi'auny. 

Enter  Madmen. 

Ilnre  hij  a  Madman  this  song  is  sung  to  a  dismal 
kind  of  music. 

O,  let  us  howl  some  heavy  note, 

Some  deadly  doggfed  howl, 
Sounding  as  from  the  threatening  throat 

Of  beast  and  fatal  fowl ! 
As  ravens,  screech-owls,  hulls  and  bears, 

We'll  bell,  and  bawl  our  parts, 
Till  irksome  noise  have  cloy'd  your  ears 

And  corrosiv'd  -  your  hearts. 
At  last,  wlienas  our  quire  wants  breath, 

Our  bodies  being  blest, 
We'll  sing,  like  swans,  to  welcome  death, 

And  die  in  love  aud  rest. 

1  Madman.  Doomsday  not  come  yet  !  I'l 
draw  it  nearer  by  a  perspective,  or  make  a  glass 
that  shall  set  all  the  world  on  fire  upon  an 
instant.  I  cannot  sleep ;  my  pillow  is  stuffed 
with  a  litter  of  porcupines. 

2  Madman.  Hell  is  a  mere  glasshouse,  where 
the  devils  are  continually  blowing  up  women's 
souls  on  hollow  irons,  and  the  fire  never  goes 
out. 

3  Madman.  I  will  lie  with  every  woman  in 
my  parish  the  tenth  night ;  I  will  tithe  them  over 
like  haycocks. 

4  Madman.  Shall  my  'pothecary  outgo  me 
because  I  am  a  cuckold?  I  have  found  out  his 
roguery ;  he  makes  alum  of  his  wife's  urine,  and 
sells  it  to  Puritans  that  have  sore  throats  with 
over-straining. 

1  JTadman.  I  have  skill  in  heraldry. 

2  Madman.  Hast  ? 

1  Madnuin.  You  do  give  for  your  crest  a 
woodcock's  head  with  the  brains  picked  out  on't; 
you  are  a  very  ancient  gentleman. 

3  Madman.  Greek  is  turned  Turk :  we  are 
only  to  be  saved  by  the  Helvetian  translation.' 

1  Madman.  Come  on,  sir,  I  will  lay  the  law  to 
j-ou. 

2  Madman.  Oh,  rather  lay  a  corrosive :  the  law 
will  eat  to  the  bone. 

3  Madman.  He  that  drinks  but  to  satisfy  nature 
is  damned. 

4  Madman.  If  I  had  my  glass  here,  I  would 
show  a  sight  should  make  all  the  women  here 
call  me  mad  doctor. 

1  Madman.  What's  he  ?  a  rope-maker  ? 

2  Madman.  No,  no,  no,  a  snuffling  knave  that, 
while  he  shows  the  tombs,  will  have  his  hand  in 
a  wench's  placket.'' 

3  Madman.  Woe  to  the  caroche  that  brought 
home  my  wife  from  the  mask  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning !  it  had  a  large  feathei--bed  in  it. 

4  Madman.  I  have  pared  the  devil's  nails  forty 
times,  roasted  them  in  ravens'  eggs,  and  cured 
agues  with  them. 

3  Madman.  Get  me  three  hundred  milch-bats, 
to  make  possets  to  procui-e  sleep. 

4  Madman.  All  the  college  may  throw  their 


1  transportation — exportation  of  grain. 

2  corrosiv'd — corroded. 

3  i.e.  presumably  the  translation  of  the  New  Testa 
ment  into  English  at  Geneva,  in  1557. — W.  IIazliti. 

*  See  note  2,  p.  1d,  col.  '2. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


337 


caps  at  me :  I  have  made  a  soap-boiler  costive ; 
it  was  my  masterpiece. 

{Here  the  dance,  consisting  q/"  Eight  Madmen, 
loith  music  answei-able '  thereunto;  after 
which  BosoLA,  Uhe  an  old  man,  enters. 

Duch.  Is  he  mad  too  ? 

Serv.  Pray,  question  him.     I'll  leave  you. 

[Exeunt  Servant  and  Madmen. 

Bos.  I  am  come  to  make  thy  tomb. 

Duch.  Ha !  my  tomb ! 
Thou  speak'st  as  if  I  lay  upon  my  deathbed, 
Gasping  for  breath :  dost  thou  perceive  me  sick .' 

Bos.  Yes,  and  the  more  dangerously  since  thy 
sickness  is  insensible. 

Duch.  Thouart  not  mad,  sure:  dost  know  me? 

Bos.  Yes. 

Duch.  Who  am  I  ? 

Bos.  Thou  art  a  box  of  worm-seed,  at  best  but 
a  salvatory  2  of  green  mummy.^  What's  this 
flesh  ?  a  little  crudded  *  milk,  fantastical  puff- 
paste.  Our  bodies  are  weaker  than  those  paper- 
prisons  boys  use  to  keep  flies  in  ;  more  con- 
temptible, since  ours  is  to  preserve  earth-worms. 
Didst  thou  ever  see  a  lark  in  a  cage  ?  Such  is 
the  soul  in  the  body :  this  world  is  like  her 
little  turf  of  grass,  and  the  heaven  o'er  our  heads 
like  her  looking-glass,  only  gives  us  a  miserable 
knowledge  of  the  small  compass  of  our  prison. 

Duch.  Am  not  I  thy  duchess .' 

Bos.  Thou  art  some  great  woman,  sure,  for 
riot  begins  to  sit  on  thy  forehead  (clad  in  grey 
hairs)  twenty  years  sooner  than  on  a  merry 
milkmaid's.  Thou  sleepest  worse  than  if  a 
mouse  should  be  forced  to  take  up  her  lodging 
in  a  cat's  ear:  a  little  infant  that  breeds  its 
teeth,  should  it  lie  with  thee,  would  cry  out,  as  if 
thou  wert  the  more  unquiet  bedfellow. 

Duch.  I  am  Duchess  of  Malfi  still. 

Bos.  That  makes  thy  sleeps  so  broken : 
Glories,  like  glowworms,  afar  off  shine  bright, 
But,  look'd  to  near,  have  neither  heat  nor  light. 

Duch.  Thou  art  very  plain. 

Bos.  My  trade  is  to  flatter  the  dead,  not  the 
living  ;  I  am  a  tomb-maker. 

Duch.  And  thou  comest  to  make  my  tomb? 

Bos.  Yes. 

Duch.  Let  me  be  a  little  merry : — of  what  stuff 
wilt  thou  make  it  ? 

Bos.  Nay,  resolve  me  first,  of  what  fashion  ? 

Duch.  Why,  do  we  grow  fantastical  in  our 
deathbed  ?  do  %Ye  affect  fashion  in  the  grave  ? 

Bos.  Most  ambitiously.  Princes'  images  on 
their  tombs  do  not  lie,  as  they  were  wont,  seem- 
ing to  pray  up  to  heaven  ;  but  with  their  hands 
under  their  cheeks,  as  if  they  died  of  the  tooth- 
ache :  they  are  not  carved  with  their  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  stars ;  but  as  their  minds  were  wholly 
bent  upon  the  world,  the  selfsame  way  they  seem 
to  turn  their  faces. 

Duch.  Let  me  know  fully  therefore  the  effect 
Of  this  thy  dismal  preparation,  < 

This  talk  fit  for  a  charnel. 

Bos.  Now  I  shall : — 

Enter  Executioners,  with  a  coffin,  cords,  and  a  hell. 

Here  is  a  present  from  your  princely  brothers  ; 
And  may  it  arrive  welcome,  for  it  brings 
Last  benefit,  last  sorrow. 
Duch.  Let  me  see  it : 


1  answeralle — suitable. 

"  salvatory — a  place  for  preserving  or  keeping  any- 
thing in. 

3  mummy — Eg3T)tian  mummy,  or  what  passed  for  it, 
was  formerly  a  regular  part  of  the  Materia  Medica.— 
Naees. 

*  c?'Mcfc7eeZ— curdled. 


I  have  so  much  obedience  in  my  blood, 
I  wish  it  in  their  veins  to  do  them  good. 

Bos.  This  is  your  last  presence-chamber. 

Cari.  Oh,  my  sweet  lady ! 

Duch.  Peace  ;  it  affrights  not  me. 

Bos.  I  am  the  common  belhnan, 
That  iisually  is  sent  to  condemn'd  persons 
The  night  before  they  suffer. 

Duch.  Even  now  thou  said'st 
Thou  wast  a  tomb-maker. 

Bos.  'Twas  to  bring  you 
By  degrees  to  mortification.    Listen. 

Hark,  now  every  thing  is  still. 

The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud. 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud ! 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent ; 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent : 

Ajlong  war  disturb'd  j'our  mind  ; 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  sign'd. 

Of  what  is't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  ? 

Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping, 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terr'or. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet, 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck : 

'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day ; 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 

Cari.  Hence,  villains,  tyrants,  murderers !  alas ! 
What  will  you  do  with  my  lady  ? — Call  for  help. 

Duch.  To  whom?    to   our  next  neighbours? 
they  are  mad-folks. 

Bos.  Eemove  that  noise. 

Duch.  Farewell,  Cariola. 
In  my  last  will  I  have  not  much  to  give  : 
A  many  hungry  guests  have  fed  upon  me  ; 
Thine  will  be  a  poor  reversion. 

Cari.  I  will  die  with  her. 

Duch.  I  pray  thee,  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold,  and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.— 

[Cariola  is  forced  out  hj  the  Executioners. 
Now  what  you  please : 
What  death  ? 

Bos.  Strangling;  here  are  your  executioners. 

Duch.  I  forgive  them  : 
The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  the  lungs, 
Would  do  as  much  as  they  do. 

Bos.  Doth  not  death  fright  you  ? 

Duch.  Who  would  be  afraid  on't, 
Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 
In  the  other  world  ? 

Bos.  Yet,  methinks. 
The  manner  of  your  death  should  much  afflict 

you  : 
This  cord  should  terrify  you. 

Duch.  Not  a  whit. 
What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat 

cut 
With  diamonds  ?  or  to  be  smothered 
With  cassia  ?  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  ? 
I  know  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 
For  men  to  take  their  exits  ;  and  'tis  found 
They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges. 
You  may  open  them  both  ways :  any  way,  for 

Heaven-sake, 
So  I  were   out  of  your  whispering.     Tell  my 

brothers 
That  I  perceive  death,  now  I  am  well  awake, 
Best  gift  is  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 
I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault, 
I'd  not  be  tedious  to  you. 

1  Execut.  We  are  ready. 


338 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Buck.  Dispose  my  breath  how  please  you ;  but 
my  body 
Bestow  upon  my  women,  will  you  ? 
1  Execut.  Yes. 

Buck.  Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able 
strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. — 
Yet  stay ;  heaven-gates  are  not  so  highly  arch'd 
As  princes'  palaces  ;  they  that  enter  there 
Must  go    upon    their   knees    [ICneds]. — Come, 

violent  death. 
Serve  for  mandragora  to  make  me  sleep  ! — 
Go  tell  my  brothers,  when  I  am  laid  out, 
They  then  may  feed  in  quiet. 

[They  strangle  her. 
Bos.  Where's  the  waiting-woman  ? 
Fetch  her.     Some  other  strangle  the  children. 

[Oakiola  and  Children  are  brought  in 
ly    the    Executioners,    who   presently 
strangle  the  Children. 
Look  you,  there  sleeps  your  mistress. 

Cari.  Oh,  you  are  damn'd 
Perpetually  for  this !     My  turn  is  next ; 
Is't  not  so  order'd  ? 

Bos.  Yes,  and  I  am  glad 
You  are  so  well  prepar'd  for't. 
Cari.  You  are  deceiv'd,  sir ; 
I  am  not  prepar'd  for't,  I  will  not  die ; 
I  will  first  come  to  my  answer,  and  know 
How  I  have  offended. 

Bos.  Come,  despatch  her. — 
You  kept  her  counsel ;  now  you  shall  keep  ours. 
Cari.  I  will  not  die,  I  must  not ;  I  am  con- 
tracted 
To  a  young  gentleman. 

1  Execut.  Here's  your  wedding-ring. 
Cari.  Let  me  but  speak  with  the  duke ;  I'll 
discover 
Treason  to  his  person. 
Bos.  Delays  : — throttle  her. 
1  Execut.  She  bites  and  scratches. 
Cari.  If  you  kill  me  now, 
I  am  damn'd ;  I  have  not  been  at  confession 
This  two  years. 
Bos.  [to  Executioners].    When  ? ' 
Cari.  I  am  quick  with  child. 
Bos.  Why,  then, 
Your  credit's  saved. 

[The  Executioners  strangle  Cariola. 
Bear  her  into  the  next  room ; 
Let  this  ^  lie  still. 

Enter  Ferdinand. 

Ferd.  Is  she  dead  ? 

Bos.  She  is  what 
You'd  have  her.    But  here  begin  your  pity. 

[Shows  the  Children  strangled. 
Alas !  how  have  these  offended .' 

Ferd.  The  death 
Of  young  wolves  is  never  to  be  pitied. 

Bos.  Fix  your  eye  here. 

Ferd.  Constantly. 

Bos.  Do  you  not  weep  ? 
Other  sins  only  speak;  murder  shrieks  out. 
The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth. 
But  blood  flies  upwards,  and  bedews  the  heavens. 

Ferd.  Cover  her  face ;  mine  eyes  dazzle :  she 
died  young. 

Bos.  I  think  not  so ;  her  infelicity 
Seem'd  to  have  years  too  many. 

Ferd.  She  and  I  were  twins ; 
And  should  I  die  this  instant,  I  had  liv'd 
Her  time  to  a  minute. 


'  When  1 — an  exclamation  of  impatience. 
"  ihU—i.e.  the  duchess'  hody. 


Bos.  It  seems  she  was  born  first. 
You  have  bloodily  approv'd  the  ancient  truth, 
That  kindred  commonly  do  worse  agree 
Than  remote  strangers. 

Ferd.  Let  me  see  her  face 
Again.     Why  didst  not  thou  pity  her  ?  what 
An  excellent,  honest  man  might'st  thou  have  been, 
If  thou  hadst  borne  her  to  some  sanctuary  ! 
Or,  bold  in  a  good  cause,  oppos'd  thyself. 
With  thy  advanced  sword  above  thy  head, 
Between  her  innocence  and  my  revenge  ! 
I  bade  thee,  when  I  was  distracted  of  my  wits. 
Go  kill  my  dearest  friend,  and  thou  hast  done't. 
For  let  me  but  examine  well  the  cause  : 
What  was  the  meanness  of  her  match  to  me  ? 
Only  I  must  confess  I  had  a  hope. 
Had  she  contiuu'd  widow,  to  have  gain'd 
An  infinite  mass  of  treasure  by  her  death. 
And  what  was  the  main  cause .'  her  marriage, 
That  drew  a  stream  of  gall  quite  through  my 

heart. 
For  thee,  as  we  observe  in  tragedies 
That  a  good  actor  many  times  is  curs'd 
For  playing  a  villain's  part,  I  hate  thee  for't, 
And,  for  my  sake,  say  thou  hast  done  much  ill 
well. 

Bos.  Let  me  quicken  your  memory,  for  I  per- 
ceive 
You  are  falling  into  ingratitude.     I  challenge 
The  reward  due  to  my  service. 

Ferd.  I'U  tell  thee 
What  I'll  give  thee. 

Bos.  Do. 

Ferd.  I'll  give  thee  a  pardon 
For  this  murder. 

Bos.  Ha! 

Ferd.  Yes,  and  'tis 
The  largest  bounty  I  can  study  to  do  thee. 
By  what  authority  didst  thou  execute 
This  bloody  sentence  ? 

Bos.  By  yom-s. 

Ferd.  Mine  !  was  I  her  judge  ? 
Did  any  ceremonial  form  of  law 
Doom  her  to  not-being  ?  did  a  cdmplete  jury 
Deliver  her  conviction  up  i'  the  court  ? 
Where  shalt  thou  find  this  judgment  register'd, 
Unless  in  hell  ?     See,  like  a  bloody  fool, 
Thou'st  forfeited  thy  life,  and  thou  shalt  die  for't. 

Bos.  The  ofiice  of  justice  is  perverted  quite 
When  one  thief  hangs  another.     Who  shall  dare 
To  reveal  this .' 

Ferd.  Oh,  I'll  tell  thee. 
The  wolf  shall  find  her  grave,  and  scrape  it  up, 
Not  to  devour  the  corpse,  but  to  discover 
The  horrid  murder. 

Bos.  You,  not  I,  shall  quake  for't. 

Ferd.  Leave  me. 

Bos.  I  wiU  first  receive  my  pension. 

Ferd.  You  are  a  villain. 

Bos.  When  your  ingratitude 
Is  judge,  I  am  so. 

Ferd.  0  horror, 
That  not  the  fear  of  him  which  binds  the  devils 
Can  prescribe  man  obedience  ! — 
Never  look  upon  me  more. 

Bos.  Why,  fare  thee  well. 
Your  brother  and  yourself  are  worthy  men  : 
You  have  a  jjair  of  hearts  are  hollow  graves, 
Eotten,  and  rotting  others ;  and  your  vengeance. 
Like  two  chain'd  bullets,  still  goes  arm  in  arm : 
You  may  be  brothers ;  for  treason,  like  the  plague. 
Doth  take  much  in  a  blood.     I  stand  like  one 
That  long  hath  ta'en  a  sweet  and  golden  dream : 
I  am  angry  with  myself,  now  that  I  wake. 

Ferd.  Get  thee  into  some  unknown  part  o'  the 
world. 
That  I  may  never  see  thee. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


Bos.  Let  me  know 
Wherefore  I  should  be  thus  neglected.     Sir, 
I  serv'd  j-our  tyranny,  and  rather  strove 
To  satisfy  yourself  than  all  the  -world  ; 
And  though  I  loath'd  the  evil,  j'et  I  lov'd 
You  that  did  counsel  it ;  and  rather  sought 
To  appear  a  true  servant  than  an  honest  man. 

Ferd.  I'll  go  hunt  the  badger  by  owl-light ; 
'Tis  a  deed  of  darkness.  {Exit. 

Bos.  He's  much  distracted.     Off,  my  painted 
honour ! 
While  with  vain  hopes  our  faculties  we  tire, 
We  seem  to  sweat  in  ice  and  freeze  in  fire. 
What  would  I  do,  were  this  to  do  again  ? 
I  would  not  change  my  peace  of  conscience 
For  all  the  wealth  of  Europe. — She  stirs ;  here's 

life:— 
Eeturn,  fair  soul,  from  darkness,  and  lead  mine 
Out  of    this  sensible    hell:  —  she's  warm,   she 

breathes : — 
Upon  thy  pale  lips  I  will  melt  my  heart. 
To  store  them  with  fresh  colour. — Who's  there ! 
Some  cordial  drink ! — Alas !  I  dare  not  call : 
So  pity  would  destroy  pity. — Her  eye  opes. 
And  heaven  in  it|seems  to  ope,  that  late  was  shut, 
To  take  me  up  to  mercy. 

Duch.  Antonio  I^ 

Bos.  Yes,  madam,  he  is  living; 
The  dead  bodies  you  saw  were  but  feign'd  statues : 
He's  reconcil'd  to  your  brothers ;  the  Pope  hath 
The  atonement.^  [wrought 

Duch.  Mercy!  {Dies. 

Bos.  Oh,  she's  gone  again !  there  the  cords  of 
life  broke. 
0  sacred  innocence,  that  sweetly  sleeps 
On  turtles'  feathers,  whilst  a  guilty  conscience 
Is  a  black  register,  wherein  is  writ 
All  our  good  deeds  and  bad,  a  perspective 
That  shows  us  hell!     That  we  cannot  be  suffer'd 
To  do  good  when  we  have  a  mind  to  it ! 
This  is  manly  sorrow ; 
These  tears,  I  am  very  certain,  never  grew 
In  my  mother's  milk :  my  estate  is  sunk 
Below  the  degree  of  fear ;  where  were 
These  penitent  fountains  while  she  was  living? 
Oh,  they  were  frozen  up !     Here  is  a  sight 
As  direful  to  my  soul  as  is  the  sword 
Unto  a  wretch  hath  slain  his  father.     Come, 
I'll  bear  thee  hence, " 
And  execute  thy  last  will ;  that's  deliver 
Thy  body  to  the  reverend  dispose 
Of  some  good  women :  that  the  cruel  tyrant 
Shall  not  deny  me.     Then  I'll  post  to  Milan, 
Where  somewhat  I  will  speedily  enact 
Worth  my  dejection.  {Exit. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 
Enter  Ajstonio  and  Delio. 

Ant.  What  think  you  of  my  hope  of  reconcile- 
To  the  Arragonian  brethren  ?  [ment 

Del.  I  misdoubt  it ; 
For  though  they  have  sent  their  letters  of  safe- 
conduct 
For  your  repair  to  Milan,  they  appear 
But  nets  to  entrap  you.    The  Marquis  of  Pescara, 
Under  whom  you  hold  certain  land  in  cheat,* 


1  The  idea  of  making  the  Duchess  speak  after  she  has 
been  strangled,  was  doubtless  taken  from  the  death  of 
Desdemona  in  Shakespeare's  Othello,  Act  v.  last  scene. 
^Dtce. 

-  atonement— i.e.  at  one-men  t,  reconciliation. 

*  cheat — escheat. 


Much  'gainst  his  noble  nature  hath  been  mov'd 

To  seize  those  lands ;  and  some  of  his  dependents 

Are  at  this  instant  making  it  their  suit 

To  be  invested  in  your  revenues. 

I  cannot  think  they  mean  well  to  your  life 

That  do  deprive  you  of  yoiu-  means  of  life, 

Your  living. 

Ant.  You  are  still  an  heretic 
To  any  safety  I  can  shape  myself. 

Del.  Here  comes  the  Marquis;    I  will  make 
myself 
Petitioner  for  some  part  of  your  land, 
To  know  whither  it  is  ilying. 

Ant.  I  pray,  do. 

Entej'  Pescara. 

Del.  Sir,  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Pes.  To  me  ? 

Del.  An  easy  one ; 
There  is  the  Citadel  of  Saint  Bennet, 
With  some  demesnes,  of  late  in  the  possession 
Of  Antonio  Bologna, — please  you  bestow  them  on 
me. 

Pes.  You  are  my  friend ;  but  this  is  such  a  suit, 
Xor  fit  for  me  to  give,  nor  you  to  take. 

Del.  No,  sir? 

Pes.  I  will  give  you  ample  reason  for't 
Soon  in  private : — here's  the  cardinal's  mistress. 

E7tter  JuuA. 

Julia.  My  lord,  I  am  grown  your  poor  peti- 
tioner. 
And  should  be  an  ill  beggar,  had  I  not 
A  great  man's  letter  here,  the  cardinal's, 
To  court  you  in  my  favour. 
Pes.  He  entreats  for  you 
The  Citadel  of  Saint  Bennet,  that  belong'd 
To  the  banish'd  Bologna. 
Julia.  Yes. 

Pes.  1  could  not  have  thought  of  a  friend  I 
could  rather 
Pleasure  with  it :  'tis  yours. 

Jidia.  Sir,  I  thank  you ; 
And  he  shall  know  how  doubly  I  am  engag'd 
Both  in  your  gift,  and  speediness  of  giving 
Which  makes  your  grant  the  greater.  {Exit. 

Ant.  How  they  fortify 
Themselves  with  my  ruin ! 

Del.  Sir,  I  am 
Little  bound  to  you. 
Pes.  Why? 

Del.  Because  you  denied  this  suit  to  me,  and 
gave't 
To  such  a  creature. 

Pes.  Do  you  know  what  it  was? 
It  was  Antonio's  land ;  not  forfeited 
By  coiu-se  of  law,  but  ravish'd  from  his  throat 
By  the  cardinal's  entreaty;  it  were  not  fit 
I  should  bestow  so  main  a  piece  of  wrong 
Upon  my  friend ;  'tis  a  gratification 
Only  due  to  a  strumpet,  for  it  is  injustice. 
Shall  I  sprinkle  the  pure  blood  of  innocents  , 

To  make  those  followers  I  call  my  friends 
Look  ruddier  upon  me  ?  I  am  glad 
This  land,  ta'en  from  the  owner  by  such  wrong, 
Eeturns  again  unto  so  foul  an  use 
As  salary  for  his  lust.     Learn,  good  Delio, 
To  ask  noble  things  of  me,  and  you  shall  find 
I'll  be  a  noble  giver. 
Del.  You  instruct  me  well. 
Ant.  Why,  here's  a  man  now  would  fright  im- 
pudence 
From  sauciest  beggars. 

Pes.  Prince  Ferdinand's  come  to  Milan, 
Sick,  as  they  give  out,  of  an  apoplexy ; 
But  some  say  'tis  a  frenzy  :  I  am  going 
To  visit  him.  {Exit. 


340 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ant.  'Tis  a  noble  old  fellow. 

Del.   What    course   do    you    mean    to    take, 

Antonio  ? 
Ant.  This  night  I   mean  to  venture  all  my 
fortune, 
Which  is  no  moi-e  than  a  poor  lingering  life, 
To  the  cardinal's  worst  of  malice.     I  have  got 
Private  access  to  his  chamber;  and  intend 
To  visit  him  about  the  mid  of  night. 
As  once  his  brother  did  our  noble  duchess. 
It  may  be  that  the  sudden  apprehension 
Of  danger,— .for  I'll  go  in  mine  own  shape, — 
When  he  shall  see  it  fraight '  with  love  and  duty, 
May  draw  the  poison  out  of  him,  and  work 
A  friendly  reconcilement:  if  it  fail. 
Yet  it  shall  rid  me  of  this  infamous  calling ; 
For  better  fall  once  than  be  ever  falling. 

Del.  I'll  second  you  in  all  danger ;  and,  how- 
e'er, 
My  life  keeps  rank  with  yours. 
,  Ant.  You  are  still  my  lov'd  and  best  friend. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 
Enter  Pescap.a  and  Doctor. 

Pes.  Now,  doctor,  may  I  visit  your  patient  ? 

Doc.  If't  please  your  lordship:    but  he's  in- 
stantly 
To  take  the  air  here  in  the  gallery 
By  my  direction. 

Pes.,  Pray  thee,  what's  his  disease.' 

Doc.  A  very  pestilent  disease,  my  lord, 
They  call  lycanthropia. 

Pes.  What's  that.? 
I  need  a  dictionary  to't. 

Doc.  I'll  tell  you. 
In  those  that  are  possess'd  with't  there  o'erflowa 
Such  melancholy  humour  they  imagine 
Themselves  to  be  transformed  into  wolves  ; 
Steal  forth  to  churchyards  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  dig  dead  bodies  uj) :  as,  two  nights  since. 
One  met  the  duke  'bout  midnight  in  a  lane 
Behind  Saint  Mark's  church,  with  the  leg  of  a  man 
Upon  his  shoulder  ;  and  he  howl'd  fearfully  ; 
Said  he  was  a  wolf,  only  the  difference 
Was,  a  wolf's  skin  was  hairy  on  the  outside. 
His  on  the  inside ;  bade  them  take  their  swords, 
Eip  up  his  flesh,  and  try  :  straight  I  was  sent  for. 
And,  having  minister'd  to  him,  found  his  grace 
Very  well  recover' d. 

Pes.  I  am  glad  on't. 

Doc.  Yet  not  without  some  fear 
Of  a  relapse.     If  he  grow  to  his  fit  again, 
I'll  go  a  nearer  way  to  work  with  him 
Than  ever  Paracelsus  dream'd  of  ;  if 
They'll  give  me  leave,  I'll  buffet  his  madness  out 

of  him. 
Stand  aside  ;  he  comes. 

Enter  Ferdinand,  Cardinal,  Malatesti,  and 

BOSOLA. 

Ferd.  Leave  me. 

Mai.  Why  doth  your  lordship  love  this  soli- 
tariness ? 

Ferd.  Eagles  commonly  fly  alone:  they  are 
crows,  daws,  and  starlings  that  flock  together. 
Look,  what's  that  follows  me  ? 

Mai.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Ferd.  Yes. 

Mai.  'Tis  your  shadow. 

Ferd.  Stay  it ;  let  it  not  haunt  me. 


1  /raiV'ti— fraught. 


Mai.  Impossible,    if  you   move   and   the   sun 

Ferd.  I  will  throttle  it.  [shine. 

{Throws  himself  doiun  on  his  shadoto. 

Mai.  Oh,  my  lord,  you  are  angry  with  nothing. 

Ferd.  You  are  a  fool :  how  is't  possible  I 
should  catch  my  shadow,  unless  I  fall  upon't .' 
When  I  go  to  hell,  I  mean  to  carry  a  bribe  ;  for, 
look  you,  good  gifts  evermore  make  way  for  the 
worst  persons. 

Pes.  Else,  good  my  lord. 

Ferd.  I  am  studying  the  art  of  patience. 

Pes.  'Tis  a  noble  virtue. 

Ferd.  To  drive  six  snails  before  me  from  this 
town  to  Moscow  ;  neither  use  goad  nor  whip  to 
them,  but  let  them  take  their  own  time ; — the 
patient'st  man  i'  the  world  match  me  for  an  ex- 
periment ;— and  I'll  crawl  after  like  a  sheep-biter. 

Card.  Force  him  up. 

Ferd.  Use  me  well,  you  were  best.  What  I 
have  done,  I  have  done ;  I'll  confess  nothing. 

Doc.  Now  let  me  come  to  him. — Are  you  mad, 
my  lord  ?  are  you  out  of  your  princely  wits  ? 

Ferd.  What's  he? 

Pes.  Your  doctor. 

Ferd.  Let  me  have  his  beard  sawed  off,  and 
his  eyebrows  filed  more  civil. 

Doc.  I  must  do  mad  tricks  with  him,  for  that's 
the  only  way  on't. — I  have  brought  your  grace  a 
salamander's  skin  to  keep  you  from  sun-burning. 

Ferd.  I  have  cruel  sore  eyes. 

Doc.  The  white  of  a  cockatrix's  egg  is  present 
remedy. 

Ferd.  Let  it  be  a  new-laid  one,  you  were  best. 
— Hide  me  from  him  :  physicians  are  like  kings, 
they  brook  no  contradiction. 

Doc.  Now  he  begins  to  fear  me :  now  let  me 
alone  with  him. 

Card.  How  now!  put  off  your  gown  ! ' 

Doc.  Let  me  have  some  forty  urinals  filled 
with  rose-water :  he  and  I'll  go  pelt  one  another 

with  them. — Now  he  begins  to   fear  me Can 

you  fetch  a  frisk,  sir .' — Let  him  go,  let  him  go, 
upon  my  peril :  I  find  by  his  eye  he  stands  in 
awe  of  me ;  I'll  make  him  as  tame  as  a  dormouse. 

Ferd.  Can  you  fetch  your  frisks,  sir ! — I  will 
stamp  him  into  a  cullis,^  flay  off  his  skin,  to 
cover  one  of  the  anatomies  this  rogue  hath  set 
i'  the  cold  yonder  in  Barber-Chirurgeou's  hall. — 
Hence,  hence !  you  are  all  of  you  like  beasts  for 
sacrifice  :  there's  nothing  left  of  you  but  tongue 
and  belly,  flattery  and  lechery.  [Exit. 

Pes.  Doctor,  ho  did  not  fear  you  throughly. 

Doc.  True  ;  I  was  somewhat  too  forward. 

Bos.  Mercy  upon  me,  what  a  fatal  judgment 
Hath  fall'n  upon  this  Ferdinand  ! 

Pes.  Knows  your  grace 
What  accident  hath  brought  unto  the  prince 
This  strange  distraction .' 

Card,  [aside.']  I  must  feign  somewhat. — Thus 
they  say  it  grew : — 
You  have  heard  it  rumour'd,  for  these  many  years 
None  of  our  family  dies  but  there  is  seen 
The  shape  of  an  old  woman,  which  is  given 
By  tradition  to  us  to  have  been  murder'd 
By  her  nephews  for  her  riches.     Such  a  figure 
One  night,  as  the  prince  sat  up  late  at's  book, 
Appear'd  to  him ;  when  crying  out  for  help. 
The  gentlemen  of's  chamber  found  his  graco 
All  on  a  cold  sweat,  alter'd  much  in  face 
And  language  :  since  which  apj)arition. 
He  hath  grown  worse  and  worse,  and  I  much  fear 
He  cannot  live. 


1  put  off  your  gown.    Puts  of  his  four  cloaks  one  after 
another — stage  direction,  edition  of  170S. 
■■'  a  cullis — See  note  1,  p.  62,  col.  1. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


341 


Bos.  Sir,  1  would  speak  with  you. 

Pes.  "We'll  leave  your  grace, 
Wishing  to  the  sick  prince,  our  noble  lord, 
All  health  of  mind  and  body. 

Card.  You  are  most  welcome. 

\JExeunt  Pescara,  Malatesti,  and  Doctor. 
Are  you  come?  so. — \Asider\  This  fellow  must 

not  know 
Ey  any  means  I  had  intelligence 
In  our  duchess'  death  ;  for,  though  I  counsell'd  it. 
The  full  of  all  the  engagement  seem'd  to  grow 
From  Ferdinand. — Now,  sir,  how  fares  our  sister  ? 
I  do  not  think  but  sorrow  makes  her  look 
Like  to  an  of t-dy'd  garment :  she  shall  now 
Taste  comfort  from  me.    Why  do  you  look  so 

wildly? 
Oh,  the  fortune  of  your  master  here  the  prince 
Dejects  you;  but  be  you  of  happy  comfort: 
If  you'll  do  one  thing  for  me  I'll  entreat, 
Though  he  had  a  cold  tombstone  o'er  his  bones, 
I'd  make  yoii  what  you  would  be. 

Bos.  Anything; 
Give  it  me  in  a  breath,  and  let  .me  fly  to't : 
They  that  think  long  small  expedition  win, 
For  musing  much  o'  the  end  cannot  begin. 

Enter  Julia. 

Julia.  Sir,  will  you  come  in  to  supper  ? 

Card.  I  am  busy ;  leave  me. 

Julia,  [aside.^  What  an.  excellent  shape  bath 
that  fellow !  [Exit. 

Card.  'Tis  thus.    Antonio  lurks  here  in  Milan  : 
Inquire  him  out,  and  kill  him.     While  he  lives. 
Our  sister  cannot  marry !  and  I  have  thought 
Of  an  excellent  match  for  her.    Do  this  and  style 
Thy  advancement.  [me 

Bos.  By  what  means  shall  I  find  him  out  ? 

Cai-d.  There  is  a  gentleman  call'd  Delio 
Here  in  the  camp,  that  hath  been  long  approv'd 
His  loyal  friend.     Set  eye  upon  that  fellow  ; 
Follow  him  to  mass ;  may  be  Antonio, 
Although  he  do  account  religion 
But  a  school-name,  for  fashion  of  the  world 
May  accompany  him ;  or  else  go  inquire  out 
Delio's  confessor,  and  see  if  you  can  bribe 
Him  to  reveal  it.     There  are  a  thousand  ways 
A  man  might  find  to  trace  him ;  as  to  know 
What  fellows  hunt  the  Jews  to  take 
Great  sums  of  money,  for  sure  he's  in  want ; 
Or  else  to  go  to  the  picture-makers,  and  learn 
Who  bought  her  picture  lately  :  some  of  these 
Happily  may  take. 

Bos.  Well,  I'll  not  freeze  i'  the  business : 
I  would  see  that  -svretched  thing,  Antonio, 
Above  all  sights  i'  the  world. 

Card.  Do,  and  be  happy.  [Exit. 

Bos.  This  fellow  doth  breed  basilisks  in's  eyes. 
He's  nothing  else  but  murder ;  yet  he  seems 
Not  to  have  notice  of  the  duchess'  death. 
'Tis  his  cunning :  I  must  follow  his  example  ; 
There  cannot  be  a  surer  way  to  trace 
Than  that  of  an  old  fox. 

He-enter  Julia. 

Julia.  So,  sir,  you  are  well  met. 

Bos.  How  no  w ! 

Julia.  Nay,  the  doors  are  fast  enough  : 
Now,  sir,  I  will  make  you  confess  your  treachery. 

Bos.  Treachery! 

Julia.  Yes,  confess  to  me 
Which  of  my  women  'twas  you  hir'd  to  put 
Love-powder  into  my  drink  ? 

Bos.  Love-powder! 

Julia.  Yes,  when  I  was  at  Malfi. 


happily — haply,  perhaps. 


Why  should  I  fall  in  love  with  such  a  face  else  ? 
I  have  already  suffer'd  for  thee  so  much  pain, 
The  only  remedy  to  do  me  good 
Is  to  kill  my  longing. 

Bos.  Sure  your  pistol  holds 
Nothing  but  perfumes  or  kissing-comfits.* 
Excellent  lady ! 

You  have  a  pretty  way  on't  to  discover 
Your  longing.     Come,  come,  I'll  disarm  you. 
And  arm  you  thus:  yet  this  is  wondrous  strange. 

Julia.  Compare  thy  form  and  my  eyes  together. 
You'll  find  my  love  no  such  great  miracle. 
Now  you'll  say 

I  am  wanton :  this  nice  modesty  in  ladies 
Is  but  a  troublesome  familiar 
That  haunts  them. 

Bos.  Know  you  me,  I  am  a  blunt  soldier. 

Julia.  The  better: 
Sure,  there  wants  fire  where  there  are  no  lively 

sparks 
Of  roughness. 

Bos.  And  I  want  compliment. 

Julia.  Why,  iguorauco 
In  courtship  cannot  make  you  do  amiss, 
If  you  have  a  heart  to  do  well. 

Bos.  You  are  very  fair. 

Julia.  Nay,  if  you  lay  beauty  to  my  charge, 
I  must  plead  unguilty. 

Bos.  Your  bright  eyes 
Carry  a  quiver  of  darts  in  them  sharper 
Than  sunbeams. 

Julia.  You  will  mar  me  with  commendation. 
Put  yourself  to  the  chai'ge  of  courting  me, 
Whereas  now  I  woo  you. 

Bos.  [Aside.'\  I  have  it,  I  will  work  upon  this 
creature. — 
Let  us  grow  most  amorously  familiar : 
If  the  great  cardinal  now  should  see  me  thus. 
Would  he  not  count  me  a  villain  ? 

Julia.  No ;  he  might  count  me  a  wanton. 
Not  lay  a  scruple  of  offence  on  you ; 
For  if  I  see  and  steal  a  diamond. 
The  fault  is  not  i'  the  stone,  but  in  me  the  thief 
That  purloins  it.     I  am  sudden  with  you  : 
We  that  are  great  women  of  pleasure  use  to  cut 

off 
These  uncertain  wishes  and  unquiet  longings, 
And  in  an  instant  join  the  sweet  delight 
And  the  pretty  excuse  together.     Had  you  been 

i'the  street. 
Under  my  chamber  window,  even  there 
I  should  have  courted  you. 

Bos.  Oh,  you  ai-e  an  excellent  lady  ! 

Julia.  Bid  me  do  somewhat  for  you  presently 
To  express  I  love  you. 

Bos.  I  will ;  and  if  you  love  me, 
Fail  not  to  effect  it. 

The  cardinal  is  grown  wondrous  melancholy ; 
Demand  the  cause,  let  him  not  put  you  off 
With  feign'd  excuse  ;  discover  the  main  ground 
on't. 

Julia.  Why  would  you  know  this  ? 

Bos.  I  have  depended  on  him, 
And  I  hear  that  he  is  fall'n  in  some  disgrace 
With  the  emperor :  if  he  be,  like  the  mice 
That  forsake  falling  houses,  I  would  shift 
To  other  depeudance. 

Julia.  You  shall  not  need 
Follow  the  wars  :  I'll  be  your  maintenance. 

Bos.  And  I  your  loyal  servant :  but  1  cannot 
Leave  my  calling. 

Julia.  Not  leave  an  ungrateful 
General  for  the  love  of  a  sweet  lady ! 


1  kissing-comfits — ^perfumed  sugar-plums,  to  sweeten 
the  breatli.— DrcB. 


342 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


You  are  like  some  cannot  sleep  in  feather-beds, 
But  must  have  blocks  for  their  pillows. 

Bos.  Will  you  do  this  ? 

Julia.  Cunningly. 

Bos.  To-morrow  I'll  expect  the  intelligence. 

Julia.  To-morrow !  get  you  into  my  cabinet ; 
You  shall  have  it  with  you.     Do  not  delay  me, 
No  more  than  I  do  you  :  I  am  like  one 
That  is  condemn'd ;  I  have  my  pardon  promls'd, 
But  I  would  see  it  seal'd.     Go,  get  you  in  : 
You   shall  see  me  wind  my  tongue  about  his 

heart 
Like  a  skein  of  silk. 

[Exit  BosoLA. 

Enter  Cardinal  and  Servants. 

Card.  Where  are  you  ? 

Servants.  Here. 

Card.  Let  none,  upon  your  lives,  have  confer- 
ence 
With  the  Prince  Ferdinand,  unless  I  know  it. — 
[Exeunt  Servants. 
In  this  distraction  he  may  reveal 
The  murder. 

Yond's  my  lingering  consumption  : 
I  am  weary  of  her,  and  by  any  means 
Would  be  quit  of. 

Julia.  How  now,  my  lord  I     What  ails  you  .' 

Card.  Nothing. 

Julia.  Oh,  you  arc  much  alter'd  : 
Come,  I  must  be  your  secretary,  and  remove 
This   lead   from    off   your  bosom :    what's    the 
matter  ? 

Card.  I  may  not  tell  you. 

Julia.  Are  you  so  far  in  love  with  sorrow 
You  cannot  part  with  part  of  it  ?  or  think  you 
I  cannot  love  your  grace  when  you  are  sad 
As  well  as  merry?  or  do  you  suspect 
I,  that  have  been  a  secret  to  your  heart 
These  many  winters,  cannot  be  the  same 
Unto  your  tongue  ? 

Card.  Satisfy  thy  longing, — 
The  only  way  to  make  thee  keep  my  counsel 
Is,  not  to  tell  thee. 

Julia.  Tell  your  echo  this, 
Or  flatterers,  that,  like  echoes,  still  report 
What  they  hear  though  most  imperfect,  and  not 

me ; 
For  if  that  you  be  true  unto  yourself, 
I'll  know. 

Ca7-d.  Will  you  rack  me  ? 

Julia.  No,  judgment  shall 
Draw  it  from  you  :  it  is  an  equal  fault. 
To  tell  one's  secrets  unto  all  or  none. 

Card.  The  first  argues  folly. 

Julia.  But  the  last  tyranny. 

Cai-d.  Very  well :  why,  imagine  I  have  com- 
mitted 
Some  secret  deed  which  I  desire  the  world 
May  never  hear  of. 

Julia.  Therefore  may  not  I  know  it  ? 
You  have  conceal'd  for  me  as  great  a  sin 
As  adultery.     Sir,  never  was  occasion 
For  perfect  trial  of  my  constancy 
Till  now :  sir,  I  beseech  you — 

Card.  You'll  repent  it. 

Julia.  Never. 

Card.  It  hiirries  thee  to  ruin  :  I'll  not  tell  thee. 
Be  well  advis'd,  and  think  what  danger  'tis 
To  receive  a  prince's  secrets  :  they  that  do. 
Had  need  have  their  breasts  hoop'd  with  adamant 
To  contain  them.     I  pray  thee,  yet  be  satisfied  ; 
Examine  thine  own  frailty ;  'tis  more  easy 
To  tie  knots  than  unloose  them  :  'tis  a  secret 
That,  like  a  lingering  poison,  may  chance  lie 
Spread  in  thy  veins,   and  kill  thee  seven  year 
hence. 


Julia.  Now  you  dally  with  me. 

Card.  No  more ;  thou  shalt  know  it. 
By  my  appointment  the  great  Duchess  of  Malfi 
And  two  of  her  young  childi'en,  four  nights  since, 
Were  strangl'd. 

Julia.  Oh  Heaven  !  sir,  what  have  you  done  ? 

Card.  How  now  ?     How  settles  this  ?     Think 
you  your  bosom 
Will  be  a  grave  dark  and  obscure  enough 
For  such  a  secret  ? 

Jidia.  You  have  undone  yourself,  sir. 

Card.  Why? 

Julia.  It  lies  not  in  me  to  conceal  it. 

Card.  No? 
Come,  I  will  swear  you  to't  upon  this  book. 

Julia.  Most  religiously. 

Card.  Kiss  it. 
Now  you  shall  never  utter  it ;  thy  curiosity 
Hath  undone  thee :    thou'rt  poison'd  with  that 

book; 
Because    I    knew  thou   couldst  not    keep    my 

counsel, 
I  have  bound  thee  to't  by  death. 

Re-enter  Bosola. 

Bos.  For  pity-sake,  hold ! 

Card.  Ha,  Bosola! 

Julia.  I  forgive  you 
This  equal  fiiece  of  justice  you  have  done ; 
For  I  betray 'd  your  counsel  to  that  fellow : 
He  overheard  it ;  that  was  the  cause  I  said 
It  lay  not  in  me  to  conceal  it. 

Bos.  Oh  foolish  woman, 
Couldst  not  thou  have  poison'd  him  ? 

Julia.  'Tis  weakness. 
Too  much  to  think  what  should  have  been  done. 

I  go, 
I  know  not  whither.  [Dies. 

Card.  Wherefore  com'st  thou  hither  ? 

Bos.  That  I  might  find  a  great  man  like  your- 
self. 
Not  out  of  his  wits  as  the  Lord  Ferdinand, 
To  remember  my  service. 

Card.  I'll  have  thee  hew'd  in  pieces. 

Bos.  Make  not  yourself  such  a  promise  of  that 
life 
Which  is  not  yours  to  dispose  of. 

Card.  Who  plac'd  thee  here  ? 

Bos.  Her  lust,  as  she  intended. 

Card.  Very  well : 
Now  you  know  me  for  your  fellow-murderer. 

Bos.  And  wherefore  should  you  lay  fair  marble 
colours 
Upon  your  rotten  purposes  to  me  ? 
Unless  you  imitate   some    that   do  plot    great 

treasons, 
And  when  they  have  done,  go  hide  themselves 

i'  the  graves 
Of  those  were  actors  in't  ? 

Card.  No  more  ;  there  is 
A  fortune  attends  thee. 

Bos.  Shall  I  go  sue  to  Fortune  any  longer  ? 
'Tis  the  fool's  pilgrimage. 

Card.  I  have  honours  in  store  for  thee. 

Bos.  There  are  a  many  ways  that  conduct  to 
seeming  honour. 
And  some  of  them  very  dirty  ones. 

Card.  Throw  to  the  devil 
Thy  melancholy.     The  fire  burns  well ; 
What  need  we  keep  a  stirring  oft,  and  make 
A  greater  smother  ?     Thou  wilt  kill  Antonio  ? 

Bos.  Yes. 

Card.  Take  up  that  body. 

Bos.  I  think  1  shall 
Shortly  grow  the  common  bier  for  churchyards. 

Card.  I  will  allow  thee  some  dozen  of  attendants 
To  aid  thee  in  the  murder. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


343 


Bos.  Oil,  by  no  means.  Physicians  tliat  apply 
horse-leecbes  to  any  rank  swelling  use  to  cut  off 
their  tails,  that  the  blood  may  run  through  them 
the  faster.  Let  me  have  no  train  when  I  go  to 
shed  blood,  lest  it  make  me  have  a  greater  when 
I  ride  to  the  gallows. 

Card.  Come  to  me  after  midnight,  to  help  to 
remove 
That  body  to  her  own  lodging.     I'll  give  out 
She  died  o'  the  plague  ;  'twill  breed  the  less  in- 
quiry 
After  her  death. 
Bos.  Where's  Castruccio,  her  husband  ? 
Card.  He's  rode  to  Naples,  to  take  possession 
Of  Antonio's  citadel. 
Bos.  Believe  me,  you  have  done  a  very  happy 

turn. 
Card.  Fail  not  to  come.    There  is  the  master- 
key 
Of  our  lodgings  ;  and  by  that  you  may  conceive 
What  trust  I  plant  in  you. 

Bos.  You  shall  find  me  ready.  \Exit  Cardinal. 
Oh,  poor  Antonio,  though  nothing  be  so  needful 
To  thy  estate  as  pity,  yet  I  find 
Nothing   so   dangerous  !     I  must  look  to  my 

footing. 
In  such  slippery  ice-pavements  men  had  need 
To  be  frost-nail'd  well ;  they  may  break  their 

necks  else ; 
The  precedent's  here  afore  me.     How  this  man 
Bears  up  in  blood !   seems  fearless !     Why,  'tis 

well. 
Security  some  men  call  the  stiburbs  of  hell, 
Only  a  dead  wall  between.    Well,  good  Antonio, 
I'll  seek  thee  out ;  and  all  my  care  shall  be 
To  put  thee  into  safety  from  the  reach 
Of  these  most  cruel  biters  that  have  got 
Some  of  thy  blood  already.     It  may  be, 
I'll  join  with  thee  in  a  most  just  revenge. 
The  weakest  arm  is  strong  enough  that  strikes 
With  the  sword  of  justice.     Still  methinks  the 

duchess 
Haunts  me.    There,  there  ! — 'Tis  nothing  but  my 

melancholy. 
O  Penitence,  let  me  truly  taste  thy  cup. 
That  throws  men  down  only  to  raise  them  up  ! 

{Exit. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  III. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Delio. 

Bel.  Tond's  the  cardinal's  window.     This  for- 
tification 
Grew  from  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey ; 
And  to  yond  side  o'  the  river  lies  a  wall, 
Piece  of  a  cloister,  which  in  my  opinion 
Gives  the  best  echo  that  you  ever  heard, 
So  hollow  and  so  dismal,  and  withal 
So  plain  in  the  chstinction  of  ou.r  words, 
That  many  have  suppos'd  it  is  a  spirit 
That  answers. 

Ant.  I  do  love  these  ancient  ruins. 
We  never  tread  upon  them  but  we  set 
Our  foot  upon  some  reverend  history. 
And  questionless,  here,  in  this  open  court, 
Which  now  lies  naked  to  the  injuries 
Of  stormy  weather,  some  men  lie  interr'd 
Lov'd  the  church  so  well,  and  gave  so  largely  to't, 
They  thought  it   should   have  canopied   their 

bones 
Till  doomsday ;  but  all  things  have  their  end : 
Churches  and  cities,  which  have  diseases  like  to 

men, 
Must  have  like  death  that  we  have. 

Echo,  Like  death  that  we  have. 

Del.  Now  the  echo  hath  caught  you. 


Ant.  It  groan'd,  methought,  and  gave 
A  very  deadly  accent. 
Echo.  Deadly  accent. 

Del.  I  told  you  'twas  a  pretty  one.    You  may 
make  it 
A  huntsman,  or  a  falconer,  a  musician, 
Or  a  thing  of  sorrow. 
Echo.  A  thing  ofsorroio. 
Ant.  Ay,  sure,  that  suits  it  best. 
Echo.  That  suits  it  best. 
Ant.  'Tis  very  like  my  wife's  voice. 
Echo.  Ay,  wife!s  voice. 
Del.  Come,  let  us  walk  further  from't. 
I  would  not  have  you  go  to  the  cardinal's  lo-night. 
Do  not. 
Echo.  Do  not. 

Del.  Wisdom  doth  not  more  moderate  wasting 
sorrow 
Than  time :  take  time  f or't ;  be  mindful  of  thy 
safety. 
Echo.  Be  mindful  of  thy  safety. 
Ant.  Necessit.y  compels  me. 
Make  scrutiny  throughout  the  passes 
Of  your  own  life,  you'll  find  it  impossible 
To  fly  your  fate. 
Echo.  Oh,  fly  your  fate  ! 

Del.  Hark !  the  dead  stones  seem  to  have  pity 
on  you, 
And  give  you  good  counsel. 

Ant.  Echo,  I  will  not  talk  with  thee. 
For  thou  art  a  dead  thing. 
Echo.  Thou  art  a  dead  thing. 
Ant.  My  duchess  is  asleep  now. 
And  her  little  ones,  I  hope  sweetly.     0  Heaven, 
Shall  I  never  see  her  more  .' 
Echo.  Never  see  her  more. 
Ant.  I  mark'd  not  one  repetition  of  the  echo 
But  that ;  and  on  the  sudden  a  clear  light 
Presented  me  a  face  folded  in  sorrow. 
Del.  Your  fancy  merely. 
Ant.  Come,  I'll  be  out  of  this  ague, 
For  to  live  thus  is  not  indeed  to  live  ; 
It  is  a  mockery  and  abuse  of  life. 
I  will  not  henceforth  save  myself  by  halves ; 
Lose  all,  or  nothing. 

Del.  Your  own  virtue  save  you ! 
I'll  fetch  your  eldest  son,  and  second  you. 
It  may  be  that  the  sight  of  his  own  blood. 
Spread  in  so  sweet  a  figure,  may  beget 
The  more  compassion.     However,  fare  you  well. 
Though  in  our  miseries  Fortune  have  a  part, 
Yet  in  our  noble  sufferings  she  hath  none  : 
Contempt  of  pain,  that  we  may  call  our  own. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Cardinal,  Pescar A,  Malatesti,  Eoderigo, 
and  Grisolan. 

Card.  You  shall  not  watch   to-night  by  the 
sick  prince  ; 
His  grace  is  very  well  recover'd. 

Mai.  Good  my  lord,  suffer  us. 

Card.  Oh,  by  no  means  ; 
The  noise,  and  change  of  object  in  his  eye. 
Doth  moi'e  distract  him.     I  pray,  all  to  bed  ; 
And  though  you  hear  him  in  his  violent  fit, 
Do  not  rise,  I  entreat  you. 

Pes.  So,  su- ;  we  shall  not. 

Card.  Nay,  I  must  have  you  promise 
Upon  your  honours,  for  I  was  enjoin'd  to't 
By  himself ;  and  he  seem'd  to  urge  it  sensibly. 

Pes.  Let  our  honours  bind  this  trifle. 

Card.  Nor  any  of  your  followers. 

Mai.  Neither. 


344 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Card.  It  may  be,  to  make  trial  of  your  promise, 
When  he's  asleep,  myself  will  rise  and  feign 
Some  of  his  mad  tricks,  and  cry  out  for  help, 
And  feign  myself  in  danger. 

Mai.  If  your  throat  were  cutting, 
I'd  not    come  at  you,   now  I  have    protested 
against  it. 
Card.  Why,  I  thank  you. 
Gris.  'Twas  a  foul  storm  to-night. 
Rod.  The   Lord   Ferdinand's  chamber  shook 

like  an  osier. 
Mai.  'Twas  nothing  but  pure  kindness  in  the 
devil, 
To  rock  his  own  child. 

[Exeunt  all  except  the  Cardinal. 
Card.  The  reason  why  I  would  not  suffer  these 
About  my  brother,  is,  because  at  midnight 
I  may  with  better  privacy  convey 
Julia's  body  to  her  own  lodging.     Oh,  my  con- 
science ! 
I  would  pray  now;  but  the  devil  takes  away 

my  heart 
For  having  any  confidence  in  prayer. 
About  this  hour  I  appointed  Bosola 
To  fetch  the  body.    When  he  hath  serv'd  my 

turn, 
He  dies.  [Exit- 

Enter  Bosola. 

Bos.  Ha !  'twas  the  cardinal's  voice ;  I  heard 
him  name 
Bosola  and  my  death.      Listen  ;    I   hear  one's 
footing. 

Enter  Ferdixand. 

Ferd.  Strangling  is  a  very  quiet  death. 

Bos.  [aside.l  Nay,  then,  I  see  I  must  stand 

upon  my  guard. 
Ferd.  What  say  to  that  ?  whisper  softly ;  do 
you  agree  to't .''     So ;  it  must  be  done  i'  the  dark : 
the  cardinal  would  not  for  a  thousand  pounds  the 
doctor  should  see  it.  [Exit. 

Bos.  My  death  is  plotted;   here's  the  conse- 
quence of  murder. 
We  value  not  desert  nor  Christian  breath, 
AVhen  we  know  black  deeds  must  be  cur'd  with 
death. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Servant. 

Serv,  Here  stay,  sir,  and  be  confident,  I  pray : 
I'll  fetch  you  a  dark  lantern.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Could  I  take  him  at  his  prayers, 
There  were  hope  of  pai-don. 

Bos.  Fall  right,  my  sword  ! —  [Stals  Jiim.^ 

I'll  not  give  thee  so  much  leisure  as  to  pray. 

Ant.  Oh,  I  am  gone  !     Thou  hast  ended  a  long 
suit 
In  a  minute. 

Bos.  What  art  thou? 

Ant.  A  most  wretched  thing. 
That  only  have  thy  benefit  in  death, 
To  appear  myself. 

Re-enter  Servant  with  a  Lantern. 

Serv.  Where  are  you,  sir  ? 

Ant.  Very  near  my  home — Bosola ! 

Serv.  0  misfortune ! 

Bos.  Smother  thy  pity ;  thou  art  dead  else. — 
Antonio ! 
The  man  I  would  have  sav'd  'bove  mine  own  life  ! 
We  are  merely  the  stars'  tennis-balls,  struck  and 

banded 
Which  way  please  them. — 0  good  Antonio, 
I'U  whisper  one  thing  in  thy  dying  ear 


1  Under  the  belief  that  he  is  the  cardinal. 


Shall  make  thy  heart  break  quickly]  thy  fair 

duchess 
And  two  sweet  children — 

Ant.  Their  very  names 
Kindle  a  little  life  in  me. 

Bos.  Are  murder'd. 

Aiit.  Some  men  have  wish'd  to  die 
At  the  hearing  of  sad  tidings  ;  I  am  glad 
That  I  shall  do't  in  sadness  : '  I  would  not  now 
Wish  my  wounds  balm'd  nor  heal'd,  for  I  have 

no  use 
To  put  my  life  to.     In  all  our  quest  of  greatness. 
Like  wanton  boys,  whose  pastime  is  their  care. 
We  follow  after  bubbles  blown  in  the  air. 
Pleasure  of  life,  what  is't  ?  only  the  good  hours 
Of  an  ague  ;  merely  a  preparative  to  rest 
To  endure  vexation.     I  do  not  ask 
The  process  of  my  death ;  only  commend  me 
To  Delio. 

Bos.  Break,  heart! 

Ant.  And  let  my  son  fly  the  courts  of  princes. 

[Dies. 

Bos.  Thou  seem'st  to  have  lov'd  Antonio  ? 

Serv.  I  brought  him  hither. 
To  have  reconcil'd  him  to  the  cardinal. 

Bos.  I  do  not  ask  thee  that. 
Take  him  up,  if  thou  tender ^  thine  own  life, 
And  bear  him  where  the  lady  Julia 
Was  wont  to  lodge. — Oh,  my  fate  moves  swift ! 
I  have  this  cardinal  in  the  forge  already ; 
Now  I'll  bring  him  to  the  hammer.     0  direful 

misprision ! 
I  will  not  imitate  things  glorious, 
No  more  than  base ;  I'll  be  mine  own  example. — 
On,  on,  and  look  thou  represent,  for  silence. 
The  thing  thou  bear'st.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  V. 
Enter  Cardinal  with  a  Boole. 

Card.  I  am  puzzled  in  a  question  about  hell : 
He  says,  in  hell  there's  one  matei-ial  fire, 
And  yet  it  shall  not  burn  all  men  alike. 
Lay  him  by.     How  tedious  is  a  guilty  conscience ! 
When  I  look  into  the  fish-ponds  in  my  garden, 
Methinks  I  see  a  thing  arm'd  with  a  rake, 
That  seems  to  strike  at  me. 

Enter  Bosola,  and  Servant  bearing  Antonio's 
body. 

Now,  art  thou  come  ? 
Thou  look'st  ghastly : 

There  sits  in  thy  face  some  great  determination 
Mix'd  with  some  fear. 

Bos.  Thus  it  lightens  into  action: 
I  am  come  to  kill  thee. 

Card.  Ha ! — Help  !  our  guard ! 

Bos.  Thou  art  deceiv'd ; 
They  are  out  of  thy  howling. 

Card.  Hold  ;  and  I  will  faithfully  divide 
Revenues  with  thee. 

Bos.  Thy  prayers  and  proffers 
Are  both  unseasonable. 

Card.  Kaise  the  watch !  we  are  betray'd ! 

Bos.  I  have  confin'd  your  flight : 
I'll  suffer  your  retreat  to  Julia's  chamber, 
But  no  fui'ther. 

Card.  Help  !  we  are  betray'd  I 

Enter  above,^  Pescara,  Malatesti,  Eoderigo, 
and  Grisolajj. 

Mai.  Listen. 


1  sadness— earnest.  ^  tender — love. 

3  above — i.e.  on  tlie  upper  stage,  the  raised  platform 
towards  the  back  of  the  stage Dyce. 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


545 


Card.  Jly  dukedom  for  rescue  ! 

Rod.  Fie  upon  his  counterfeiting ! 

Mai.  Wliy,  'tis  not  the  cardinal. 

Rod.  Yes,  yes,  'tis  he  ; 
But  I'll  see  him  hang'd  ere  I'll  go  down  to  him. 

Card.  Here's  a  plot  upon  me  ;  I  am  assaulted  I 
I  am  lost, 
Unless  some  rescue ! 

Oris.  He  doth  this  pretty  well ; 
But  it  will  not  serve  to  laugh  me  out  of  mine 
honour. 

Card.  The  sword's  at  my  throat ! 

Rod.  You  would  not  bawl  so  loud  then. 

Mai.  Come,  come,  let's  go 
To  bed  :  he  told  us  thus  much  aforehand. 

Pes.  He  wish'd  you  should  not  come  at  him ; 
but,  believe't, 
The  accent  of  the  voice  sounds  not  in  jest : 
I'll  down  to  him,  howsoever,  and  with  engines 
Force  ope  the  doors.  \_Exit  above. 

Rod.  Let's  follow  him  aloof, 
And  note  how  the  cardinal  will  laugh  at  him. 

\_Exeunt  above,  Malatesti,  Koderigo, 
and  Grisolan. 

Bos.  There's  for  you  first, 
'Cause  you  shall  not  unbarricade  the  door 
To  let  in  rescue.  [Kills  the  Servant. 

Card.  What  cause  hast  thou  to  pursue  my  life  .' 

Bos.  Look  thei-e. 

Card.  Antonio ! 

Bos.  Slain  by  my  hand  unwittingly. 
Pray,  and  be  sudden :    when  thou  kill'dst  thy 

sister, 
Thou  took'st  from  Justice  her  most  equal  balance, 
And  left  her  naught  but  her  sword. 

Card.  0  mercy ! 

Bos.  Now  it  seems  thy  greatness  was  only  out- 
ward; 
For  thou  fall'st  faster  of  thyself  than  calamity 
Can   di'ive   thee.     I'll  not   waste  longer  time ; 
there !  \_Stabs  him. 

Card.  Thou  hast  hurt  me. 

Bos.  Again ! 

Card.  Shall  I  die  like  a  leveret, 
Without  any  resistance  ? — Help,  help,  help ! 
I  am  slain ! 

Enter  Ferdisajjo. 

Ferd.  The  alarum  !  give  me  a  fresh  horse  ; 
Eally  the  vauntguard,  or  the  day  is  lost. 
Yield,  yield !  I  give  you  the  honour  of  arms, 
Shake  my  sword  over  you  ;  will  you  j-ield  ? 

Cai-d.  Help  me ;  I  am  your  brother  ! 

Ferd.  The  devil ! 
My  brother  fight  upon  the  adverse  party  ! 

I  [Se  wounds  the  Cardinal,  and,  in  the  scuffle, 
\  gives  Bosola  his  death-wound. 

There  flies  your  ransom. 

CV«'fe.  0  justice! 
I  suffeif  now  for  what  hath  former  been : 
Sorrow  is  held  the  eldest  child  of  sin. 

Fei-d.  'Now  you're  brave  fellows.  Ctesar's  for- 
tune was  harder  than  Pompey's  ;  Ceesar  died  in 
the  arms  of  prosperity,  Pompey  at  the  feet  of 
disgrace.  You  both  died  in  the  field.  The  pain's 
nothing :  pain  many  times  is  taken  away  with 
the  apprehension  of  greater,  as  the  toothache 
with  the  siglit  of  a  barber  that  comes  to  pull 
it  out :  there's  philosophy  for  you. 

Bos.  Now  my  revenge  is  perfect. — Sink,  thou 
main  cr  Se  [Kills  Ferdinand. 

Of  my  und'3g  .'—The  last  part  of  my  life 
Hath  donei;'«  best  service. 

Ferd.  C^    h  me  some  wet  hay ;  I  am  broken- 
winded. 


I  do  account  this  world  but  a  dog-kennel : 
I  will  vault  credit  and  affect  high  pleasures 
Beyond  death. 

Bos.  He  seems  to  come  to  himself, 
Now  he's  so  near  the  bottom. 

Ferd.  My  sister,  0  my  sister !  there's  the  cause 
on't. 
Whether  we  fall  by  ambition,  blood,  or  lust. 
Like  diamonds,  we  are  cut  with  our  own  dust. 

[Dies. 

Card.  Thou  hast  thy  payment  too. 

Bos.  Yes,  I  hold  my  weary  soul  in  my  teeth  ; 
'Tis  ready  to  part  from  me.     I  do  glory 
That  thou,  which  stood'st  like  a  huge  pyramid 
Begun  upon  a  large  and  ample  base, 
Shalt  end  in  a  httle  point,  a  kind  of  nothing. 

Enter  Pescara,  Malatesti,  Eodekigo,  and 
Grisol-in. 

Pes.  How  now,  my  lord ! 

Mai.  Oh  sad  disaster  ! 

Rod.  How  comes  this  ? 

Bos.  Eevenge  for  the  Duchess  of  Malfl  murder'd 
By  the  Arragonian  brethren  ;  for  Antonio 
Slain  by  this  hand ;  for  lustful  Julia 
Poison'd  by  this  man  ;  and  lastly  for  myself, 
That  was  an  actor  in  the  main  of  all 
Much  'gainst  mine  own  good  nature,  yet  i'  the  end 
Neglected. 

Pes.  How  now,  my  lord  ! 

Card.  Look  to  my  brother : 
He  gave  us   these  largo   wounds,   as  we  were 

struggling 
Here  i'  the  rushes.*    And  now,  I  pray,  let  me 
Be  laid  by  and  never  thouglit  of.  [Dies. 

Pes.  How  fatally,  it  seems,  he  did  withstand 
His  own  rescue ! 

Mai.  Thou  wretched  thing  of  blood, 
How  came  Antonio  by  his  death  ? 

Bos.  In  a  mist ;  I  know  not  how : 
Such  a  mistake  as  I  have  often  seen 
In  a  play.     Oh,  I  am  gone ! 
We  are  only  like  dead  walls  or  vaulted  graves, 
That,  ruin'd,  yield  no  echo.     Fare  you  well. 
It  may  be  pain,  but  no  harm,  to  me  to  die 
In  so  good  a  quarrel.     Oh,  this  gloomy  world  ! 
In  what  a  shadow,  or  deep  pit  of  darkness, 
Doth  womanish  and  fearful  mankind  live  ! 
Let  worthy  minds  ne'er  stagger  in  distrust 
To  suffer  death  or  shame  for  what  is  just : 
Mine  is  another  voyage.  [Dies. 

Pes.  The  noble  Delio,  as  I  came  to  the  palace, 
Told  me  of  Antonio's  being  here,  and  show'd  me 
A  pretty  gentleman,  his  son  and  heir. 

Enter  Delio,  and  Antonio's  Son. 

3fal.  Oh,  sir,  you  come  too  late .' 

Del.  I  heard  so,  and 
Was  arm'd  for't  ere  I  came.    Let  us  make  noble 

use 
Of  this  great  ruin  ;  and  join  all  our  force 
To  establish  this  young  hopeful  gentleman 
In's  mother's  right.      These  wretched  eminent 

things 
Leave  no  more  fame  behind  'em,  than  should  one 
Fall  in  a  frost,  and  leave  his  print  in  snow  ; 
As  soon  as  the  sun  shines,  it  ever  melts. 
Both  fornr  and  matter.     I  have  ever  thought 
Nature  doth  nothing  so  great  for  great  men 
As  when  she's  pleas'd  to  make  them  lords  of  truth : 
Integrity  of  life  is  fame's  best  friend. 
Which  nobly,  beyond  death,  shall  crown  the  end. 

[Exeunt. 


1  the  rushes — i.e.  on  the  rushes  that  then  covered  the 
floor  in  lieu  of  a  carpet. — W.  Hazhit. 


JOHN    MARSTON. 


[If  we  may  trust  Oldys,  this  dramatist  was  sprung  from  a  Shropshire  family,  but  the  date 
of  his  birth  is  unknown.  According  to  Anthony-a-Wood,  Marston  was  a  student  in  Corpus 
Christi  College,  Oxford,  and  was  admitted  Bachelor  of  Arts  February  23d,  1592.  Mr. 
Halliwell,  editor  of  Marston's  works,  thinks  this  a  mistake,  and  conjectures  that  the 
dramatist  was  another  John  Marston,  mentioned  by  "Wood,  who  was  *  son  of  a  father  of  both 
names,  of  the  city  of  Coventry,  Esquire,'  who  'became  either  a  commoner  or  a  gentleman- 
commoner  of  Brasen-nose  College  in  1591,  and  in  the  beginning  of  February  1593  he  was 
admitted  Bachelor  of  Arts,  as  the  eldest  son  of  an  esquire,  and  soon  after  completing  that 
degree  by  determination,  he  went  his  way,  and  improved  his  learning  in  other  faculties,* — 
alluding  i^robably,  says  ]\Ir.  Halliwell,  to  his  poetical  and  dramatic  efforts.  It  is  supposed 
that  it  was  Marston's  father  who  was  appointed  Lecturer  of  the  Middle  Temple  in  1592  ; 
and  according  to  Oldys,  the  dramatist  married  Mary,  daughter  of  the  Eev.  "William  "Wilkes, 
chaplain  to  James  I.,  and  rector  of  St.  Martin's,  "Wiltshire.  In  Ben  Jonson's  conversations 
with  Drummond,  it  is  stated  that  '  Marston  wrote  his  father-in-law's  j)reachings,  and  lis 
father-in-law  his  comedies, '  which  Gifford  thinks  is  a  humorous  allusion  to  the  sombre  iir 
of  Marston's  comedies,  as  contrasted  with  the  cheerful  tone  of  his  father-in-law's  discourses. 
Marston  died  in  June  1634,  and  was  buried  near  his  father  in  the  Temple  Church  in  London, 
'under  the  stone  which  hath  written  on  it,  Oblivioni  Sacrum.'  For  these  meagre  stfte- 
ments  concerning  the  life  of  Marston  we  are  indebted  to  the  painstaking  researches  of  }Ir. 
J.  O.  Halliwell,  who  has  edited  an  excellent  edition  of  the  dramatist's  works.  Mar&ton 
appears  to  have  been  at  one  time  an  intimate  friend  and  ardent  admirer  of  Ben  Jonson,  'i>ut 
having  satirized  Ben  in  two  of  his  plays,  a  quarrel  took  place,  Jonson  replying  with  vigdir 
in  his  Poetaster.  "We  learn  from  Drummond  that  Jonson  '  had  many  quarrels  with  Marstm, 
beat  him,  and  took  his  pistol  from  him,  wrote  his  Poetaster  on  him  ;  the  beginning  of  thim 
were,  that  JMarston  represented  him  in  the  stage,  in  his  youth  given  to  venerie. '  '  "Ware 
more  known  of  the  literary  history  of  the  period,'  says  Mr.  Halliwell,  'it  would  perlaps 
be  found  that  as  there  was  probably  more  than  one  quarrel  between  these  dramatists  so 
also  was  there  more  than  one  reconciliation. ' 

Marston,  along  with  Jonson  and  Chapman,  had  a  hand  in  Eastward  Hoe.  His  prinflpal 
dramas  are  The  Scourge  of  Villany  (printed  1598) ;  Antonio  and  Mellida  (1602),  the  sfJond 
part  of  which,  Antonio's  Revenge,  was  published  the  same  year ;  The  Malcontent  (1)04) ; 
The  Dutch  Courtezan  (1605) ;  Parasitaster  (1606) ;  Sophonisba  (1606) ;  What  Fo^  Will 
(1607)  ;  The  Insatiate  Countess  (1613).  Besides  these,  he  wrote  a  number  of  poems  chiefly 
of  a  satirical  cast,  nearly  all  of  which,  as  well  as  many  of  his  dramas,  are  characta'ized  by 
coarseness  and  impurity  of  language.  Indeed  his  nature  appears  to  have  been  essentially 
coarse  and  bitter ;  and  in  illustration  of  this  Mr.  Collier  quotes  from  a  conteniJorary  diary 
the  following  anecdote  : — '  Jo.  Marston,  the  last  Christmas,  when  he  danced  wth  Alderman 
More's  wife's  daughter,  a  Spaniard  born,  fell  into  a  strange  commendation  o'  her  wit  and 
beauty,  AVlien  he  had  done,  she  thought  to  pay  him  home,  and  told  him  sle  thought  he 
was  a  poet.  "'Tis  true,"  said  he,  "for  poets  feign  and  lie;  and  so  did  J  ^then  I  com- 
mended your  beauty,  for  you  are  exceeding  foul. " '  *'^i- 

Marston  has  undoubtedly  vigour  and  originality,  and  one  writer  ra, -rwohim  with 
Fletcher,  Ford,  and  Massinger ;  he  can  be  at  times  pathetic  and  quaintly  h^lniLous ;  but 

346 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


547 


liis  works  are  characterized  by  great  inequality.  Hazlitt  calls  him  '  a  writer  of  great  merit, 
who  rose  to  tragedy  from  the  gronnd  of  comedy,  and  whose  forte  was  not  sympathy  either 
with  the  stronger  or  softer  emotions,  but  an  impatient  scorn  and  bitter  indignation  against 
the  vices  and  follies  of  men,  which  vented  itself  either  in  comic  verse  or  lofty  invective. 
He  was  properly  a  satirist.'  We  have  selected  Antonio  and  Mellida,  both  on  account  of  its 
intrinsic  merits,  and  as  being  on  the  whole  the  most  appropriate  of  Llarston's  dramas  for  a 
work  like  the  present.  It  is  printed  as  it  stands  in  the  original  edition,  except  that  the 
spelling  is  modernized.  ] 


ANTONIO   AND    MELLIDA: 

A    HIS  TOE  Y. 
ACTED  BY  THE  CHILDREN  OF  PAUL'S. 

BTJOHNMAKSTON. 

London.     1602. 


^ramatis  ^tx^axist. 


PiERO  Sfoeza,  Diilce  of  Venice. 

Andeugio,  Duke  of  Genoa. 

Antonio,  son  of  Andruglo,  disguised  as  Flori- 

ZELL,  an  Amazon. 
Galeatzo,  so?i  of  the  DuJce  of  Florence. 
Matzagente,  a  braggadocio,  Duhe  of  Milan  s  son. 
FoEOBOSCO,  a  parasite. 
Baluedo,  a  silly,  '  mountehanhing '  courtier. 
Felice,  a  shrewd,  contemplative  cynic. 
Alberto,  a  Venetian  Gentleman. 


Castilio  Balthazae. 

Catzo,  his  Servant. 

DiLDO,  Sei-vant  to  Balurdo. 

Lucid,  Companion  or  Servant  to  Andruglo. 

A  Page. 

Mellida,  Pierd's  Daughter. 
KossALiNE,  Niece  to  Piero. 
Flavia,  Maid  to  Rossaline. 

Courtiers,  etc. 


Scene — In  and  around  Venice. 


INDUCTIOIS^. 


Enter  Galeatzo,  Piero,  Alberto,  Antonio, 
FoEOBOsco,  Balurdo,  Matzagente,  and 
Felice,  with  parts  in  their  hands,  having 
cloaks  cast  over  their  apparel. 

Gal.  Come,  sirs,  come !  the  music  will  sound 
straight  for  entrance.  Are  ye  ready,  are  ye 
perfect  ? 

Pie.  Faith !  we  can  say  our  parts  ;  but  we  are 
ignorant  in  what  mould  we  must  cast  our  actors. 

Alb.  AVhom  do  you  personate  ? 

Pie.  Piero,  Duke  of  Venice. 

Alb.  Oh  ho !  then  thus  you  frame  your  exterior 
shape, 
To  haughty  form  of  elate  majesty; 
As  if  you  held  the  palsy  shaking  head 
Of  reeling  chance,  under  your  fortune's  belt 
In  strictest  vassalage  :  grow  big  in  thought, 
As  swoln  with  glory  of  successful  arms. 

Pie.  If  that  be  all,  fear  not,  I'll  suit  it  right. 
Who  cannot  be  proud,  stroke  up  the  hair,  and 
strut  ? 

Alb.  Ti-utli ;     such    rank    custom    is    grown 
popular; 
And  now  the  vulgar  fashion  strides  as  wide, 


I  And  stalks  as  proud  upon  the  weakest  stilta 
!  Of  the  slight'st  fortunes,  as  if  Hercules 
!  Or  burly  Atlas  shouldered  up  their  state. 
I      Pie.  Good ;  but  whom  act  you  ? 
I      Alb.  The  necessity  of  the  play  forceth  me  to 
j  act  two  parts :  Andrugio,  the  disti-essed  Duke  of 
Genoa,  and  Alberto,  a  Venetian  gentleman,  ena- 
moured on  the  Lady  Eossaline  ;  whose  fortunes 
being  too  weak  to  sustain  the  port  of  her,  he 
prov'd   always    disastrous  in   love ;    his  worth 
being  underpoisedi   by  the  uneven  scale,   that 
currents-  all  things   by  the  outward  stamp  of 
opinion. 

Gal.  Well,  and  what  dost  thou  play .' 
Bal.  The  part  of  all  the  world. 
Alb.  The  part  of  all  the  world  ?     What's  that? 
Bal.  The  fool.     Ay,  iu  good  deed  law  now,  I 
play  Balurdo,  a  wealtliy  mountebanking  burgo- 
masco's  3  heir  of  Venice. 


1  underpoised — undervalued. 

2  currents — makes  pass  current,  values. 

3  hurgomasco's — equivalent,  we    suppose,  to    burgo- 
master's. 


548 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Alb.  Ha,  ha!  one  whose  foppish  nature  might 
seem  great,  only  for  wise  men's  recreation ;  and, 
like  a  juiceless  bark,  to  preserve  the  sap  of  more 
strenuous  spirits.  A  servile  hound,  that  loves  the 
scent  of  forerunning  fashion,  like  an  empty  hol- 
low vault,  still  giving  an  echo  to  wit :  greedily 
champing  what  any  other  well-valued  judgment 
had  beforehand  chew'd. 

Foro.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  tolerably  good ;  good  faith, 
sweet  wag. 

Alb.  Umh;  why,  tolerably  good;  good  faith, 
sweet  wag  ?     Go,  go  ;  you  flatter  me. 

Foro.  Eight ;  I  but  dispose  my  speech  to  the 
habit  of  my  part. 

Alb.  Why,  what  plays  he?  \To  Felice. 

Fell.  The  wolf  that  eats  into  the  bi-easts  of 
princes ;  that  breeds  the  lethargy  and  falling 
sickness  in  honour ;  makes  justice  look  asquint ; 
and  blinds  the  ej'e  of  merited  reward  from  view- 
ing desertful  virtue. 

Alb.  What's  all  this  periphrasis,  ha? 

Fdi.  The  substance  of  a  supple-chapped  flat- 
terer. 

Alb.  Oh,  doth  he  play  Forobosco  the  Parasite  ? 
Good,  i'faith. — Sirrah,  you  must  seem  now  as 
glib  and  straight  in  outward  semblance  as  a 
lady's  busk,i  though  inwardly  as  cross  as  a  pair 
of  tailor's  legs ;  having  a  tongue  as  nimble  as 
his  needle,  with  servile  patches  of  glavering^ 
flattery  to  stitch  up  the  bracks'  of  (the)  un- 
worthily honoured. 

Foro.  I  warrant  you,  I  warrant  you,  you  shall 
see  me  prove  the  very  periwig  to  cover  the  bald 
pate  of  brainless  gentility.  Ho !  I  will  so  tickle 
the  sense  of  bella  gratiosa  madonna  with  the 
titillation  of  hyperbolical  praise,  that  I'll  strike  it 
in  the  nick,  in  the  very  nick,  chuck. 

Fell.  Thou  promisest  more  than  T  hope  any 
spectator  gives  faith  of  performance ;  but  why 
look  you  so  dusky,,  ha  ?  [To  Antonio. 

Ant.  I  was  never  worse  fitted  since  the  na- 
tivity of  my  actorship ;  I  shall  be  hissed  at,  on 
my  life  now. 

Fdi.  Why,  what  must  you  play  ? 

Ant.  Faith,  I  know  not  what :  an  hermaphro- 
dite— two  parts  iu  one ;  my  true  person  being 
Antonio,  son  to  the  Duke  of  Genoa ;  though  for 
the  love  of  Mellida,  Piero's  daughter,  1  take  this 
feigned  presence  ■<  of  an  Amazon,  calling  myself 
Florizell,  and  I  know  not  what.  I  a  voice  to 
play  a  lady !  I  shall  ne'er  do  it. 

Alb.  Oh!  an  Amazon  should  have  such  a  voice, 
virago-like.  Not  play  two  parts  in  one  ?  Awa}', 
away,  'tis  common  fashion.  Nay,  if  you  cannot 
bear  two  subtle  fronts  under  one  hood ;  idiot,  go 
by,  go  by ;  off  this  world's  stage !  O  time's 
impurity ! 

Ant.  Aye,  but  when  use  hath  taughtme  action  to 
hit  the  right  point  of  a  lady's  part,  I  shall  grow 
ignorant,  when  I  must  turn  young  prince  again, 
how  but  to  truss  my  hose. 

Fell.  Tush,  never  put  them  off;  for  women 
wear  the  breeches  still. 

Mat.  By  the  bright  honour  of  a  Milanese,  and 
the  resplendent  fulgor*  of  this  steel,  I  will  defend 
the  feminine  to  death ;  and  ding^  his  spirit  to  the 
verge  of  hell,  that  dares  divulge  a  lady's  pre- 
judice.' [Exeunt  Antonio  and  Alberto. 


'  husk— a  piece  of  wood  or  ■whalebone  worn  down  the 
front  of  the  stays  to  keep  them  straight. — Nakes. 

2  glavering — glaver  means  to  flatter,  to  leer;  Anglo- 
Saxon,  gliwan.    It  is  also  Welsh,  according  to  Nares. 

2  bracks — breaks  or  cracks. 

*  pretence — appearance,  personation. 

*  /u/?or— brightness,  sheen.  ^  ding—b-atl. 
'  prejudice — weakness. 


Fell.  Eampum  scrampum,  mount  tuftie  Tam- 
burlaine.  What  rattling  thunderclap  breaks  from 
his  lips  ? 

Alb.  Oh,  'tis  native  to  his  part.  For  acting  a 
modern  braggadocio  under  the  person  of  Matza- 
gente,  the  Duke  of  Milan's  son,  it  may  seem  to 
suit  with  good  fashion  of  coherence. 

Pie.  But  methinks  he  speaks  with  a  spruce 
attic  accent  of  adulterate  Spanish. 

Alb.  So  'tis  resolv'd.  For  Milan  being  half 
Spanish,  half  High  Dutch,  and  half  Italian,  the 
blood  of  chiefest  houses  is  corrupt  and  mongrel'd, 
so  that  you  shall  see  a  fellow  vaingloriotis  for  a 
Spaniard,  gluttonous  for  a  Dutchman,  proud  for 
an  Italian,  and  a  fantastic  idiot  for  all.  Such  a 
one  conceit'  this  Matzagente. 

Fell.  But  I  have  a  part  allotted  me,  which  I 
have  neither  able  apprehension  to  conceit,  nor 
what  I  conceit  gracious  ability  to  utter. 

Gal.  Whoop,  in  the  old  cut !  ^  Good,  show  us  a 
draught  of  thy  spirit. 

Felt.  'Tis  steady,  and  must  seem  so  impregnably 
fortressed  with  his  own  content  that  no  envious 
thought  could  ever  invade  his  spirit ;  never  sur- 
veying any  man  so  unmeasuredly  happy,  whom 
I  thought  not  justly  hateful  for  some  true  im- 
poverishment ;  never  beholding  any  favour  of 
Madam  Felicity  gracing  another,  which  his  well- 
bounded  content  persuaded  not  to  hang  in  the 
front  of  his  own  fortune;  and  therefore  as  far 
from  envying  any  man,  as  he  valued  all  men 
infinitely  distant  from  accomplished  beatitude. 
These  native  adjuncts  appropriate  to  me  the 
name  of  Felice.    But  last,  good,  thy  humour. 

[Exit  Alberto. 

Ant.  'Tis  to  be  describ'd  by  signs  and  tokens. 
For  unless  I  were  possess'd  with  a  legion  of 
spirits,  'tis  impossible  to  be  made  perspicuous  by 
any  utterance :  for  sometimes  he  must  take 
austere  state,  as  for  the  person  of  Galeatzo,  the 
son  of  the  Duke  of  Florence,  and  possess  his  ex- 
terior presence  with  a  formal  majesty ;  keep 
popularity  in  distance,  and  on  tlie  sudden  fling 
his  honoitr  so  prodigally  into  a  common  arm, 
that  he  may  seem  to  give  up  his  indiscretion  to 
the  mercy  of  vulgar  censure.  No%v  as  solemn  as 
a  traveller,  and  as  grave  as  a  Puritan's  ruff ;  with 
the  same  breath  as  slight  and  scattered  in  his 
fashion  as  a — a— anything.  Now  as  sweet  and 
neat  as  a  barber's  casting-bottle ;  ^  straight  as 
slovenly  as  the  yeasty  breast  of  an  ale-knight ; 
now  lamenting,  then  chafing,  straight  laughing  ; 
then — 

Fell.  What  then  ? 

Ant.  Faith,  I  know  not  what:  't'ad  been  a 
right  part  for  Proteus  or  Gew.''  Ho  !  blind  Gew 
would  ha'  done't  rarely,  rarely. 

Feli.  I  fear  it  is  not  possible  to  limn  so  many 
persons  in  so  small  a  tablet  as  the  compass  of  our 
plays  afford. 

Ant.  Right !  therefore  I  have  heard  that  those 
persons,  as  he  and  you,  Felice,  that  are  but 
slightly  drawn  in  this  Comedy,  should  receive 
more  exact  accomplishment  in  a  second  part ; 
which,  if  this  obtains  gracious  acceptance,  means 
to  try  his  fortune. 

Feli.  Peace,  here  comes  the  Prologue.  Clear 
the  stage.  [Exeunt. 


1  conceit — fancy,  conceive. 

2  i.e.  holla !  after  the  old  fashion. — Dilke. 

3  casting-bottle. — a  bottle  for    casting  or  sprinkling 
perfumes. 

^  Gew  was  probably  tlie  name  of  some  actor  who  had 
been  a  favourite,  and  left  the  stage  from  blindness. — 

DlLKE. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


349 


THE    PROLOGTTE. 


The  wratli  of  pleasure  and  delicious  S'n'eets, 
Begirt  the  gentle  front  of  this  fair  troop ; 
Select  and  most  respected  auditors, 
For  wit's  sake  do  not  dream  of  miracles. 
Alas !  we  shall  but  falter,  if  you  lay 
The  least  sad  weight  of  an  unused  hope 
Upon  our  weakness ;  only  we  give  up 
The  worthless  present  of  slight  idleness 
To  your  authentic  censure. '     Oh  that  our  Muse 
Had  those  abstruse  and  sinewy  faculties. 
That,  with  a  strain  of  fresh  invention. 
She  might  press  out  the  rarity  of  Art ; 

*  cen5M;e— judgment. 


The  pur'st  elixed'  juice  of  rich  conceit- 
In  your  attentive  cares  ;  that  with  the  lip 
Of  gracious  elocution  we  might  drink 
A  sound  carouse  unto  your  health  of  wit. 
But,  oh !  the  heathy  dryness  of  her  brain. 
Foil  to  your  fertile  spirits,  is  asham'd 
To  breathe  her  blushing  numbers  to  such  ears  ; 
Yet  (most  ingenious)  deign  to  vaiP  our  wants. 
With  sleek  acceptance  polish  these  rude  scenes  ; 
And  if  our  slightness  your  large  hope  beguiles, 
Check  not  with  bended  brow,  but  dimpled  smiles. 
\_Exit  Prologue. 


'  eKxecf— expressed,  refined. 
2  vail — veil,  overlook. 


2  concetJ— fancy. 


ACT  I. 

The  cornets  sound  a  battle  within. 

Enter  Antonio,  disguised  like  an  Amazon. 

Ant.  Heart,  wilt  not  break.'  and  thou,  abhorred 
life, 
Wilt  thou  still  breathe  in  my  enraged  blood  .' 
Veins,  sinews,  arteries,  why  crack  ye  not  ? 
Burst  and  divul'st'  with  anguish  of  my  grief. 
Can  man  by  no  means  creep  out  of  himself, 
And  leave  the  slough  of  viperous  grief  behind  ? 
Antonio,  hast  thou  seen  a  fight  at  sea, 
As  horrid  as  the  hideous  day  of  doom, 
Betwixt  thy  father,  Duke  of  Genoa, 
And  proud  Piero,  the  Venetian  Prince  ? 
In  which  the  sea  hath  swoln  with  Genoa's  blood, 
And  made  spring  tides  with  th' warm  reeking  gore. 
That  gushes  from  out  our  galleys' scupper  holes ; 
In  which  thy  father,  poor  Andrugio, 
Lies  sunk,  or  leapt  into  the  arms  of  chance, 
Chok'd  with  the  labouring  ocean's  brackish  foam. 
Who  even,  despite  Pietro's  cankered  hate. 
Would  with  an  armed  hand  have  seized  thy  love, 
And  linked  thee  to  the  beauteous  Mellida. 
Have  I  outlived  the  death  of  all  these  hopes .' 
Have  I  felt  anguish  pour'd  into  my  heart, 
Burning  like  balsamum  in  tender  wounds. 
And  yet  dost  live  ?     Could  not  the  fretting  sea 
Have  roll'd  me  up  in  wrinkles  of  his  brow .' 
Is  death  grown  coy  ?  or  grim  confusion  nice  ? 
That  it  will  not  accompany  a  wretch. 
But  I  must  needs  be  cast  on  Venice  shore. 
And  try  new  fortunes  with  this  strange  disguise  ? 
To  purchase  my  adored  Mellida. 

\_Tke  cornets  sound  a  flourish ;  cease. 
Hark  how  Piero's  triumphs  beat  the  air ! 
O  rugged  mischief,  how  thou  grat'st  my  heart ! 
Take  spirit,  blood  ;  disguise,  be  confident ; 
Make  a  firm  stand ;  here  rests  the  hope  of  all, — 
Lower  than  hell,  there  is  no  depth  to  fall. 

The  cornets  sound  a  synnet.^  Enter  Felice  and 
Alberto,  Castilio  and  Forobosco,  a  Page 
carrying  a  shield ;  Piero  in  armour ;  Catzo 
and  DiLDO  and  Balurdo.    All  these  (^saving 


1  divul'st— rent  asunder. 

"  synmt,  sennet,  cynet — seems  to  indicate  a  particular 
set  of  notes  on  the  trumpet  or  comet,  different  from 
a  floui'ish. — Nares. 


Piero)  armed  ivith  petroneh}    Being  entered, 
they  make  a  stand  in  divided  flies. 

Pie.  Victorious  fortune,  with  triumphant  hand, ' 
Hurleth  my  glory  'bout  this  ball  of  earth,' 
Whil'st  the  Venetian  Duke  is  heaved  up. 
On  wings  of  fair  success,  to  overlook 
The  low  cast  ruins  of  his  enemies. 
To  see  myself  ador'd  and  Genoa  quake  ; 
My  fate  is  firmer  than  mischance  can  shake. 

Fell.  Stand  ;  the  ground  trembleth. 

Pie.  Ha  !  an  earthquake .' 

Bal.  Oh  !  I  smell  a  sound. 

Feli.  Piero,  stay,  for  I  descry  a  fume 
Creeping  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 
The  breath  of  darkness,  fatal  when  'tis  whist  - 
In  greatness'  stomach ;  this  same  smoke,  call'd 

pride, 
Take  heed ;  she'll  lift  thee  to  improvidence, 
And  break  thy  neck  from  steep  security ; 
She'll  make  thee  grudge  to  let  Jehovah  share 
In  thy  successful  battles.     Oh,  she's  ominous  ; 
Enticeth  princes  to  devour  heaven. 
Swallow  omnipotence,  outstare  dread  fate. 
Subdue  eternity  in  giant  thought, — 
Heaves  up  their  hurt  with  swelling,  puffed  conceit. 
Till  their  souls  burst  with  venom'd  arrogance. 
Beware,  Piero,  Eome  itself  hath  tried. 
Confusion's  train  blows  up  this  Babel  pride. 

Pie.  Pish !    Dimitto   superos,   surnma   votorum 
attigi.^ 
Alberto,  hast  thou  yielded  up  our  fixed  decree 
Unto  the  Genoan  ambassador  ? 
Are  they  content,  if  that  their  duke  return, 
To  send  his  and  his  son  Antonio's  head 
As  pledges  steeped  in  blood  to  gain  their  peace  .' 

Alb.  With  most  obsequious  sleek-brow'd  in- 
tertain,* 
They  all  embrace  it  as  most  gracious. 

Pie.  Are  proclamations  sent  through  Italy, 
That  whosoever  brings  Andrugio's  head, 
Or  young  Antonio's,  shall  be  guerdoned 
With  twenty  thousand  double  pistolets. 
And  be  endeared  to  Piero's  love  .' 

Foro.  They  are  sent  every  way.    Sound  policy 
sweet  lord. 


1  petronel — a  carabine  or  light  gun  carried  hy  a  horse- 
man,— Nakes. 

2  whist — silent. 

3  '  I  renounce  the  gods ;  I  have  reached  the  height 
of  my  desires.' 

*  intertain — entertainment,  treatment. 


350 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Fell.  Confusion  to  these  limber  sycophants. 
No  sooner  mischief's  born  in  regency, 
But  flattery  christens  it  with  policy.i 

Pie.  Why,  then,  0  me  Celitum  excelsissimum  !  ^ 
The  intestine  malice  and  inveterate  hate 
I  always  bore  to  that  Andrugio, 
Glories  in  triumph  o'er  his  misery  ; 
Nor  shall  that  carpet-boy  Antonio 
Match  with  my  daughter,  sweet-cheeked  Mellida. 
No  ;  the  public  power  makes  my  faction  strong. 
Fell.   Ill,   when  public   power  strengtheneth 

private  wrong. 
Pie.  'Tis  horse-like  not  for  a  man  to  know  his 

force. 
Feli.  'Tis  god-like  for  a  man  to  feel  remorse. 
Pie.  Pish  !  I  prosecute  my  family's  revenge. 
Which  I'll  pursue  with  such  a  burning  chase. 
Till  I  have  dj-ied  up  all  Andrugio's  blood  ; 
Weak  rage  that  with  slight  pity  is  withstood. 

[The  cornets  sound  a  flourish. 
What  means  that  fresh  triumphal  flourish  sound  ? 
Alb.  The  Prince  of  Milan,  and  young  Florence 
heir, 
Approach  to  gratulate  your  victory. 

Pie.  We'll  girt  them  with  an  ample  waste  of 
love ; 
Conduct  them  to  our  presence  royally. 
Let  volleys  of  the  great  artillery 
From  off  our  galleys'  banks  s  play  prodigal. 
And  sound  loud  welcome  from  their  bellowing 
mouths.  [Exeunt  all  hut  Piero. 

The  cornets  sound  a  cynet.  Enter  above.,  Mel- 
lida, RosSALiNE,  and  Flavia.  Enter  belotv, 
Galeatzo  with  Attendants  ;  Pieeo  mecteth 
him,  emhraceth ;  at  which  the  cornets  sound 
a  flourish;  Piero  and  Galeatzo  exeunt; 
the  rest  stand  still. 

Mel.  What  prince  was  that  passed  through 

my  father's  guard  ? 
Fla.  'Twas  Galeatzo,  the  young  Florentine. 
Ros.  Troth,  one  that  will  besiege  thy  maiden- 
head; 
Enter  the  walls,  i'faith  (sweet  Mellida), 
If  that  thy  flankers  ■*  be  not  cannon-proof. 
Mel.  Oh,  Mary  Ambree !  *  good,  thy  judgment, 
wench ; 
Thy  bright  election's  clear :  s  what  will  he  prove  ? 

Ros.  Hath  a  short  finger  and  a  naked  chin, 
A  skipping  eye ; '  dare  lay  my  judgment  (faith) 
His  love  is  glibbery ; »  there's  no  hold  on't,  wench. 
Give  me  a  husband  whose  aspect  is  firm  ; 
A  full  cheeked  gallant  with  a  bouncing  thigh ; 
Oh,  he  is  the  paradizo  dell  madonne  contento. 
Mel.  Even  such  a  one  was  my  Antonio. 

[The  cornets  sound  a  cynet. 
Ros.  By  my  nine  and  thirtieth  servant  ^  (sweet) 
Thou  art  in  love,  but  stand  on  tiptoed  fair ; 
Here    comes    Saint    Tristram    Tirlery    Whiffe, 
i'faith. 


1  The  meaning  is,  'no  sooner  is  any  mischievous  and 
bloody  measure  conceived  and  proposed  by  the  sovereign, 
but  their  flatterers  term  it  policy.' — Dilkb. 

2  The  only  way  by  which  we  can  make  sense  of  this 
is  to  make  Celitum  =  Coelitum,  and  render  it  '  0  me,  the 
most  exalted  of  the  celestials ! ' 

*  banks — sides. 

*  flankers — entrenchments  to  protect  the  flank. 

*  Mary  Ambree — An  English  heroine,  immortalized 
by  her  valour  at  the  siege  of  Ghent  in  1584,  and  cele- 
brated in  the  ballads  of  the  time.  Her  name  was  pro- 
verbially applied  to  women  of  strength  and  spirit. 

"  i.e.,  as  I  conceive, '  thy  judgment  is  good  in  cases  of 
this  kind.' — Dilke. 
'  A  skipping  eye— a  wild,  a  frolic  eye. — Dile^e. 
8  glibbery— sWpiiexy,  ft-om  glib,  smooth. 

*  servant — lover. 


Enter  Matzagexte  ;  Piero  meets  him ;  emhraceth ; 

at  ivhich  the  cot-nets  sound  a  flourish:  they  two 

stand,  using  seeming  compliments,  whilst  the 

scene  passeth  above. 

Mel.  S.  Mark,  S.  Mark!  what  kind  of  thing 

appears  ? 
Ros.  For  fancy's  passion,  spit  upon  him ;  figh 
His  face  is  varnished.     In  the  name  of  love, 
What  countiy  bred  that  creature  ? 
Mel.  What  is  he,  Flavia  ? 
Fla.  The  heir  of  Milan,  Seignior  Matzagente. 
Ros.  Matzagente!  now,  by  my  pleasure's  hope, 
He  is  made  Uke  a  tilting  staff ;  and  looks 
For  all  the  world  like  an  o'er-roasted  pig : 
A  great  tobacco-taker  too,  that's  flat ; 
For  his  eyes  look  as  if  they  had  been  hung 
In  the  smoke  of  his  nose. 
Mel.  What '   husband  wiU    he    prove,  sweet 

Eossaline .' 
Ros.  Avoid  him  ;  for  he  hath  a  dwindled  leg, 
A  low  forehead,  and  a  thin  coal-black  beard ; 
And  will  be  jealous  too,  believe  it,  sweet ; 
For  his  chin  sweats,  and  hath  a  gander  neck, 
A  thin  lip,  and  a  little  monkish  ej^e ; 
Precious,  what  a  slender  waist  he  hath ! 
He  looks  like  a  may-pole,  or  notched  stick ; 
He'll  snap  in  two  at  every  little  strain. 
Give  me  a  husband  that  will  fill  mine  arms, 
Of  steady  judgment,  quick  and  nimble  sense  ; 
Fools  relish  not  a  lady's  excellence. 

[Exeunt  all  on  the  lower  stage ;  at  which  the 
cornets  sound  a  flourish,  and  a  peal  of 
shot  is  given. 
Mel.  The  triumph's  ended,  but  look,  Kossaline, 
What  gloomy  soul  in  strange  accustrements  2 
Walks  on  the  pavement  ? 
Ros.  Good  sweet,  let's  to  her ;  pr'ythee,  Mellida. 
Mel.  How  covetous  thou  art  of  novelties ! 
Ros.  Pish!  'tis  our  nature  to  desire  things 
That  are  thought  strangers  to  the  common  cut. 
Mel.  I  am  exceedingly  willing,  but — 
Ros.  But  what  ?  pr'ythee  go  down ;  let's  see  her 
face: 
God  send  that  neither  wit  nor  beauty 'wants 
Those  tempting  sweets,  affection's  adamants. 

[Exeunt. 

Ant.  Come  down,  she  comes  like — oh,  no  simile 

Is  precious,  choice,  or  elegant  enough 

To  illustrate  her  descent;  leap  heart,  she  comes, — 

She  comes!  smile  heaven,  and  softest  southern 

wind 
Kiss  her  cheek  gently  with  perfumed  breath. 
She  comes :  creation's  purity,  admir'd, 
Ador'd  amazing  rarity, — she  comes! 
Oh  now,  Antonio,  press  thy  spirit  forth 
In  following  passion,  knit  thy  senses  close, 
Heap  up  thy  powers,  double  all  thy  man. 

Enter  Mellida,  Eossaline,  and  Flavia. 
She  comes !    Oh,  how  her  eyes  dart  wonder  on 

my  heart ! 
Mount  blood,  soul  to  my  lips,  taste  Hebe's  cup ; 
Stand  firm  on  deck,  when  beauty's  close  fight's  *  up. 

Mel.  Lady,  your  strange  habit  doth  beget 
Our  pregnant  thoughts,  even  great  of  much  desire, 
To  be  acquaint  with  your  condition. 
Ros.  Good,  sweet  lady,   without   more    cere- 
monies. 
What  country  claims  your  'birth  ?   and,  sweet, 
your  name  ? 

1  Tr/ja<— what  sort  of. 

^accustrements — accoutrements;  old  Fr.  accuslre,  to 
accoutre. 

3  close  fights  are  things  used  to  shelter  the  men  from 
the  enemy  in  action.  Antonio's  meaning  is,  there- 
fore, '  I  must  meet  her  resolutely,  because  by  my  cover- 
ing or  disguise  my  real  person  is  hid  from  her.' — Dilke. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


!5i 


Ant.  In  hope  your  bounty  will  extend  itself 
In  selfsame  nature  of  fair  courtesy, 
I'll  shun  all  niceness :  my  name's  Florizell, 
My  country  Scythia ;  I  am  Amazon 
Cast  on  this  shore  by  fury  of  the  sea. 
Ros.  Nay,  faith,  sweet  creature,  we'll  not  veil 
our  names. 
It  pleas'd  the  font  to  dip  me  Eossaline  j 
That  lady  bears  the  name  of  Mellida, 
The  Duke  of  Venice'  daughter. 

Ant.  Madam,  I  am  oblig'd  to  kiss  your  hand. 
By  imposition  of  a  now  dead  man. 

[To  Mellida,  hissing  her  hand. 
Ros.  Now,    by  my  troth,  I   long,    beyond  all 
thought. 
To  know  the  man ;  sweet  beauty,  deign  his  name. 
Ant.  Lady,  the  circumstance  is  tedious. 
Ros.  Troth,  not  a  whit ;  good  fair,  let's  have 
it  all: 
I  love  not,  I,  to  have  a  jot  left  out, 
If  the  tale  come  from  a  lov'd  orator. 

Ant.  Vouchsafe  me,  then,  your  hush'd  observ- 
ances.i 
Vehement  in  pursuit  of  strange  novelties, 
After  long  travel  through  the  Asian  main, 
I  shipp'd  my  hopeful  thoughts  for  Brittany ; 
Longing  to  view  great  Nature's  miracle, 
The  glory  of  our  sex,  whose  fame  doth  strike 
Remotest  ears  with  adoration. 
Sailing  some  two  months  with  inconstant  winds. 
We  view'd  the  glistering  Venetian  forts, 
To  which  we  made:  when  lo!  some  three  leagues 

off, 
We  might  descry  a  horrid  spectacle  ; 
The  issue  of  black  fury  strew'd  the  sea 
With  tattered  carcases  of  splitting  ships, 
Half  sinking,  burning,  floating,  topsy-turvy. 
Not  far  from  these  sad  ruins  of  fell  rage, 
We  might  behold  a  creature  press  the  waves ; 
Senseless  he  sprawl'd,  all  notched  with  gaping 

wounds ; 
To  him  we  made,  and  (short)  we  took  him  up ; 
The  first  thing  he  spake  was, — Mellida ! 
And  then  he  swooned. 
3Iel.  Ay  me ! 
Ant.  Why  sigh  you,  fair  ? 
Mel.  Nothing  but  little  humours ;  good  sweet, 

on. 
Ant.  His  wounds  being  dress'd,  and  life  re- 
covered, 
AVe  'gan  discourse  ;  when  lo !  the  sea  grew  mad, 
His  bowels  rumbling  with  wind  passion  , 
Straight  swarthy  darkness  popp'd  out  Phoebus'  eye, 
And  blurr'd  the  jocund  face  of  bright-cheeked 

day; 
Whilst  crudl'd  ^  fogs  masked  even  darkness'  brow : 
Heaven  bade's  good  night,  and  the  rocks  groan'd 
At  the  intestine  uproar  of  the  main. 
Now  gusty  flaws  3  struck  up  the  very  heels 
Of  our  mainmast,  whilst  the  keen  lightning  shot 
Through  the  black  bowels  of  the  quaking  air ; 
Straight  chops  a  wave,  and  in  his  sliftred''  paunch 
Down  falls  our  ship,  and  there  he  breaks  his 

neck: 
Which  in  an  instant  up  was  belch'd  again. 
When  thus  this  martyr'd  soul  began  to  sigh : 
'  Give  me  your  hand  (quoth  he),  now  do  you  grasp 
Th'  unequal  mirror  s  of  ragg'd  misery : 
Is't  not  a  horrid  storm  ?     Oh,  well-shap'd  sweet. 


^  ohservances — attentions. 
-  crudl'd — curdled,  thick. 
3  gmly  flaws — sudden  blasts. — Dilke. 
■*  sliftred — cracked,  opened. 

5  The  unequal  mirror — i.e.  the  partial  and  unjust  re- 
presentative.— Dilke. 


Could  your  quick  eye  strike  through  these  gashed 

wounds, 
You  should  behold  a  heart,  a  heart,  fair  creature, 
Kaging  more  wild  than  is  this  frantic  sea. 
Wilt  do  me  a  favour,  if  thou  chance  survive ; 
But  visit  Venice,  kiss  the  precious  white 
Of'my  most— nay,  all  epithets  are  base 
To  attribute  to  gracious  Mellida : 
Tell  her  the  spirit  of  Antonio 
Wisheth  his  last  gasp  breath'd  upon  her  breast.' 

Ros.  Why  weeps  soft-hearted  Elorizell  ? 

Ant.  Alas,  the  flinty  rocks  groan'd  at  his  plaints. 
Tell  her  (quoth  he)  that  her  obdurate  sire 
Hath  crack'd  his  bosom  ;  therewithal  he  wept. 
And  thus  sigh'd  on.     The  sea  is  merciful ; 
Look  how  it  gapes  to  bury  all  my  grief : 
Well,    thou    shalt  have   it,    thou   shalt  be  his 

tomb : 
My  faith  in  my  love  live  ;  in  thee,  die  woe. 
Die  unmatch'd  anguish,  die  Antonio. 
With  that  he  totter'd  from  the  reeling  deck. 
And  down  he  sunk. 

Ros.  Pleasure's   body,  what  makes   my  lady 
weep? 

Mel.  Nothing,  sweet  Eossaline,  but  the  air's 
sharp. 
My  father's  palace,  madam,  will  be  proud 
To  entertain  your  presence,  if  you'll  deign 
To  make  repose  within.    Ay  me ! 

Ant.  Lady,  our  fashion  is  not  curious,  i 

Ros.  Faith,  all  the  nobler,  'tis  more  generous. 

Mel.  Shall  I  then  know  how  fortune  fell  at 
last. 
What  succour  came,  or  what  strange  fate  ensued  ? 

Ant.  Most  willingly:   but  this  same  court  is 
vast, 
And  public  to  the  staring  multitude. 

Ros.  Sweet  lady,  nay  good  sweet,  now  by  my 
troth 
We'll  be  bedfellows  :  dirt  on  compliment  froth. 
[_Exeunt;  Eossaline  giving  Antonio  the  way. 


ACT  n. 

Enter  Catzo  (icith  a  capon)  eating,  Dildo 
folloioing  him. 

Dil.  Ha,   Catzo,  your  master  wants   a  clean 
trencher :  do  you  hear  ? 
Balurdo  calls  for  your  diminutive  attendance. 

Cat.  The  belly  hath  no  ears,  Dildo. 

Dil.  Good  pug,"  give  me  some  capon. 

Cat.  No  capon,  no,  not  a  bite,  ye  smooth  bully ; 
capon's  no  meat  for  Dildo.  Milk,  milk,  ye  glib- 
bery  urchin,  is  food  for  irlfants. 

Bil.  Upon  mine  honour. 

Cat.  Your  honour  with  a  paugh  ?  'slid,  now 
every  Jack-an-apes  loads  his  back  with  the 
golden  coat  of  honour ;  every  ass  puts  on  the 
lion's  skin  and  roars  his  honour :  upon  your 
honour!  By  my  lady's  pantable,^  I  fear  I  shall 
live  to  hear  a  vintner's  boy  ciy,  'Tis  rich  neat 
canary,  upon  my  honour. 

Dil.  My  stomach's  up. 

Cat.  I  think  thou  art  hungiy. 

Dil.  The  match  of  fury  is  lighted,  fastened  to 
the  linstock  *  of  rage,  and  will  pj-esently  set  fire 


1  i.e.  the  manners  and  customs  of  our  nation  are  not 
ceremonious. — Dilke. 

-pug — an  occasional  term  of  good  fellowship  or  inti- 
macy, as  monkey  is  now. 

^ pantable — a  sort  of  high  shoe  or  slipper;  perhaps 
corrupted  from  pantofle. 

*  linstock.   See  note  1,  p.  220,  col.  1. 


352 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


to  the  touch-hole  of  intemperance,  discharging 
the  double  culverin  of  my  incensement  in  the 
face  of  thy  opprobrious  speech. 

Cat.  I'll  stop  the  barrel  thus ;  good  Dildo,  set 
not  fire  to  the  touch-hole. 

Dil.  My  rage  is  stopt,  and  I  will  eat  to  the 
health  of  the  fool,  thy  master  Castillo. 

Cat.  And  I  will  suck  the  juice  of  the  capon, 
to  the  health  of  the  idiot,  thy  master  Balurdo. 

Dil.  Faith,  our  masters  are  like  a  case  of 
rapiers  sheathed  in  one  scabbard  of  folly. 

Cat.  Eight  Dutch  blades.  But  was't  not  rare 
sport  at  the  sea-battle,  whilst  rounce  robble  hobble 
roared  from  the  ship  sides,  to  view  our  masters 
pluck  their  plumes  and  drop  their  feathers,  for 
fear  of  being  men  of  mark  ? 

Dil.  Slud  (cried  Signior  Balurdo)  ;  Oh  for  Don 
Bessicler's  armour,  in  the  mirror  of  knighthood ! 
What  coil's '  here  ?  Oh  for  an  armour  cannon- 
proof  !  Oh,  more  cable,  more  featherbeds,  more 
featherbeds,  more  cable,  till  he  had  as' much  as 
my  cable  hatband  -  to  fence  him  ! 

Enter  Flavia  in  haste,  with  a  rehato.* 

Cat.  Buxom  Flavia,  can  you  sing  ?  song,  song. 

Fla.  My  sweet  Dildo,  I  am  not  for  you  at  this 
time.  Madam  Eossaline  stays  for  a  fresh  ruff  to 
appear  in  the  presence.     Sweet,  away. 

Dil.  'Twill  not  be  so  put  off,  delicate,  delicious, 
spark-eyed,  sleek-skinned,  slender- waisted,  clean- 
legged,  rarely  shaped. 

Fla.  Who,  I'll  be  at  all  your  service  another 
season.    My  faith,  there's  reason  in  all  things. 

Dil.  Would  I  were  reason,  then,  that  I  mig'nt 
be  in  all  things. 

Cat.  The  breefe'  and  the  semiquaver  is,  we 
must  have  the  descant  you  made  upon  our  names, 
ere  you  depart. 

Fla.  Faith,  the  song  will  seem  to  come  off 
hardly.  * 

Cat.  Troth,  not  a  whit,  if  you  seem  to  come 
off  quickly. 

Fla.  Pert  Catzo,  knock  it  lustily  then. 

[They  sing. 

Enter  Fokoeosco,  with  iioo  torches;  Castilio 
singing  fantastically  ;  Kossaline  running  a 
caranto  pace ;  ^  and  Balukdo  (Felice  fol- 
lowing') wondering  at  them  all. 

Foro.  Make  place,  gentlemen  !  Pages,  hold 
torches  ;  the  prince  approacheth  the  presence. 

Dil.  What  squeaking  cart-wheel  have  we 
here  ?  ha !  Make  place,  gentlemen  !  Pages,  hold 
torches  ;  the  prince  approacheth  the  presence. 

Ros.  Faugh,  what  a  strong  scent's  here !  some- 
body useth  to  wear  socks. 

Bal.  By  this  fair  candle-light,  'tis  not  my  feet ; 
I  never  wore  socks  since  I  sucked  pap. 

Ros.  Savourly  put  off. 

Cast.  Ha,  her  wit  stings,  blisters,  galls  off  the 
skin  with  the  tart  acrimony  of  her  sharp  quick- 
ness. By  sweetness,  she  is  the  very  Pallas  that 
flew  out  of  Jupiter's  brainpan  !     Delicious  crea- 


1  coil — tumult,  difficulty. 

-  The  liatband  was  a  distinguishing  feature  of  the 
nobiUty  and  gentry  of  these  times,  on  the  adornment 
of  which  comparatively  large  sums  were  expended. — 

DiLKE. 

3  rebato—VL  falling  collar  or  band  for  a  ruff. 

^  The  breefe,  or  breve,  was  formerly  the  longest  note 
in  music,  twice  the  length  of  the  semibreve.  Perhaps 
Catzo  uses  the  phrase  facetiously  for  '  the  long  and  the 
short.' 

*  hardly— %t\iRy. 

"  a  caranto  pace — a  very  swift  pace ;  the  caranto  was 
some  kind  of  svntt  dance,  sometimes  mentioned  in  con- 
junction with  the  lavolta ;  Lat.  curro,  to  run. 


ture,  vouchsafe  me '  j'our  service  :  by  the  purity 
of  bounty,  I  shall  be  proud  of  such  bondage. 

Ros.  I  vouchsafe  it ;  be  my  slave.  Signior 
Balurdo,  wilt  thou  be  my  servant  too  ? 

Bal.  O  God !  forsooth  in  very  good  earnest ; 
la !  you  would  make  me  as  a  man  should  say,  as 
a  man  should  say. 

Fell.  Slud,  sweet  beauty,  will  you  deign  him 
your  service  ? 

Ros.  Oh,  your  fool  is  your  only  servant.  But, 
good  Felice,  why  art  thou  so  sad  ?  a  penny  for 
thy  thought,  man. 

Fell.  I  sell  not  my  thought  so  cheap ;  I  value 
my  meditation  at  a  higher  rate. 

Bal.  In  good  sober  sadness,^  sweet  mistress, 
you  should  have  had  my  thought  for  a  penny. 
By  this  crimson  satin,  that  cost  eleven  shillings, 
thirteen  pence,  threepence  halfpenny  a  yard,  that 
you  should,  la ! 

Ros.  What  was  thy  thought,  good  servant  ? 

Bal.  Marry  forsooth,  how  many  strike^  of 
pease  would  feed  a  hog  fat  against  Christide  ? 

Ros.  Paugh !  servant,  rub  out  my  rheum,*  it 
soils  the  presence. 

Cast.  By  my  wealthiest  thought,  you  grace  my 
shoe  with  an  unmeasured  honour.  I  will  pre- 
serve the  sole  of  it,  as  a  most  sacred  relic,  for 
this  service. 

Ros.  I'll  spit  in  thy  mouth,  an'  thou  wilt,  to 
grace  thee. 

Felt.  Oh  that  the  stomach  of  this  queasy  age 
Digests  or  brooks  such  raw,  unseasoned  gobs,^ 
And  vomits  not  them  forth  !  Oh,  slavish  sots  ! 
Servant,  quoth  you  ?    faugh !    if  a  dog  should 

crave 
And  beg  her  service,  he  should  have  it  straight. 
She'd  give  him  favours,  too  ;  to  lick  her  feet, 
Or  fetch  her  fan,  or  some  such  drudgery  : 
A  good  dog's  office,  which  these  amorists 
Triumph  of.    'Tis  rare  ;  well,  give  her  more  ass, 
More  sot,  as  long  as  dropping  of  her  nose 
Is  sworn  rich  pearl  by  such  low  slaves  as  those. 

Ros.  Flavia,  attend  me  to  attire  me. 

[^Exeunt  Eossalixe  arid  Flavia. 

Bal.  In  sad  good  earnest,  sir,  you  have  touched 
the  very  bare  of  naked  truth  ;  my  silk  stock- 
ing hath  a  good  gloss,  and  I  thank  my  planets 
my  leg  is  not  altogether  unpropitiously  shaped. 
There's  a  word  :  unpropitiously  ?  I  think  I 
shall  speak  unpropitiously  as  well  as  any  cour- 
tier in  Italy. 

Fo}-o.  So  help  me  your  sweet  bounty,  you  have 
the  most  graceful  presence,  applausive  elecuty,* 
amazing  volubility,  polished  adornation,'  de- 
licious affability — 

Fell.  Whop :  fut,  how  he  tickles  yon  trout 
under  the  gills !  You  shall  see  him  take  him  by 
and  by  with  groping  flattery. 

Fo7-o.  That  ever  ravished  the  ear  of  wonder. 
By  your  sweet  self,  than  whom  I  know  not  a 
more  exquisite,  illustrate,  accomplished,  pure, 
respected,  ador'd,  observed,  precious,  real,  mag- 
nanimous, bounteous :  if  you  have  an  idle  rich 
cast  jerkin,  or  so,  it  shall  not  be  cast  away,  if — 


1  vouchsafe  me,  &c. — i.e.  vouchsafe  to  have  me  as  a 
servant,  follower,  lover. 

2  sadness — earnestness. 

3  strike — still  used  provincially  for  bushel. 

*  rheum  here,  we  suppose,  means  saliva  which  she 
had  ejected  on  the  floor  in  disgust  at  Balurdo's  remark. 

5  gobs — morsels,  mouthf  uls.  Old  Fr.  5106,  a  morsel ; 
Fr.  gober,  to  gulp  do^^^l,  swallow. 

8  applausive  elecuty — plausible  elocution,  or  eloquence. 

^  ottonirt/ion  means  ornament;  here  it  apparently  re- 
fers to  Balurdo's  bearing  or  manners. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


553 


ha?  here's  a  forehead,  an  eye,  a  head,  a  hair, 
that  would  make  a — or  if  you  have  any  spare 
pair  of  silver  spurs,  I'll  do  you  as  much  right  in 
all  kind  offices — 

Fell.  Of  a  kind  parasite. 

Foro.  As  any  of  my  mean  fortunes  shall  be 
able  to. 

Bal.  As  I  am  a  true  Christian  now,  thou  hast 
won  the  spurs. 

Fdi.  For  flattery. 
Oh,  how  I  hate  that  same  Egyptian  louse  ; 
A  rotten  maggot,  that  lives  by  stinking  filth 
Of  tainted  spirits !    Vengeance  to  such  dogs, 
That  sprout  by  gnawing  senseless  carrion ! 

Enter  Alberto. 

Alb.  Gallants,  saw  you  my  mistress,  the  Lady 
Kossaline  "i 

Foro.  My  mistress,  the  Lady  Eossaline,  left 
the  presence  even  now. 

Cast.  My  mistress,  the  Lady  Eossaline,  with- 
drew her  gracious  aspect  even  now. 

Bal.  My  mistress,  the  Lady  Eossaline,  with- 
drew her  gracious  aspect  even  now. 

Fdi.  Well  said.  Echo. 

Alh.  My  mistress,  and  his  mistress,  and  your 
mistress,  and  the  dog's  mistress :  precious  dear 
heaven,  that  Alberto  lives  to  have  such  rivals ! 
Slid,  I  have  been  searching  every  private  room, 
Corner,  and  secret  angle  of  the  court ; 
And  yet,  and  yet,  and  yet  she  lives  conceal'd. 
Good,  sweet  Felice,  tell  me  how  to  find 
My  bright-faced  mistress  out. 

Fell.  Why,  man,  cry  out  for  lanthorn  and 
candle-light ;  for  'tis  your  only  way  to  find  your 
bright  flaming  wench  with  your  light  burning 
torch ;  for  most  commonly  these  light  creatures 
live  in  darkness. 

Alh._  Away,  you  heretic,  you'll  be  burnt  for — 

Fdi.  Go,  you  amorous  hound,  follow  the  scent 
of  your  mistress'  shoe ;  away  !  \_Exit  Alh. 

Foro.  Make  a  fair  presence,  boys ;  advance 
your  lights  ;  the  princess  makes  approach. 

Bal.  And  please  the  gods,  now  in  very  good 
deed,  la,  you  shall  see  me  tickle  the  measures 
for  the  heavens.     Do  my  hangers '  show  "i 

Enter  PiEKO,  Antonio,  Mellida,  Eossaline, 
Galeatzo,  Matzagente,  Alberto,  and 
Flavia.  As  they  enter,  Felice  and  Cas- 
TiLio  make  a  rank  for  the  Duke  to  pass 
through.  Fokobosco  ushers  the  Duke  to  his 
state ;  then,  whilst  Piero  speaketh  his  first 
speech,  Mellida  is  taken  by  Galeatzo  and 
Matzagente  to  dance,  they  supporting  her; 
Eossaline,  in  like  manner,  by  Alberto  and 
Balurdo  ;  Flavia  by  Felice  and  Castilio. 

Pie.  Beauteous    Amazon,    sit  and    seat    your 

thoughts 
In  the  reposure  of  most  soft  content. 
Sound  music  there.     Nay,  daughter,  clear  your 

eyes 
From  these  dull  fogs  of  misty  discontent : 
Look  sprightly,  girl.     What  ?  though  Antonio's 

drown'd. 
That  peevish  dotard  on  thy  excellence, 
That  hated  issue  of  Andi'ugio  : 
Yet  may'st  thou  triumph  in  my  victories ;  ■ 
Since,  lo,  the  high-born  bloods  of  Italy 
Sue  for  thy  seat  of  love.     Let  music  sound, 
Beauty  and  youth  run  descant  2  on  love's  ground. 

1  hangers— that  part  of  a  sword-belt  in  ^-liicli  the 
weapon  was  suspended,  usually  fringed  and  ornamented 
with  various  colours.— Nares. 

_  2  run  descant.   Descant  was  what  is  now  called  a  varia- 
tion in  music;  the  subject  varied  was  called  the  ground. 


Mat.  Lady,  erect  your  gracious  symmetry  ; 
Shine  in  the  sphere  of  sweet  affection  : 
Your  eye  is  heavy,  as  the  heart  of  night. 

J\leL  My  thoughts  are  as  black  as  your  beard  ; 
my  fortunes  as  ill-proportioned  as  your  legs  ;  and 
all  the  powers  of  my  mind  as  leaden  as  your  wit, 
and  as  dusty  as  your  face  is  swarthy. 

Gal.  Faith,  sweet,  I'll  lay  thee  on  the  lips  for 

that  jest. 
Mel.  I  pray  thee  intrude  not  on  a  dead  man's 

right. 
Gal.  No,  but  the  living's  just  possession. 
Thy  lips,  and  love,  are  mine. 
Mel.    You  ne'er   took  seizin '   on   them   yet. 
Forbear : 
There's  not  a  vacant  corner  of  my  heart, 
But  all  is  fiU'd  with  dead  Antonio's  loss. 
Then  urge  no  more  ;  oh  leave-  to  love  at  all ; 
'Tis  less  disgraceful  not  to  mount,  than  fall. 
Mat.  Bright  and  refulgent  lady,  deign  your 
ear: 
You  see  this  blade, — had  it  a  courtly  lip, 
It  would  divulge  my  valour,  plead  my  love, 
Jostle  that  skipping  feeble  amorist 
Out  of  your  love's  seat;  I  am  Matzagente. 

Gal.  Hai-k  thee,  I  pray  thee  taint  not  thy  sweet 
ear 
With  that  sot's  gabble ;  by  thy  beauteous  cheek, 
He  is  the  flaggiug'st  bulrush  that  e'er  droopt 
With  each  slight  mist  of  rain.     But  with  pleas'd 

eye 
Smile  on  my  courtship. 
Mel.   What  said  you,  sir?  Alas!  my  thought 
was  fix'd 
Upon  another  object.     Good,  forbear  ; 
I  shall  but  weep.    Ay  me,  what  boots  a  tear  ! 
Come,  come,  let's  dance.    Oh  music,  thou  distill'st 
More  sweetness  in  us  than  this  jarring  world  : 
Both  time  and    measure  from    thy  strains   do 

breathe, 
Whilst  from  the  channel  of  this  dirt  doth  flow 
Nothing  but  timeless  grief,  unmeasui-ed  woe. 
Ant.  Oh  how  impatience  cramps  my  cracked 
veins. 
And  cruddles  thick  my  blood,  with  boiling  rage ! 
Oh  eyes,  why  leap  you  not  like  thunderbolts. 
Or  cannon  bullets  in  my  rival's  face  ; 
Oy  me  infeliche  misero,  o  lamentevol  fata  ?  * 
Alb.  What  means  the  lady  fall  upon  the  ground? 
Ros.  Belike  the  falling  sickness. 
Ant.  I  cannot  brook  this  sight,  my  thoughts 
grow  wild : 
Here  lies  a  wretch,  on  whom  heaven  never  smiled. 
Ros.  What,  servant,  ne'er  a  word,  and  I  here, 
man? 
I  would  shoot  some  speech  forth,  to  strike  the 

time 
With  pleasing  touch  of  amorous  compliment. 
Say  sweet,  what  keeps  thy  mind,  what  think'st 
thou  on  ? 
Alb.  Nothing. 
Ros.  What's  that  nothing  ? 
Alb.  A  woman's  constancy. 
Ros.  Good,  why,  would'st  thou  have  us  sluts, 
and  never  shift  the  vesture  of   our  thoughts? 
Away  for  shame. 
Alb.  Oh  no,  th'art  too  constant  to  afflict  my 
heart, 
Too  too  fii-m  fixed  in  unmoved  scorn. 


'  sekm — possession. 

2  ieaue— cease. 

3  Tills  and  other  passages  of  the  play  are  'most  wan- 
tonly disfigured  by  the  sudden  introduction  of  .  .  . 
Italian  rhymes,  whicli  gives  the  whole  an  air  of  bur- 
lesque.' We  must  leave  the  reader  to  make  his  best  of 
them. 


354 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Eos.  Pisli,  pish ;  I  fixed  in  unmoved  sconi  ? 
Why,  I'll  love  thee  to-night. 

Alb.  But  whom  to-morrow  ? 

Eos.  Faith,  as  the  toy^  puts  me  in  the  head. 

Bal.  An  pleased  the  marble  heavens,  now 
would  I  might  he  the  toy,  to  put  you  in  the  head, 
Idndly  to  conceit  my  my  my :  pray  you  give  in 
an  epithet  for  love. 

Fell.  Eoariug,  roaring. 

Bal.  Oh  love,  thou  hast  murdered  me,  made 
me  a  shadow,  an  you  hear  not  Balurdo,  but 
Balurdo's  ghost. 

Eos.  Can  a  ghost  speak  ? 

Bal.  Scurvily,  as  I  do. 

Eos.  And  walk  ? 

Bal.  After  their  fashion. 

Eos.  And  eat  apples  ? 

Bal.  In  a  sort,  in  their  crarb. 

Fell.  Pr'ythee,  Flavia,    o  my  mistress. 

Fla.  Your  reason,  gooil  Felice  ? 

Felt.  Faith,  I  have  nineteen  mistresses  already, 
and  I  not  much  disdain  that  thou  should'st  make 
up  the  full  score. 

Fla.  Oh,  I  hear  you  make  common  places  of 
your  mistresses,  to  perform  the  ofiB.ce  of  memory 
by.  Pray  you,  in  ancient  times  were  not  those 
satin  hose?  In  good  faith,  now  they  are  new 
dyed,  pinked,-  and  scoured,  they  show  as  well  as 
if  they  were  new. 
What,  mute.  Balm-do? 

Fell.  Ay,  in  faith,  an  'twere  not  for  printing 
and  painting,  my  breech  and  your  face  would  be 
out  of  reparation. 

Bal.  Ay,  an  faith,  an  'twere  not  for  printing 
and  painting,  my  breech  and  your  face  would  be 
out  of  reparation. 

Fell.  Good  again.  Echo. 

Fla.    Thou  art,  by  nature,  too  foul  to  be 
affected.' 

Fell.  And  thou,  by  art,  too  fair  to  be  beloved. 
By  wit's  life,  most  spark  spiiits,  but  hard  chance. 
La  ty  dine. 

Pie.  Gallants,  the  night  grows  old,  and  downy 
sleep 
Courts  us,  to  entertain  his  company : 
Our  tired  limbs,  bruis'd  in  the  morning  fight, 
Entreat  soft  rest,  and  gentle  hush'd  repose. 
Fill  out  Greek  wines ;  prepare  fresh  cresset  light  :* 
We'll  have  a  banquet :  Princes,  then  good  night. 

The  cornets  sound  asynnet,  and  the  JivESBgoes 

out  in  state.    As  they  are  going  out,  Antonio 

stays  Mellida  ;  the  rest  exeunt. 
Ant.  What  means  these  scatter'd  looks  ?    Why 

tremble  you  ?    ■ 
Why  quake  j^our  thoughts,  in  your  distracted  eyes? 
Collect  yoiu-  spirits,  madam ;  what  do  you  see  ? 
Dost  not  behold  a  ghost  ? 
Look,  look  where  he  stalks,  wrapt  up  in  clouds 

of  grief. 
Darting  his  soul  upon  thy  wond'ring  eyes. 
Look,  he  comes  towards  thee;  see,  he  stretches 

out 
His  wretched  arms  to  girt  thy  loved  waist, 
With  a  most  wish'd  embrace :  seest  him  not  yet? 
Nor  yet  ?     Ha,  Melhda ;  thou  well  may'st  err : 
For  look ;  he  walks  not  like  Antonio, — 
Like  that  Antonio  that  this  morning  shone    , 


1  toy — wliim. 

-  ^mteii— scalloped  and  otherwise  ornamented. 

2  affected — loved. 

*  cresset  light — an  open  lamp,  exhibited  on  a  heacon, 
carried  upon  a  pole,  or  otherwise  suspended.  The  ety- 
mology is  probably  croiset,  a  crucible  or  open  pot,  which 
always  contained  the  light.  Colgrave  describes  it  as 
made  of  ropes  wreathed,  pitched,  and  put  into  small 
and  open  cages  of  iron.— Nakes. 


In  glistering  habihments  of  ai'ms. 
To  seize  his  love,  sjiite  of  her  father's  spite, — 
But  like  himself,  wretched  and  miserable, 
Banish'd,  forlorn,  despairing,  struck  quite  through, 
With  sinking  grief,  rolled  up  in  sevenfold  doubles 
Of  plagues,  vanquishable :  hark !  he  speaks  to 
thee. 

Mel.  Alas,  I  cannot  hear,  nor  see  him. 

Ant.  Why?  all  this  night  about  the  room  he 
stalk'd, 
And  groan'd,  and  howl'd  with  raging  passion, 
To  view  his  love  (life-blood  of  all  his  hopes. 
Crown  of  his  fortunes)  cHpt  ^  by  strangers'  arms. 
Look  but  behind  thee. 

3Iel.  Oh,  Antonio ;  my  lord,  my  love,  my — 

Ant.  Leave  passion,  sweet,  for  time,  place,  air, 
and  earth. 
Are  all  our  foes ;  fear,  and  be  jealous,  fair. 
Let's  fly. 

Mel.  Dear  heart ;  ha,  whither  ? 

Ant.  Oh,  'tis  no  matter  whither,  but  let's  fly. 
Ha !  now  I  think  on't,  I  have  ne'er  a  home  : 
No  father,  friend,  no  country  to  embrace 
These  wretched  limbs :  the  world,  the  AU  that  is, 
Is  all  my  foe :  a  prince  not  worth  a  doit : 
Only  my  head  is  hoised^  to  high  rate. 
Worth  twenty  thousand  double  pistolets, 
To  him  that  can  but  strike  it  from  these  shoulders. 
But  come,  sweet  creature,  thou  shalt  be  my  home  ; 
My  father,  country,  riches,  and  my  friend  : 
My  all,  my  soul ;  and  thou  and  I  will  live : 
(Let's  think  like   what)  and  thou  and   I   will 

live 
Like  unmatch'd  mirrors  of  calamity. 
The  jealous  car  of  night  eave-drops  our  talk. 
Hold  thee,  there's  a  jewel ;  and  look  thee,  there's 

a  note 
That  will  direct  thee  when,  where^  how  to  fly ; 
Bid  me  adieu. 

Mel.  Farewell,  bleak  miseiy ! 

Ant.  Stay,  sweet,  let's  kiss  before  you  go ! 

Mel.  Farewell,  dear  soul ! 

Ant.  Farewell,  my  life,  my  heart ! 


ACT  IIL 

Enter  Andrtjgio  in  armour,  Lucio  with  a  shep- 
herd's gown  in  his  hand,  and  a  Page. 

And.  Is  not  yon  gleam,  the  shuddering  morn 
that  flakes. 
With  silver  tincture,  the  east  verge  of  heaven  ? 

Lu.  I  think  it  is,  so  please  your  excellence. 

And.  Away,  I  have  no  excellence  to  please. 
Pr'ythee  observe  the  custom  of  the  woi-ld, 
That  only  flatters  gi-eatness,  states  exalts. 
And  please  my  excellence  !     0  Lucio, 
Thou  hast  been  ever  held  respected  dear, 
Even  precious  to  Andrugio's  inmost  love. 
Good,  flatter  not.     Nay,  if  thou  giv'st  not  faith 
That  I  am  wretched,  oh  read  that,  read  that ! 

PiEKO  Sfoeza  to  the  Itaxian  PKnfCES,  fortune. 

Excellent,  the  just  overthrow  Andrugio  took  in  the 
Venetian  Gulf,  hath  so  assured  the  Genoese  of  the  jus- 
tice of  his  cause,  and  the  hatefulness  of  his  person, 
that  they  have  banished  him  and  all  his  family;  and, 
for  confinnation  of  their  peace  with  us,  have  vowed, 
that  if  he  or  his  son  can  be  attached,'  to  send  us  both 
their  heads.  We  therefore,  by  force  of  our  united 
league,  forbid  you  to  harbour  him,  or  his  blood ;  but  if 
you  apprehend  his  person,  we  entreat  you  to  send  him, 
or  his  head,  to  us.    For  we  vow,  by  the  honour  of  oi"' 


1  dipt — embraced. 
'  attached— sQized. 


*  hoised — hoisted,  raised. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


355 


blood,  to  recompense  any  man  that  briugeth  his  head 
with  twenty  thousand  double  pistolets,  and  the  endear- 
ing to  our  choicest  love. 

From  "Venice :  Pieko  Sfokza. 

And.  My  tlioughts  are  fis'd  iu  contemplation 
"Why  this  huge  earth,  this  monstrous  animal, 
That  eats  her  childi-en,  should  not  have  eyes 

and  ears. 
Philosophy  maintains  that  Nature's  wise, 
And  forms  no  iiseless  or  unperfect  thing. 
Did  Nature  make  the  earth,  or  the  earth  Nature  ? 
For  earthly  dirt  makes  all  things,  makes  the  man, 
Moulds   me   up  honour;    and  liko    a  cunning 

Dutchman, 
Paints  me  a  puppet  even  with  seeming  breath, 
And  gives  a  sot  appearance  of  a  soul: 
Go  to,  go  to;  thou  liest,  Philosophy. 
Nature  forms  things  unperfect,  useless,  vain. 
Why  made  she  not  the  earth  with  eyes  and  eai"S  ? 
That   she   might   see    desert,    and   hear  men's 

plaints : 
That  when  a  soul  is  splitted,  sunk  with  grief, 
He  might  fall  thus,  upon  the  breast  of  earth ; 
And  in  her  ear  halloo  his  misery : 
Exclaiming  thus,  0  thou  all-bearing  earth. 
Which  men  do  gape  for,  till  thou  cram'st  their 

mouths, 
And  chok'st  their  throats  with  dust :  oh  chaune  i 

thy  breast, 
And  let  me  sink  into  thee.     Look  who  knocks  ; 
Andrugio  calls.     But  oh,  she's  deaf  and  blind. 
A  wretch  but  lean  relief  on  earth  can  find. 

Lu.  Sweet  lord,  abandon  passion,  and  disarm. 
Since  by  the  fortune  of  the  tumbling  sea, 
We  are  roU'd  up  upon  the  Venice  marsh. 
Let's  clip  2  all  fortune,  lest  more  low'ring  fate — 
And.  More  low'ring  fate.'      0   Lucio,   choke 

that  breath. 
Now    I    defy  chance.       Fortune's    brow    hath 

frown'd, 
Even  to  the  utmost  wrinkle  it  can  bend : 
Her  venom's  spit.     Alas,  what  country  rests,^ 
What  son,  what  comfort  that  she  can  deprive  ? 
Triumphs  not  Venice  in  my  overthrow  ? 
Gapes  not  my  native  country  for  my  blood  ? 
Lies  not  my  son  tomb'd  in  the  swelling  main  ? 
And  yet  more  low'ring  fate?     There's  nothing 

left 
Unto  Andrugio,  but  Andrugio : 
And  that  nor  mischief,  force,  distress,  nor  hell 

can  take, 
Fortune  my  fortunes,  not  my  mind  shall  shake. 
Lu.  Speak  like  yourself;  but  give  me  leave, 

my  lord. 
To  wish  your  safety.    If  you  are  but  seen. 
Tour  arms  display  you ;  therefore  put  them  off. 
And  take — 
And.    Would'st  thou    have    me    go    unarm'd 

among  my  foes  ? 
Being  besieg'd  by  passion,  ent'ring  lists. 
To  combat  with  despair  and  mighty  grief : 
My  soul  beleaguer'd  with  the  crushing  strength 
Of  sharp  impatience?     Ha,  Litcio,  go  unarm'd? 
Come,  soul,  resume  the  valour  of  thy  birth ; 
Myself,  myself,  will  dare  all  opposites : 
I'll  muster  forces,  an  unvanquish'd  power : 
Cornets  ■<  of  horse  shall  press  th'  ungrateful  earth ; 
This  hollow  wombed  mass  shall  inly  groan. 
And  murmur  to  sustain  the  weight  of  arms : 
Ghastly  amazement,  with  upstarted  hair, 
Shall  hurry  on  before,  and  usher  us, 
Whilst  trumpets  clamour,  with  a  sound  of  death. 

^chaune — gape,  open;    from  Gr.  cJiauno,  to  gape. — 
Nakes.  '^  clip — embrace. 

3  ?-este— remains.  *  Corners— companies. 


Lu.  Peace,  good  my  lord,  your  speech  is  all 

too  light. 
Alas,  survey  your  fortunes,  look  what's  left 
Of  all  your  forces,  and  your  utmost  hopes  ? 
A  weak  old  man,  a  page,  and  your  poor  self. 

And.    Andrugio    lives,   and  a    fair    cause   of 
arms, — 
Why,  that's  an  army  all  invincible  ! 
He  who  hath  that,  hath  a  battalion 
Koyal,  armour  of  proof,  huge  troops  of  barbed 

steeds. 
Main  squares  of  pikes,  millions  of  harguebush.* 
Oh,  a  fair  cause  stands  firm,  and  will  abide. 
Legions  of  angels  fight  upon  her  side. 

Lu.  Then,  noble  spirit,  slide,  in  strange  dis- 
guise, 
Unto  some  gracious  prince,  and  sojourn  there, 
TiU  time  and  fortune  give  revenge  firm  means. 

And.  No,  I'll  not  trust  the  honour  of  a  man. 
Gold  is  grown  great,  and  makes  perfidiousness 
A  common  water  in  most  princes'  com-ts : 
He's  in  the  chekle-roll :  -  I'll  not  trust  my  blood; 
I  know  none  breathing,  but  will  cog  a  die' 
For  twenty  thousand  double  pistolets. 
How  goes  the  time  ? 

Lu.  I  saw  no  sun  to-day. 

And.  No  sun  will  shine  where  poor  Andrugio 
breathes : 
My  soul  grows  heavy :  boy,  let's  have  a  song : 
We'll  sing  yet,  faith,  even  despite  of  fate. 

[They  sing. 
'Tis  a  good  boy,  and  by  my  troth,  well  sung. 
Oh,  an  thou  felt'st  my  grief,  I  warrant  thee, 
Thou  would'st  have    struck   division*    to    the 

height. 
And  made  the  life  of  music  breathe :  hold,  boy ; 

why  so  ? 
For  God's  sake  call  me  not  Andrugio, 
That  I  may  soon  forget  what  I  have  been. 
For  Heaven's  name,  name  not  Antonio, 
That  I  may  not  remember  he  was  mine. 
Well,  ere  yon  sun  set,  I'll  show  myself  myself, 
Worthy  my  blood.     I  was  a  dulje;  that's  all. 
No  matter  whither,  but  from  whence  we  fall. 

\_Exeunt. 
Enter  Felice  waUcing,  unbraced. 

Fell.  Castillo  ?  Alberto  ?  Balurdo  ?  none  up  ? 
Forobosco  ?     Flattery,  nor  thou  up  yet : 
Then  there's  no  courtier  stirring:  "that's  firm 

truth  ? 
I  cannot  sleep :  Felice  seldom  rests  ' 
In  these  court  lodgings.     I  have  walked  all  night, 
To  see  if  the  nocturnal  court  delights 
Could  force  me  envy  their  felicity : 
And  by  plain  troth — I  will  confess  plain  troth — 
I  envy  nothing,  but  the  traverse  ^  light. 
Oh,  had  it  eyes,  and  ears,  and  tongues,  it  might 
See  sport,  hear  sijeech  of  most  strange  surquedries.® 
Oh,  if  that  candle-light  were  made  a  poet, 
He  would  prove  a  rare  firking '  satirist, 
And  draw  the  coi'e  forth  of  impostum'd  sin. 
Well,  I  thank  Heaven  yet,  that  my  content 
Can  envy  nothing  but  poor  candle-light. 


1  harguebush — liarqiicbusses. 

-  chekle-roll — i.e.  chequer-roll  or  checlc-roll,  a  list  of 
household  servants. 

*  cog  a  die — To  cog  is  to  lie  or  cheat;  to  cog  the  dice 
is  to  load  or  tamper  with  them  in  some  way. 

■>  division  seems  to  have  been  the  technical  term  for 
the  pauses  or  parts  of  a  musical  composition. — Stevens. 

*  traverse  light — i.e.  the  lamp  giving  light  to  the  diffe- 
i"ent  passages. — Dilke. 

6  stirgiiedries — presumptions,'  from  the  old  Fr.,  in 
wbicli  cuider  hieans  to  tliink,  presume. 

''firking.  Firk  is  used  in  so  many  senses  it  is  difBcult 
to  fix  the  meanins' ;  generally  it  is  applied  to  any  sudden 
motion,  here  it  may  mean  searching,  keen. 


35^ 


777^  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


As  for  the  other  glistering  copper  spangs,' 
That  glisten  in  the  tire  of  the  court, 
Praise  God,  I  either  hate  or  pity  them. 
Well,  here  I'll  sleep  till  that  the  scene  of  up  ^ 
Is  past  at  court.     O  calm  hushed  rich  content, 
Is  there  a  being  blessedness  without  thee  ? 
How  soft  thou  down'st  the  coach  where  thou 

dost  rest, — 
Nectar  to  life,  thou  sweet  Ambrosian  feast ! 

Enter  Castilio  and  his  Page ;  Castilio  with  a 
casting-hottle'^  of  stoeet   water   in  his  hand, 
sprinkling  himself. 
Cast.  Am  not  I  a  most  sweet  youth  now  ? 
Cat.  Yes,  when  your  throat's  perfum'd ;  your 
very  words 
Do  smell  of  ambergris.     Oh  stay,  sir,  stay ; 
Sprinkle  some  sweet  water  to  your  shoes'  heels. 
That  your  mistress  may  swear  you  have  a  sweet 
foot. 
Cast.  Good,  very  good,  very  passing  passing 

good. 
Fell.  Put,  what  treble  minikin*  squeaks  there? 
ha  ?  good,  very  good,  very  very  good. 

Cast.  I  wiU  warble  to  the  delicious  concave  of 
my 
Mistress'  ear :  and  strike  her  thoughts  with 
The  pleasing  touch  of  my  voice.  [Sings. 

Cast.  Felice,  health,  fortune,  mirth,  and  wine. 
Fell.  To  thee  my  love  divine. 
Cast.  I  drink  to  thee,  sweeting. 
Fell.  Plague  on  thee  for  an  ass ! 
Cast.  Now  thou  hast  seen  the  court;    by  the 
perfection  of  it,  dost  not  envy  it  ? 

Feli.  I  wonder  it  doth  not  envy  me. 
Why,  man,  I  have  been  borne  upon  the  spirit's 

wings. 
The  soul's  swift  Pegasus,  the  fantasy : 
And  from  the  height  of  contemplation 
Have  view'd  the  feeble  joints  men  totter  on. 
I  envy  none,  but  hate  or  pity  all. 
For  when  I  view,  with  an  intentive  thought, 
That  creature  fair,   but  proud:    him  rich,  but 

sot:  5 
Th'other  witty,  but  unmeasured  arrogant : 
Him  great,  yet  boundless  in  ambition : 
Him  high-born,  but  of  base  life :  t'other  feard ; " 
Yet  feared  fears,    and   fears   most,  to  be   most 

loved : 
Him  wise,  but  made  a  fool  for  public'  use : 
Th'other  learned,  but  self-opinionate : 
When  I  discourse  all  these,  and  see  myself 
Nor  fair,  nor  rich,  nor  witty,  great,  nor  fear'd, 
Yet  amply  suited  with  all  full  content. 
Lord,  how  I   clap   my  hands,  and  smooth  my 

brow, 
Kubbing  my  quiet  bosom,  tossing  up 
A  grateful  spirit  to  Omnipotence ! 

Cast.  Ha,  ha;  but  if  thou  knew'st  my  happi- 
ness. 
Thou  wouldst  even  grate  away  thy  soul  to  dust 
In  envy  of  my  sweet  beatitude : 
I  cannot  sleep  for  kisses  ;  I  cannot  rest 
For  ladies'  letters,  that  importune  me 
With  such  unused  vehemence  of  love, 
Straight  to  solicit  them,  that — 
Feli.  Confusion  seize  me,  but  I  think  thou 
liest. 
Why  should  I  not  be  sought-to  then  as  well  ? 
Put,  methinks  I  am  as  like  a  man. 


'  spangs — spangles. 

"  scejie  of  up— i.e.  of  getting  up  out  of  bed. 

3  casting-bottle.— Sea  note  3,  p.  348,  col.  2. 

*  mmi/are— small,  delicate;  seems  to  have  meant  also 
treble  in  music. — Nares. 

*  so<— sottish.  s/earc?— afraid. 


Troth,  I  have  a  good  head  of  hair,  a  cheek 
Not  as  yet  wann'd;  a  leg,  faith,  in  the  full. 
I  ha'  not  a  red  beard,  take  not  tobacco  mixch : 
And  'slid,  for  other  parts  of  manliness — 

Cast.  Pew  waw,  you  ne'er  accorted^  them  in 
pomp : 
Put  your  good  parts  in  presence,  gracioiisly. 
Ha,  an  you  had,  why,  they  would  ha'  come  off, 

sprung 
To  your  arms ;  and  sued,  and  pray'd,  and  vow'd ; 
And  opened  all  their  sweetness  to  your  love. 
Feli.  There  are  a  number  of  such  things,  aa 
then 
Have  often  urg'd  me  to  such  loose  belief  : 
But  'slid,  you  all  do  lie,  you  all  do  lie. 
I  have  put  on  good  clothes,  and  smug'd-  my  face. 
Struck  a  fair  wench  with  a  smart  speaking  eye  ; 
Courted  in  all  sorts,  blunt,  and  passionate  ; 
Had  opportunity  put  them  to  the  ah ! 
And,  by  this  light,  I  find  them  wondroiis  chaste. 
Impregnable  ;  perchance  a  kiss,  or  so  : 
But  for  the  rest,  O  most  inexorable  ! 

Cast.  Nay  then,  i'faith,  pr'ythee  look  here. 

[Shotvs  him  the  superscription  of  a  seeming 
letter. 
Fel.  To  her  most  esteemed,  lov'd,  and  generous 
servant,  Sig.  Castilio  Balthazar. 
Pr'ythee  from  whom  comes  this?  faith,  I  must  see. 
From  her  that  is  devoted  to  thee,  in  most  private 
sioeets  of  love, — liossaline. 
Nay,  God's  my  comfort,  I  must  see  the  rest; 
I  must,  sans  ceremony ;  faith,  I  must. 

[Felice  takes  away  the  letter  hy  force. 
Cast.   Oh,  you  spoil  my  ruff,  unset  my  hair ; 
good,  away. 

Feli.  Item,  for  strait  canvas,  thirteen  pence 
halfpenny.  Item,  for  an  ell  and  a  half  of  taffeta 
to  cover  your  old  canvas  doublet,  fourteen  shil- 
lings and  threepence.  S'light,  this  is  a  tailor's 
bill. 

Cast.  In  sooth,  it  is  the  outside  of  her  letter, 
on  which  I  took  the  copy  of  a  tailor's  bill. 

Dil.  But  'tis  not  crossed,  I  am  sui-e  of  that. 
Lord  have  mercy  on  him,  his  credit  hath  given 
up  the  last  gasp.  Faith,  I'll  leave  him ;  for  he 
looks  as  melancholy  as  a  wench  the  fii'st  night 
she —  [Exit. 

Feli.  Honest  musk-cod,^  'twill  not  be  so  stitched 
together.  Take  that,  and  that,  and  belie  no  lady's 
love.  Swear  no  more  by  Jesu,  this  madam,  that 
lady.  Hence,  go,  forswear  the  presence,  travel 
three  years  to  bury  this  bastinado  :  avoid,  puff- 
paste,  avoid. 

Cast.  And  tell  not  my  lady  mother.  Well,  as 
I  am  a  true  gentleman,  if  she  had  not  willed  me 
on  her  blessing  not  to  spoil  my  face,  if  I  could 
not  find  in  my  heart  to  fight,  would  I  might 
ne'er  eat  a  potato  pie  more. 

[Enter  Balurdo,  hacktoard;  Dildo  following 

him  ioith  a  looking-glass  in  one  hand,  and  a 

candle  in  the  other  hand.     Flavia  following 

him  backward,  with  a  looking-glass  in  one 

hand,  and  a  candle  in  the  other;  Eossaline 

following  her.   Balurdo  and  Eossaline  stand 

setting  effaces :  and  so  the  scene  begins. 

Feli.  More  fool,  more  rare  fools  !  Oh  for  time 

and  place,  long  enough,  and  large  enough,  to 

act  these  fools !     Here  might  be  made  a  rar© 

scene  of  folly,  if  the  plat  ^  could  bear  it. 

Bal.  By  the  sugar-candy  sky,  hold  up  the 
glass  higher,  that  I  may  see  to  swear  in  fashion. 


1  accorted — courted,  or,  perhaps,  should  be  accosted. 

-  smiii/d — made  smug  or  trim. 

3  musk-cod — a  cod  or  bag  for  holding  musk. 

*  plat— plot,  plan  (?). 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


357 


Oh,  one  loof '  more  would  lia'  made  them  shine ; 
tliey  -would  have  shone  like  my  mistress'  brow. 
Even  so  the  duke  frowns  for  all  tliis  cursond- 
world:  oh,  that  gerne  ^  kills,  it  kills.  By  my 
golden — what's  the  richest  thing  about  me  ? 

Dil.  Your  teeth. 

Bal.  By  my  golden  teeth,  hold  up ;  that  I  may 
put  in :  hold  up,  I  say,  that  I  may  see  to  put  on 
my  gloves. 

Dil.  Oh,  delicious,  sweet  -  cheek'd  master,  if 
vou  discharge  but  one  glance  from  the  level  of 
that  set  face,  oh,  you  will  strike  a  wench;  you'll 
make  any  wench  love  you. 

Bal.  By  Jesu,  I  think  I  am  as  elegant  a 
courtier,  as —    How  lik'st  thou  my  suit  ? 

Cat.  All,  beyond  all,  no  peregal:<  you  are 
wondered  at  for  an  ass. 

Bal.  Well,  Dildo,  no  Christian  creature  shall 
know  hereafter,  what  I  will  do  for  thee  hereto- 
fore. 

Ros.  Here  wants  a  little  white,  Flavia. 

Dil.  Aye,  but  master,  you  have  one  little  fault ; 
you  sleep  open-mouth'd. 

Bal.  Pewe,  thou  jestest.  In  good  sadness,'  I'll 
have  a  looking-glass  nail'd  to  the  teste  of  the 
bed,  that  I  may  see  when  I  sleep,  whether  'tis 
so,  or  not.  Take  heed  you  lie  not :  go  to,  take 
heed  you  lie  not. 

Fla.  By  my  troth,  you  look  as  like  the  princess 
now — 

Ros.  Ay,  but  her  lip  is  lip — is  a  little — redder, 
a  very  little  redder :  but  by  the  help  of  Art,  or 
Nature,  ere  I  change  my  periwig,  mine  shall  be 
as  red. 

Fla.  Oh,  ay,  that  face,  that  eye,  that  smile,  that 
writhing  of  your  body,  that  wanton  dandling  of 
your  fan,  becomes  prethily,  so  sweethly,  'tis  even 
the  goodest  lady  that  breathes,  the  most  ami- 
able—  Faith  the  fringe  of  your  satin  petticoat  is 
ripp'd.  Good  faith,  madam,  they  say  you  are  the 
most  bounteous  lady  to  your  women  that  ever — 

0  most  delicious  beauty !  Good  madam,  let  me 
kith  it. 

Enter  Piero. 

Fell.  Eare  sport,  rare  sport !  A  female  fool, 
and  a  female  flatterer. 

Ros.  Body  a  me,  the  duke :  away  the  glass. 

Pie.  Take  up  your  paper,  Eossaline. 

Ros.  Not  mine,  my  lord. 

Pie.  Not  yours,  my  lady .'     I'll  see  what  'tis. 

Bal.  And  how  does  my  sweet  mistress  ?  Oh 
lady  dear,  even  as  'tis  an  old  say,  'Tis  an  old 
horse  can  neither  wighy,'^  nor  wag  his  tail : 
even  so  do  I  hold  ray  set  face  still :  even  so,  'tis 
a  bad  courtier  that  can  neither  discourse  nor 
blow  his  nose. 

Pit.  \_Reads\  Meet  me  at  Abraham's,  the  Jew's,  where 

1  bought  my  Amazon's  disguise.  A  ship  lies  in  the 
port,  ready  bound  for  England.  Make  haste,  come 
private.  Antonio. 

Enter  Castilio,  Forobosco. 

Forobosco,  Alberto,  Felice,  Castilio,  Balurdo? 
run,  keep  the  palace,  post  to  the  ports,  go  to  my 
daughter's  chamber :  whither  now  .'  scud  to  the 
Jew's,  stay,  run  to  the  gates,  stop  the  guudolets, 
let  none  pass  the  mai-sh,  do  all  at  once.  Antonio  ? 
his  head,  his  head.  Keep  you  the  court,  the 
rest  stand  still,  or  run,  or  go,  or  shout,  or  search, 
or  scud,  or  call,  or  hang,  or  do  do  do,  su-su-su- 


»  ?oo/— luff,  turn. 

•  cursond — christened.  ^  gerne — yawn. 

■*  peregal — equal.  5  sadness — earnestness. 

*  wighy,  according  to   Halliwell,    is  an  exclamation 
to  horses;  here  it  seems  to  mean  neigh. 

'  gundoleis—gondoias. 


something :  I  know  not  who  who  who,  what  I 
do  do  do,  nor  who  who  who,  where  I  am. 
0  irista  traditriche^  rea,  ribalda  fortuna, 
Negando  mi  vindetta  mi  causa  fera  morte. 

Fell.  Ha  ha  ha !  I  could  break  my  spleen  at 
his  impatience. 

A7it.  Alma  et  grutiosa  fortuna  siate  favorevole, 
Et  fortunati  siano  vuoti  del  mia  dulce  Mellida, 
Mellida. 

Mel.  Alas,  Antonio,  I  have'lost  thy  note  ! 
A  number  mount  my  stairs ;  I'll  straight  return. 

Fel.  Antonio, 
Be  not  affright,  sweet  prince ;  appease  thy  feai', 
Buckle  thy  spirits  up,  put  all  thy  wits 
In  wimble  '  action,  or  thou  art  surpris'd. 

Ant.  I  care  not. 

Fel.  Art  mad,  or  desperate?  or — 

Ant,  Both,  both,  all,  all :  I  pr'ythee  let  me  lie ; 
Spite  of  you  all,  I  can,  and  I  will  die. 

[Here  apparently  Piero,  Forobosco,  Castilio, 
and  others  rush  oid. 

Fel.  You  are  distraught ;  Oh,  this  is  madness' 
breath ! 

Ant.  Each  man  take  hence  life,  but  no  man 
death : 
He's  a  good  fellow,  and  keeps  open  house  : 
A  thousand  thousand  ways  lead  to  his  gate. 
To  his  wide-mouth'd  porch  :  when  niggard  life 
Hath  but  one  little,  little  wicket  through. 
We  wring  ourselves  into  this  wretched  world, 
To  pule,  and  weep,  exclaim,  to  curse  and  rail. 
To  fret,  and  ban  the  fates,  to  strike  the  earth, 
As  I  do  now.     Antonio,  curse  thy  birth. 
And  die ! 

Felt.  Nay,  Heaven's  my  comfort,  now  you  are 
perverse ; 
You  know  I  always  lov'd  you ;  pr'ythee  live. 
Wilt  thou  strike  dead  thy  friends,  draw  mourn- 
ing tears  ? 

Ant.  Alas,  Felice,  I  ha'  ne'er  a  friend ; 
No  country,  father,  brother,  kinsman  left 
To  weep  my  fate,  or  sigh  my  funeral : 
I  roll  but  up  and  down,  and  fill  a  seat 
In  the  dark  cave  of  dusky  misery. 

Feli.  'Fore  Heaven,  the  duke  comes :  hold  you, 
take  my  key. 
Slink  to  my  chamber,  look  you  ;  that  is  it : 
There  shall  j'ou  find  a  suit  I  wore  at  sea; 
Take  it,  and  slip  away.     Nay,  precious. 
If  you'll  be  peevish,  by  this  light,  I'll  swear. 
Thou  rail'dst  upon  thy  love  before  thou  diedst, 
And  call'd  her  strumpet. 

Ant.  She'll  not  credit  thee. 

Fel.  Tvtt,  that's  all  one  :  I'll  defame  thy  love; 
And  make  thy  dead  trunk  held  in  vile  regard. 

Ant.  Wilt  needs  have    it    so?     Why,    then, 
Antonio, 
Vive  esperanza,  in  despetto  dell  fata.  [Exit. 

Enter  Piero,   Galeatzo,   Matzagente,  Foro- 
bosco, Balurdo,  and  Castilio,  with  weapons. 

Pie.  Oh,  my  sweet  princes,  was't  not  bravely 
found  ? 
Even  there  I  found  the  note,  even  there  it  lay. 
I  kiss  the  place  for  joy,  that  there  it  lay. 
This  way  he  went,  here  let  us  make  a  stand : 
I'll  keep  this  gate  myself.     0  gallant  youth  ! 
I'll  drink  carouse  unto  yoiu-  country's  health, 

Enter  Antonio. 

Even  in  Antonio's  skull. 

Bal.  Lord  bless  us  :  his  breath  is  more  fearful 
than  a  sergeant's  voice,  when  he  cries,  'I  arrest.' 


1  wimhh — nimble. 


358 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ant.  Stop  Antonio,  keep,  keep  Antonio. 

Pie.  Where,  where  man,  where  ? 

Ant.  Here,  here  :  let  me  pursue  him  down  the 
marsh. 

Pie.  Hold,  there's  my  signet,  take  a  gundolet : 
Bring  me  his  head,   his  head,   and,    by   mine 

honour, 
I'll  make  thee  the  wealthiest  mariner  that  breathes. 

Ant.  I'U  sweat  my  blood  out  till  I  have  him  safe. 

Pie.  Speak  heartily  i'faith,  good  mariner. 
Oh,  we  will  mount  in  triumph  :  soon  at  night 
I'll  set  his  head  up.     Let's  think  where. 

Bal.  Upon  his  shoulders,  that's  the  fittest  place 
for  it.  If  it  be  not  as  fit  as  if  it  were  made  for 
them,  say,  Balurdo,  thou  art  a  sot,  an  ass. 

Enter  Mellida  in  Page's  attire^  dancing. 

Pie.  Sprightly,  i'faith.     In  troth  he's  somewhat 
like 
My  daughter  Mellida :  but  alas,  poor  soul, 
Her  honour's  heels,  God  knows,  are  half  so  light. 

3fel.  Escap'd  I  am,  spite  of  my  father's  spite. 

Pie.  Ho,  this  will  warm  my  bosom  ere  I'  sleep. 

Enter  Flavia,  running. 

Fla.  0  my  lord,  your  daiighter. 
Pie.   Ay,  ay,  my  daughter's  safe  enough,   I 
warrant  thee. 
This  vengeance  on  the  boy  will  lengthen  out 
My  days  unmeasuredly. 
It  shall  be  chronicled,  time  to  come, 
Piero  Sforza  slew  Andrugio's  son. 
Fla.  Ay,  but  my  lord,  your  daughter. 
Pie.    Ay,   ay,   my  good  wench,   she    is   safe 

enough. 
Fla.  Oh,  then,  my  lord,  you  know  she's  run 

away. 
Pie.  Eun  away,  away,  how  run  away  ? 
Fla.  She's  vanish'd  in  an  instant,  none  knows 

whither. 
Pie.  Pm-sue,  i^ursue,  fly,  run,  post,  scud  away! 
[Felice  sings,  And  loas  not  good  Icing  Salomon. 
Fly,  call,  run,  row,  ride,  cry,  shout,  hurry,  haste: 
Haste,  hurry,  shout,  cry,  ride,  row,  run,  call,  fly 
Backward  and  forward,  every  way  about. 
Maldetta  fortwia  chy  condura  sorta 
Che  faro,  die  diro,  pur  fugir  tanto  mal! 
[Exeunt  all  but  Castilio  and  Felice. 
Cast.  'Twas  you  that  struck  me  even  now: 

was  it  not  ? 
Feli.  It  was  I  that  struck  you  even  now. 
Cast.  You  bastinadoed  me,  I  take  it, 
Feli.  I  bastinadoed  you,  and  you  took  it. 
Cast.  Faith,  sir,  I  have  the  richest  tobacco  in 
the  court  for  you ;  I  would  be  glad  to  make  you 
satisfaction,  if  I  have  wronged  you.     I  would 
not  the  sun  should  set  upon  your  anger;   give 
me  your  hand. 

Feli.  Content  faith,  so  thou'lt  breed  no  more 
such  lies. 
I  hate  not  man,  but  man's  lewd  qualities. 


ACT   IV. 

Enter  Antonio,  in  Ms  sea-gown,  running. 

Ant.  Stop,  stop  Antonio,  stay,  Antonio. 
Vain  breath,  vain  breath,  Antonio's  lost ; 
He  cannot  find  himself,  not  seize  himself. 
Alas,  this  that  you  see  is  not  Antonio, 
His  spirit  hovers  in  Piero's  court, 
Hurling  about  his  agile  faculties, 
To  apprehend  the  sight  of  Mellida : 
But  poor,  poor  soul,  wanting  apt  instruments 
To  speak  or  see,  stands  dumb  and  blind,  sad  spirit, 


Eoll'd  up  in  gloomy  clouds  as  black  as  air. 
Through   which  the   rusty  coach  of  Night  is 

drawn. 
'Tis  so,  I'll  give  you  instance  that  'tis  so. 
Conceit  you  me,  as  having  clasp'd  a  rose 
Within  my  palm,  the  rose  being  ta'en  away, 
My  hand  retains  a  little  breath  of  sweet : 
So  may  man's  trunk ;  his  spirit  slipt  away. 
Holds  still  a  faint  perfume  of  his  sweet  ghost. 
'Tis  so;  for  when  discm-sive  powers  ^  fly  out, 
And  roam  in  progress  through  the  bounds  of 

heaven. 
The  soul  itself  gallops  along  with  them, 
As  chieftain  of  this  winged  troop  of  thought, 
Whilst  the  dull  lodge  of  spirit  standeth  waste, 
Until  the  soul  return  from —    What  was't  I  said  ? 
Oh,  this  is  naught,  but  speckling  melancholy. 
I  have  been — 

That  Morpheus  tender-skinn'd — Cousin-german 
Bear  with  me  srood — 


Mellida  :  clod  upon  clod  thus  fall.' 
Hell  is  beneath ;  yet  heaven  is  over  all. 

Enter  Andrugio  a7id  Lucio. 

And.  Come,   Lucio,   let's  go   eat :   what  hast 
thou  got .' 
Pioots,  roots  ?  alas,  they  are  seeded,  new  cut  up. 
Oh,  thou  hast  wrong'd  Nature,  Lucio : 
But  boots  not  much ;  thou  but  jDursu'st  the  world. 
That  cuts  off  virtue  'fore  it  conies  to  growth, 
Lest  it  should  seed,  and  so  o'errun  her  son, 
Dull  purblind  error.     Give  me  water,  boy. 
There  is  no  poison  in't,  I  hope,  they  say 
That  lurks  in  massy  plate :  and  yet  the  earth 
Is  so  infected  with  a  general  plague. 
That  he's  most  wise,  that  thinks  there's  no  man 

fool: 
Right  prudent,  that  esteems  no  creature  just : 
Great  policy  the  least  things  to  mistrust. 
Give   me   assay — s     How  we   mock   greatness 
now! 

Lu.  A  strong  conceit  is  rich,  so  most  men  deem. 
If  not  to  be,  'tis  comfort  yet  to  seem. 

And.  Why,  man,  I  never  was  a  prince  till  now. 
'Tis  not  the  bared  pate,  the  bended  knees. 
Gilt  tipstaves,  Tyrian  p)urple,  chairs  of  state. 
Troops  of  ijied  butterflies,  that  flutter  still 
In  greatness'  summer,  that  confirm  a  prince : 
'Tis  not  the  unsavoury  breath  of  multitudes, 
Shouting  and  clapping,  with  confused  din. 
That  makes  a  prince.     No,  Lucio,  he's  a  king, 
A  true  right  king,  that   dares   do  aught  save 

wrong, 
Fears  nothing  mortal  but  to  be  unjust. 
Who  is  not  blown  up  with  the  flattering  puffs 
Of  spongy  sycophants:  who  stands  uumov'd, 
Despite  the  jostling  of  opinion : 
Who  can  enjoy  himself,  maugre  the  throng 
That  strive  to  press  his  quiet  out  of  him: 
Who  sits  upon  Jove's  footstool,  as  I  do, 
Adoring,  not  affecting  majesty: 
Whose  brow  is  wreathed  with  the  silver  crown 
Of  clear  content :  this,  Lucio,  is  a  king. 
And  of  this  emjoire,  every  man's  possest, 
That's  worth  his  soul. 

Lu.  My  lord,  the  Genoese  had  wont  to  say — 

And.  Name  not  the  Genoese  :  that  very  word 
Unkings  me  quite,  makes  me  vile  passion's  slave. 


1  discursive  poii-ers — powers  of  discourse  or  thought. 

-  Either  there  is  something  wanting  in  these  verses, 
or  the  author  wishes  to  represent  Antonio  as  utterly 
bewildered. 

3  Give  me  assay — to  give  the  say  or  assay  at  court  was 
for  the  royal  taster  to  declare  the  goodness  of  the  wine 
or  dishes. — Nakes. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


159 


oil,  you  that  made  open  the  glibbery '  ice 

Of  vulgar  favour,  view  Andrugio. 

Was  never  prince  with  more  applause  coufirm'J, 

With  louder  shouts  of  triumph  launched  out 

Into  the  surgy  main  of  government  : 

Was  never  prince  with  more  despite  cast  out. 

Left  shipwi'cck'd,   bauish'd    on  more    guiltless 

ground. 
0  rotten  props  of  the  craz'd  multitude, 
How  you  still  double,  falter,  under  the  lightest 

chance 
That  strains  your  veins.     Alas,  one  battle  lost, 
Tour  whorish  love,  your  drunken  healths,  your 

hoots  and  shouts, 
Tour  smooth  God  save's,  and  all  your  devil's 

last. 
That  tempts  our  quiet,  to  your  hell  of  throngs. 
Spit  on  me,  Lucio,  for  I  am  turned  slave : 
Observe  how  passion  domineers  o'er  me. 

Jm.  No  wonder,  noble  lord,  having  lost  a  son, 
A  country,  crown,  and — 

And.  Ay,  Lucio,  having  lost  a  son,  a  son, 
A  country,  house,  crown,  son.     0  lares,  misereri 

''    lares.- 
■\Vhich  shall  I  first  deplore .'     My  son,  my  son, 
My  dear  sweet  boy,  my  dear  Antonio. 
Ant.  Antonio. 

And.  Ay,  echo,  ay ;  I  mean  Antonio. 
Ant.  Antonio,  who  means  Antonio? 
And.   Whei-e  art?    what  art?    know'st  thou 

Antonio  ? 
Ant.  Tes. 
And.  Lives  he  ? 
Ant.  No. 

And.  Where  lies  he  dead  ? 
Ant.  Here. 
And.  Where? 
Ant.  Here. 

And.  Art  thou  Antonio  ? 
Ant.  I  think  I  am. 
And.  Dost  thou  but  think?     What,  dost  not 

know  thyself  ? 
Ant.  He  is  a  fool  that  thinks  he  knows  himself. 
And.    Upon   thy   faith  to    heaven,    give  thy 

name. 
Ant.  I  were  not  worthy  of  Andi'ugio's  blood, 
If  I  denied  my  name's  Antonio. 

And.  I  were  not  worthy  to  be  call'd  thy  father. 
If  I  denied  my  name  Andrugio. 
And  dost  thou  live  ?     Oh,  let  me  kiss  thy  cheek. 
And  dew  thy  brow  with  trickling  droj)s  of  joy. 
Now  Heaven's  wOl  be  done :  for  I  have  lived 
To  see  my  joy,  my  son  Antonio. 
Give  me  thy  hand ;  now  Fortune  do  thy  worst. 
His  blood,  that  lapp'd  thy  spirit  in  the  womb. 
Thus  (in  his  love)  will  make  his  arms  thy  tomb. 
Ant.   Bless  not  the  body  with  your  twining 
arms. 
Which  is  accurs'd  of  Heaven.  Oh,  what  black  sin 
Hath  been  committed  by  our  ancient  house. 
Whose  scalding  vengeance  lights  upon  our  heads, 
That  thus  the  world,  and  Fortune  casts  i;s  out, 
As  loathed  objects,  ruin's  branded  slaves? 

And.  Do  not  expostulate  the  heavens'  wiU : 
But,  oh,  remember  to  forget  thyself: 
Forget  remembrance  what  thou  once  hast  been. 
Come,  creep  with  me  from  out  this  open  air. 
Even  trees  have  tongues,  and  will  betray  our  life. 
I  am  a  raising  of  our  house,  my  boy  : 
Which  Fortune  will  not  envy,  'tis  so  mean. 
And  hke  the  world  (all  dirt)  there  shalt  thou  rip 
The  inwards  of  thy  fortunes  in  mine  ears. 
Whilst  I  sit  weeping,  blind  with  passion's  tears : 


1  glibhen/ — slipperj-. 

*  '  0  household  gods,  pity  me,  household  gods.' 


Then  I'll  begin,  and  we'll  such  order  keep. 
That  one  shall  still  tell  griefs,  the  other  weep. 
[^Exit  Andrugio,  leaving  Antonio 
and  his  Page. 
Ant.  I'll  follow  you.    Boy,  pr'ythee  stay  a  little. 
Thou  hast  had  a  good  voice,  if  this  cold  marsh, 
Wherein  we  lurk,  have  not  corrupted  it. 

Enter  Mellida,  standing  out  of  sight,  in  her 
Page's  suit. 

I  pr'ythee  sing*  but,  sirrah  (mark  you  me), 

Let  each  note  breathe  the  heart  of  passion, 

The  sad  extracture  of  extremest  grieL 

iMake  me  a  strain ;  speak,  groaning  like  a  bell, 

That  tolls  departing  souls. 

Breathe  me  a  point  that  may  enforce  me  weep. 

To  wring  my  hands,  to  break  my  cursed  breast, 

Pave,  and  exclaim,  lie  grovelUng  on  the  earth, 

Straight  start  up  frantic,  crying,  MeUida ! 

Sing  but,  Antonio  hath  lost  Mellida, 

And  thou  shalt  see  mo  (hke  a  man  possess'd) 

Howl  out  such  passion,  that  even  this  brinish 

marsh 
Will   squeeze  out  tears  from  out    his    spongy 

cheeks : 
The  rocks  even  groan,  and — 
Pr'ythee,  pr'ythee  sing. 
Or  I  shall  ne'er  ha'  done  when  I  am  in, 
'Tis  harder  for  me  end,  than  to  begin. 

[The  hoy  runs  a  note,  Antonio  hreaJcs  it.'- 
For  look  thee,  boy,  my  grief  that  hath  no  end, 
I  may  begin  to  plain,  but — pr'ythee  sing. 

[£oy  sings. 
Mel.  Heaven  keep  you,  sir ! 
Ant.  Heaven  keep  you  from  me,  sir  ! 
3Iel.  I  miist  be  acquainted  with  you,  sir. 
Ant.    Wherefore  ?      Art  thou    infected    with 
misery, 
Sear'd  with  the  anguish  of  calamity? 
Art  thou  true  sorrow,  hearty  grief  ?  canst  weep  ? 
I  am  not  for  thee  if  thou  canst  not  rave, 

[ANTONio_/a^/5  on  the  ground. 
Fall  flat  on  the  ground,  and  thus  exclaim  on 

Heaven ; 
0  trifling  Nature,  why  inspiredst  thou  breath  ? 
Mel.  Stay,  sir,  I  think  you  named  Mellida. 
Ant.  Know'st  thou  Mellida  ? 
Mel.  Tes. 

Ant.  Hast  thou  seen  Mellida  ? 
Mel.  Tes. 

Ant.  Then  hast  thou  seen  the  glory  of  her  sex, 
The  music  of  nature,  the  unequall'd  lustre 
Of  unmatched  excellence,  the  united  sweet 
Of  heaven's  graces,  the  most  adored  beauty 
That  ever  struck  amazement  in  the  world ! 
Mel.  Ton  seem  to  love  her. 
Ant.  With  my  very  soul. 
Mel.  She'U.  not  requite  it :  all  her  love  is  fix'd 
Upon  a  gallant,  on  Antonio, 
The  Duke  of  Genoa's  son.     I  was  her  page : 
And  often  as  I  waited,  she  would  sigh ; 
Oh,  dear  Antonio !  and  to  strengthen  thought, 
Would  clip-  my  neck,  and  kiss,  and  kiss  me 

thus. 
Therefore  leave  loving  her:    faugh,  faith,  me- 

thinks 
Her  beauty  is  not  half  so  ravishing 
As  you  discourse  of ;  she  hath  a  freckled  face, 
A  low  forehead,  and  a  lumpish  eye. 
Ant.  0  heaven,  that  I  should  hear  such  blas- 
phemy ! 


1  i.e.  the  toy  hesins  to  sing,  and  Antonio  interrupts 
him. — DiLKE. 

2  clip — clasp. 


36o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Boy,  rogue,  thou  liest !  and 

Spavento  dell  mio  core  clolce  Mellida, 

Di  grava  inorte  restoro  vero  dolce  Mellida, 

Celesta  salvatrice  sovrana  Mellida 

Del  mio  sperar ;  tvofeo  vero  Mellida. 

Mel.  Diletta  e  soave  anima  mia  Antonio, 
Godevole  helezza  cortese  Antonio. 
Signior  mio  c  virginal  amove  heW  Antonio 
Gusto  delli  rnei  sensi,  car'  Antonio.^ 
Ant.  0  suamisce  il  cor  in  mi  soave  bacclo, 
Mel.  Murono  i  sensi  nel  desiato  dessio : 
Ant.  Nel  Cielo  puo  lesser  belfa  pia  chiaraf 
Mel.  Nel  mondo  pal  esser  belta  pia  chiaraf 
Ant.  Dammi  un  baccio  da  quella  bocca  beata, 
Bassiammi,  coglier  Vaura  odorata 
Che  in  sua  neggia  in  quello  dolce  labra. 

Mel.  Dammi  pimpero  del  tuo  gradi(  amore 
Che  bea  me,  cosempiterno  honore, 
Cosi,  cosi  mi  converra  morir. 
Good  sweet,  scout  o'er  the  marsh :  for  my  heart 

trembles 
At  every  little  breath  that  strikes  my  ear. 
When  thou  returnest,  then  I'll  discourse 
How  I  deceived  the  court :  then  thou  shalt  tell 
How  thou  escap'st  the  watch:    we'll  point  our 

speech 
With  amorous  kissing,  kissing  commas,  and  even 

suck 
The  liquid  breath  from  out  each  othei-'s  lips. 
Ant.  Dull  clod,  no  man  but  such  sweet  favour 
clips. 
I  go,   and  yet  my  panting  blood  persuades  me 

stay. 
Turn  coward  in  her  sight  ?  away,  away  ! 

[Exit. 
Lu.  I  think  confusion  of  Babel  is  fallen  upon 
those  lovers,  that  they  change  their  language ; 
but,  I  fear  mo,  my  master  liaviug  but  feigned  the 
person  of  a  woman,  hath  got  their  unfeigned 
imperfection,  and  is  grown  double-tongu'd :  as 
for  Mellida,  she  were  no  woman,  if  she  could 
not  yield  strange  language.  But,  howsoever,  if 
I  should  sit  in  judgment,  'tis  an  error  easier  to 
be  pardoned  by  the  auditors,  than  excused  by 
the  authors ;  and  yet  some  private  respect  may 
rebate^  the  edge  of  the  keener  censure. 

Enter  Piero,  Castilio,  Matzagente,  Foko- 
Bosco,  Felice,  Galeatzo,  Balukdo,  and 
his  Page,  at  another  door. 

Pie.  Tliis  way  she  took:  search,  my  sweet 
gentlemen.  How  now,  Balurdo,  canst  thou  meet 
with  anybody .'' 

Bal.  As  I  am  a  true  gentleman,  I  made  my 
horsG  sweat,  that  he  hath  ne'er  a  dry  thread  on 
him :  and  I  can  meet  with  no  living  creature, 
but  men  and  beasts.  In  good  sadness,  I  would 
have  sworn  I  had  seen  Mellida  even  now :  for 
I  saw  a  thing  stir  under  a  hedge,  and  I  peep't, 
and  I  spied  a  thing:  and  I  peer'd,  and  I  tweer'd^ 
underneath :  and  truly  a  wise  man  might  have 
been  deceived ;  for  it  was — 

Pie.  What,  in  the  name  of  Heaven  ? 

Bal.  A  dun  cow. 

Fell.  Sh'ad  ne'er  a  kettle  on  her  head.^* 

Pie.  Boy,  didst  thou  see  a  young  lady  pass  this 
way? 


1  Mellida  here  discovers  herself  to  Antonio. 

2  rebate — blunt. 

3  twcer'd — peeped. 

*  The  Dun  Cotv  is  intimately  connected  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  celebrated  Guy  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  I 
believe  his  ketlle  is  one  of  the  pretended  relics  still 
shown  there.  From  the  text  I  conjecture  that  the  dun 
cow  with  the  kettle  on  her  head  was  in  the  time  of 
Marston  a  well-known  sign.— Dxlke. 


Gal.  Why  speak  you  not  ? 

Bal.  God's   neakes,  proud  elf,  give  the   duke 
reverence,  stand  bare  with  a — 
Whogh !  heavens  bless  me :  Mellida,  Mellida ! 

Pie.  Where,  man,  where  ? 

Bal.  Turn'd  man,  turn'd  man:    women  wear 
the  breeches,  lo  here ! 

Pie.  Light  and  unduteous!  kneel  not,  peevish  elf, 
Speak  not,  entreat  not,  shame  unto  my  house, 
Curse  to  my  honour.     Where's  Antonio  ? 
Thou  traitress  to  my  hate,  what,  is  he  shipp'd 
For  England  now  ?    well,  whimpering    harlot, 
hence  I 

Mel.  Good  father ! 

Pie.  Good  me  no  goods.  Seest  thou  that 
sprightly  youth .'  ere  thou  canst  term  to-morrow 
morning  old,  thou  shalt  call  him  thy  husband, 
lord,  and  love. 

Mel.  Ay  me. 

Pie.  Blirt'  on  your  Ay  me's  ;  guard  her  safely 
hence. 
Drag  her  away,  I'll  be  your  guard  to-night. 
Young    prince,    mount    up    your    spirits,    and 

prejiare 
To  solemnize  your  nuptial's  eve  with  pomp. 

Gal.    The  time  is    scant:   now  nimble   wits 
appear : 
PhcEbus  begins  gleam,  the  welkin's  clear. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Balukdo,  his  Page,  and  Dildo. 

Bal.    Now  nimble  wits  appear :    I'll    myself 
appear, 
Balurdo's  self,  that  in  quick  wit  doth  surpass, 
Will  show  the  substance  of  a  complete — 

Dil.  Ass,  ass. 

Bal.  I'll  mount  my  courser,  and  most  gallantly 
prick — 

Dil.  Gallantly  prick  is  too  long,  and  stands 
hardly  in  the  verse,  sir. 

Bal.  I'll  speak  pure  rhyme,  and  will  so  bravely 
prank  it,  that  I'll  toss  love  like  a  prank,  prank 
it :  a  rh3'me  for  prank  it  ? 

Dil.  Blanket. 

Bal.  That'll  toss  love,  like  a  dog  in  a  blanket: 
ha  ha,  indeed  la!  I  think,  ha  ha;  I  think,  ha 
ha,  I  think  I  shall  tickle  the  Muses.  And  I 
strike  it  not  dead,  say,  Balurdo,  thou  art  an 
arrant  sot. 

Dil.  Balurdo,  thou  art  an  arrant  sot. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Andrugio  and  AyTomo  ivreaihed  together,^ 
Lucio. 

And.  Now  come,  united  force  of   chap-fallen 
death : 
Come,  power  of  fretting  anguish,  leave  distress. 
Oh,  thus  infolded,  we  have  breasts  of  proof 
'Gainst  all  the  venom'd  stings  of  misery. 

Ant.  Father,  now  I  have  an  antidote 
'Gainst  all  the  poison  that  the  world  can  breathe : 
My  Mellida,  my  Mellida  doth  bless 
This  bleak  waste  with  her  presence.     How  now, 

boy, 
Why  dost  thou  weep  ?  alas !  where's  Mellida  ? 

Lw.  Ay  me,  my  lord. 

And.  A  sudden  horror  doth  invade  my  blood, 
j\Iy  sinews  tremble,  and  my  panting  heart 
Scuds  round  about  my  bosom  to  go  out, 
Dreading  the  assailant,  horrid  passion. 
Oh,  be  no  tj'rant,  kill  me  with  one  blow. 
Speak  quickly,  briefly,  boy. 

Pa.  Her  father  foundand  seiz'd  her;  she  is  gone. 

And.  Son,  heatthy  blood,  be  not  froze  up  with 
grief. 

'  BHrt  or  blurt  was  used  as  an  exclamation  of  con- 
tempt. 
2  i.e.  folded  in  each  other's  arms.— Dilke. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


361 


Courage,  sweet  boy,  sink  not  beneath  the  weight 
Of  crushing  mischief.     Oh,  where's  thy  dauntless 

heart, 
Thy  father's  spirit !     I  renounce  thy  blood. 
If  thou  forsake  thy  valour. 
Lu.  See  how  his  grief  speaks  in  his  slow-pac'd 
steps ! 
Alas,  'tis  more  than  he  can  utter,  let  him  go. 
Dumb  solitary  path  best  suiteth  woe. 
And.  Give  me  my  arms,  my  armour,  Lucio. 
Im.  Dear  lord,  what  means  this  rage ;  when 
lacking  use 
Scarce  saves  your  life,  will  you  in  artaour  rise  ? 
And.  Fortune  fears  valour,  presseth  cowardice. 
1m.  Then  valour  gets  applause,  when  it  hath 
place. 
And  means  to  blaze  it. 
And.  Nunquam  i^otest  non  esse.^ 
Lu.  Patience,  my   lord,  may  bring  your   ills 

some  end. 
Ant.  What  patience,  friend,  can  ruin'd  hopes 
attend  ? 
Come,  let  me  die  like  old  Andrugio : 
Worthy  my  birth.  Oh  blood-true-honour'd  graves 
Are  far  more  blessed  than  base  life  of  slaves. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

Enter  Balurdo,  a  Painter  with  two  Pictures, 
and  DiLDO. 

Bal.  And  are  you  a  painter  ?  sir,  can  you 
draw,  can  you  draw  ? 

Pa.  Yes,  sir. 

Bal.  Indeed,  la  !  now  so  can  my  father's  foi-e- 
horse.  And  are  these  the  workmanship  of  your 
hands  ? 

Pa.  I  did  limn  them. 

Bai.  Limn  them .'  a  good  word,  limn  them. 
Whose  picture  is  this  ?  Anno  Domini  1599.  Be- 
lieve me.  Master  Anno  Domini  was  of  a  good 
settled  age  when  you  limn'd  him.  1599  years 
old  ?  Let's  see  the  other.  Etatis  suse  2-1.  By'r 
Lady,  he  is  somewhat  younger.  Belike  Master 
Etatis  suse  was  Anno  Domini's  son. 

Pa.  Is  not  your  master  a — 

Bil.  He  hath  a  little  proclivity  to  him. 

Pa.  Proclivity,  good  youth  ?  I  thank  you  for 
your  courtly  proclivity. 

Bal.  Approach,  good  sir.  I  did  send  for  you 
to  draw  me  a  device,  an  Imprezza,  by  Sinecdoche 
a  Mott.  By  Phcebus'  crimson  taffeta  mantle,  1 
think  I  speak  as  melodiously, — look  you,  sir,  how 
think  you  on't  .■*  I  would  have  you  paint  me, 
for  my  device,  a  good  fat  leg  of  ewe  mutton, 
swimming  in  stewed  broth  of  plum  (boy,  keel- 
your  mouth,  it  runs  over),  and  the  word^  shall 
be,  Hold  my  dish,  whilst  I  spill  my  pottage. 
Sure,  in  my  conscience,  'twould  be  the  most 
sweet  device,  now. 

Pa.  'T  would  scent  of  kitchen  stuff  too  much. 

Bal.  God's  neakes,  now  I  remember  me,  I  ha' 
the  rarest  device  in  my  head  that  ever  breathed. 
Can  you  paint  me  a  drivelling,  reeling  song,  and 
let  the  word  be,  Uh  ? 

Pa.  A  belch. 

Bal.  Oh,  no,  no.   Uh,  paint  me  uh,  or  nothing. 

Pa.  It  cannot  be  done,  sir,  but  by  a  seeming 
kind  of  drunkenness. 

Bal.  No  ?    Well,  let  me  have  a  good  massy 


*  '  It  is  never  possible  not  to  be.' 

*  keel — cool  skim.  ^  jcord — motto. 


ring,  with  your  own  poesie  graven  in  it,  that 
must  sing  a  small  treble,  word  for  word,  thus  : 

And  if  you  will  my  true  lover  be, 
Come  follow  me  to  the  green  wood. 

Pa.  0  Lord,  sir,  I  cannot  make  a  picture  sing. 
Bal.  Why  ?  z'lid,  I  have  seen  painted  things 
sing  as  sweet ; 
But  I  hav't  will  tickle  it,  for  a  conceit  i'faith. 

Enter  Pelice  and  Alberto. 

Alh.  Oh,  dear  Felice,  give  me  thy  device. 
How  shall  I  purchase  love  of  Rossaline  ? 

Feli.  S'will,  flatter  her  soundly. 

A  lb.  Her  love  is  such,  I  cannot  flatter  her ; 
But  with  my  utmost  vehemence  of  speech, 
I  have  ador'd  her  beauties. 

Feli.  Hast  writ  good,  moving,  unaffected 
rhymes  to  her  ? 

Alb.  0  yes,  Felice ;  but  she  scorns  my  writ. 

Feli.  Hast  thou  presented  her  with  sumptuoi'.a 
gifts  ? 

Alb.  Alas!  my  fortunes  are  too  weak  to  offer 
them. 

Feli.  Oh,  then  I  have  it,  I'll  tell  thee  what  to 
do. 

Alb.  What,  good  Felice  ?. 

Feli.  Go  and  hang  thyself;  I  say,  go  hang 
thyself ; 
If  that  thou  canst  not  give,  go  hang  thyself. 
I'll  time  thee  dead,  or  verse  thee  to  the  rope. 
How  think'st  thou  of  a  poet  that  sung  thus  : 
Munera  sola  pacant,  sola  addunt  munera  J'ovmam  : 
Munere  soUcites  Pallada,  Cijpris  erit. 
Munera.  munera.^ 

Alb.  I'll  go  and  breathe  my  woes  unto  the 
rocks, 
And  spend  my  grief  upon  the  deafest  seas. 
I'll  weep  my  passion  to  the  senseless  trees, 
And  load  most  solitary  air  with  plaints. 
For  woods,  trees,  sea,  or  rocky  Appenine, 
Is  not  so  ruthless  as  my  Eossaline. 
Farewell,  dear  friend,  expect  no  more  of  me  ; 
Here  ends  my  part  in  this  love's  comedy.- 

[Exit  Alberto.     Exit  Painter. 

Feli.  Now,  Master  Balurdo,  whither  are  you 
going,  ha  ? 

Bal.  Siguier  Felice,  how  do  you,  faith,  and 
by  my  troth,  how  do  you  ? 

Feli.  AVhither  art  thou  going,  bully  .' 

Bal.  And  as  Heaven  helji  me,  how  do  you  ? 
How,  do  you  i'faith  he  .' 

Feli.  Whither  art  going,  man  .' 

Bal.  0  God,  to  the  court !  I'll  be  willing  to 
give  you  grace  and  good  countenance,  if  I  may 
but  see  you  in  the  presence. 

Feli.  Oh,  to  court .'  farewell. 

Bal.  If  you  see  one  in  a  j'ellow  taffeta  doublet, 
cut  upon  carnation  velui-e,^  a  green  hat,  a  blue 
pair  of  velvet  hose,  a  gilt  rapier,  and  an  orange 
tawny  pair  of  worsted  silk  stockings,  that's  I, 
that's  I. 

Feli.  Very  good  ;  farewell. 

Bal.  Ho,  you  shall  know  me  as  easily.  I  ha' 
bought  me  a  new  green  feather  with  a  red  sprig ; 
you  shall  see  my  -wi-ought  shirt  hang  out  at  my 
breeches  ;  you  shall  know  me. 

Feli.  Very  good,  very  good  ;  farewell. 

Bal.  Marry,  in  the  mask  'twill  be  somewhat 
hard.    But  if  you  hear  anybody  speak  so  wittUy 


'  '  Gifts  alone  appease ;  gifts  alone  add  beauty : 

Should  you  solicit  Pallas  with  a  gift,  she  will  bs  a 

Venus : 
Gifts,  gifts.' 

"  comedy  often  means  a  play  generall7. 

3  velure — velvet. 


362 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


tliat  he  makes  all  the  room  laugh,  that's  I,  that's 
I.    Farewell,  good  Signior.  \Exmnt. 

Enter  Foeobosco,  Castilio,  a  Boy  carrying  a 
gilt  harp ;  Pieko,  Mellida  in  night  ajyiiarel, 
KossALisE,  Flavia,  two  Pages. 

Pie.  Advance  the  music's  prize ;  1  now,  cap'ring 
wits, 
Rise  to  your  highest  mount ;  let  choice  delight 
Garland  the  brow  of  this  triumphant  night. 
'Sfoot,  a  sits  like  Lucifer  himself. 

Ros.  Good,  sweet  duke,  first  let  their  voices 
strain  for  music's  price.  Give  me  the  golden 
harn.    Faith,  with  your  favour,  I'll  be  ump'ress. 

Pie.  Sweet  niece,  content.  Boys,  clear  your 
voice  and  sing.  [First  Boy  sings. 

Ros.  By  this  gold,  I  had  rather  have  a  servant 
with  a  short  nose  and  a  thin  hair,  than  have 
such  a  high  stretch'd  minikin-  voice. 

Pie.  Fair  niece,  your  reason  ? 

Ros.  By  the  sweet  of  love,  I  should  fear  ex- 
tremely that  he  were  an  eunuch. 

Cas.  Spark  ^  spirit,  how  like  you  his  voice  ? 

Ros.  Spark  spirit,  how  like  you  his  voice  ? 
So  help  me,  youth,  thy  voice  squeaks  like  a  di-y 
cork  shoe.     Come,  come  ;  let's  hear  the  next. 

[Second  Boy  sings. 

Pie.  Trust  me,  a  strong  mean.*  Well  sung, 
my  boy. 

Enter  Baluedo. 

Bed.  Hold,  hold,  hold !  _  Are  ye  blind  ?  Could 
ye  not  see  my  voice  coming  for  the  harp  ?  An 
I  knock  not  division  on  the  head,^  take  hence 
the  harp,  make  me  a  slip,  and  let  me  go  but  for 
ninepence.  Sir  Mark,  strike  up  for  Master 
Balurdo.  [Baluedo  sings. 

Judgment,    gentlemen,  judgment.      Was't    not 

above  line  ? 
I  appeal  to  your  mouths  that  heard  my  song. 
Do  me  right,  and  dub  me  knight,  Balui-do. 

Ros.  Kneel  down,  and  I'll  dub  thee  knight  of 
the  golden  harp. 

Bal.  Indeed,  la,  do,  and  I'll  make  you  lady  of 
the  silver  fiddlestick. 

Eos.  Come,  kneel,  kneel. 

Enter  a  Page  to  Baluedo. 

Bal.  My  troth,  I  thank  you,  it  hath  never  a 
whistle  in't. 

Ros.  Nay,  good  sweet  cuz,  raise  _  up  your 
drooping  eyes;  and  I  were  at  the  point  of  To 
have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  I  would 
be  asham'd  to  look  thus  lumpish.  Stall's  dance? 
thou  art  so  sad,  hark  in  mine  ear.  I  was  about 
to  say,  but  I'll  forbear. 

Bal.  I  come,  I  come ;  more  then,  most  honey- 
suckle sweet  ladies,  pine  not  for  my  presence; 
I'll  return  in  pomp.  Well  spoke,  Sir  Jeffrey 
Balurdo.  As  I  am  a  true  knight,  I  feel  honour- 
able eloquence  begin  to  grope  me  already. 

[Exit. 

Pie.  Faith,  mad  niece,  I  wonder  when  thou 
wilt  marry  ? 

Ros.  Faith,  kind  uncle,  when  men  abandon 
jealousy,  forsake  taking  of  tobacco,  and  cease  to 
wear  their  beards  so  rudely  long.  Oh,  to  have 
a  husband  with  a  mouth  continually  smoking, 
with  a  bush  of  furs  on  the  ridge  of  his  chin, 
ready  still  to  flop  into  his  foaming  chaps ;  ah  ! 
'tis  more  than  most  intolerable. 


1  Viz.  a  harp,  as  Wi]l  be  seen  'below. 

2  minikin — treble.  ^  spark — bright,  lively. 
■•  i.e.  a  full-toned  tenor  voice. — Dilkb. 

*  i.e.,  we  suppose  if  he  does  not  beat  the  others  '  hol- 
low '  in  singing. 


Eie.  Nay,  faith,  sweet  niece,  I  was  mighty 
strong  in  thought  we  should  have  shut  up  night 
with  an  old  comedy.  The  Prince  of  Milan  shall 
have  Mellida,  and  thou  shouldst  have — 

Ros.  Nobody,  good  sweet  uncle.  I  tell  you, 
sir,  I  have  thirty-nine  servants,  and  my  monkey, 
that  makes  the  fortieth.  Now,  I  love  all  of  them 
lightly  for  something,  but  affect  none  of  them 
seriously  for  anything.  One's  a  passionate  fool, 
and  he  flatters  me  above  belief ;  the  second's  a 
testy  ape,  and  he  rails  at  me  beyond  reason ;  the 
thu'd's  as  grave  as  some  censor,  and  he  strokes 
up  his  mustachoes  three  times,  and  makes  six 
plots'  of  set  faces,  before  he  speaks  one  wise 
word ;  the  fourth's  as  dry  as  the  burr  of  an  arti- 
choke ;  the  fifth  paints,  and  hath  always  a  good 
colour  for  what  he  speaks  ;  the  sixth — 

Pie.  Stay,  stay,  sweet  niece  ;  what  makes  you 
thus  suspect  young  gallants'  worth? 

Ros.  Oh,  when  I  see  one  wear  a  periwig,  I 
dread  his  hair;  another  wallow  in  a  great  slop,- 
I  mistrust  the  proportion  of  his  thigh  ;  and  wears 
a  ruffled  boot,  I  fear  the  fashion  of  his  leg.  Thus, 
something  in  each  thing,  one  trick  in  everything 
makes  me  mistrust  imperfection  in  all  parts  ;  and 
there's  the  full  point  of  my  addiction.^ 

The  cornets  sound  a  cynet. 

Enter  Galeatzo,  Matzagente,  and  Baluedo 
in  mashery.* 

Pie.  The  room's  too  scant:  boys,  stand  in 
there,  close. 

Mel.  In  faith,  fair  sir,  I  am  too  sad  to  dance. 

Pie.  How's  that,  how's  that  ?     Too  sad  ?     By 
Heaven,  dance. 
And  grace  him  to,  or  go  to, — I  say  no  more. 

Md.    A  burning  glass,  the  word  splendente 
Phcebo  ? 
'Tis  too  curious,  I  conceit  it  not. 

Gal.  Faith,  I'll  tell  thee.      I'll  no  longer  burn, 
than  you'll  shine  and  smile  upon  my  love.      For 
look  ye,  fairest,  by  your  pure  sweets, 
I  do  not  dote  upon  your  excellence. 
And  faith,  unless  you  shed  your  brightest  beams 
Of  sunny  favour,  and  acceptive  grace 
Upon  my  tender  love,  I  do  not  burn  : 
Marry  but  shine,  and  I'll  reflect  your  beams. 
With  fervent  ardom\     Faith,  I  would  be  loath 
to  flatter  thee,  fair  soul,  because  I  love,  not  dote, 
com't  like  thy  husband,  which  thy  father  swears, 
to-morrow  morn,  I  must  be.     This  is  all ;  and 
now  fr'om  henceforth,  trust  me,  Mellida,  I'll  not 
speak  one  wise  word  to  thee  more. 

Mel.  I  trust  ye. 

Gal.  By  my  troth,  I'll  speak  pure  fooP  to  thee 
now. 

Mel.  You  will  speak  the  liker  yourself. 

Gal.  Good  faith,  I'll  accept  of  the  cockscomb, 
so  you  will  not  refuse  t^e  bauble.^ 

Mel.  Nay,  good  sweet,  keep  them  both ;  I  am 
enamour'd  of  neither. 

Gal.  Go  to,  I  must  take  you  down  for  this. 
Lend  me  your  ear. 

Ros.  A  glowworm?  tho  Avord, — Splendescit 
tantiim  tenebris.'' 

Mat.    Oh,  lady,  the  glowworm  figurates  my 


^  plots— ■plats,  plans,  sets. 

2  slop.    Slops  were  large  loose  breeches. 

3  addiction — inclination,  will. 

*  maskery — masquerade.  This  is  necessary  to  be  re- 
membered in  order  to  understand  what  follows. 

^  pure  fool — i.e.  like  a  pure  fool. 

"  The  cockscomb  and  bauble  were  both  appurtenance* 
of  a  fool. 

'  '  Shines  only  in  the  dark.' 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


"M 


valour,  which  shineth  brightest  in  most  dark, 
dismal,  and  horrid  achievements. 

Ros.  Or,  rather,  your  glowworm  represents 
your  wit,  which  only  seems  to  have  fire  in  it, 
though  indeed  'tis  but  an  ignis  fatuus,  and  shines 
only  in  the  dark  dead  night  of  fools'  admu-ation. 

Mat.  Lady,  my  wit  hath  spurs,  if  it  were  dis- 
posed to  ride  you. 

Eos.  Faith,  sir,  your  wit's  spurs  have  but  walk- 
ing rowels ;  dull,  blunt,  they  will  not  draw  blood  : 
the  gentlemen  ushers  may  admit  them  the  pre- 
sence, for  any  wrong  they  can  do  to  ladies. 

Bal.  Truly,  I  have  strained  a  note  above  Ela^ 
for  a  device ;  look  you,  'tis  a  fair  rul'd  singing 
book;  the  word.  Perfect^  if  it  ioe,re  pricht? 

Fla.  Though  you  are  mask'd,  I  can  guess  who 
you  are  by  your  wit.  You  are  not  the  exquisite 
Balurdo,  the  most  rarely  shap'd  Balurdo. 

Bal.  Who,  I?  No,  I  am  not  Su-  Jeffrey 
Balm-do.  I  am  not  as  well  known  by  my  wit 
as  an  alehouse  by  a  red  lattice.  I  am  not  worthy 
to  love  and  be  beloved  of  Flavia. 

Fla.  I  will  not  scorn  to  favour  such  good  parts 
as  are  applauded  in  your  rarest  self. 

Bal.  Truly  you  speak  wisely,  and  like  a 
gentlewoman  of  fourteen  years  of  age.  You 
know  the  stone  called  lapis ;  the  nearer  it  comes 
to  the  fire,  the  hotter  it  is  :  and  the  bird,  which 
the  geometricians  call  avis,  the  farther  it  is  from 
the  earth,  the  nearer  it  is  to  the  heaven ;  and 
love,  the  nigher  it  is  to  the  flame,  the  more  re- 
mote (there's  a  word,  remote),  the  more  remote 
it  is  from  the  frost.  Your  wit  is  quick  ;  a,  little 
thing  pleaseth  a  young  lady,  and  a  small  favour 
contenteth  an  old  courtier. 

Ente}'  Feuce. 

Pie.  What  might  import  this  flourish  ?     Bring 
us  word. 

Feli.  Stand  aw?iy :  here's  such  a  company  of 
fly-boats,  hulling  about  this  galeass  of  greatness, 
that  there's  no  boarding  him. 
Do  you  hear  yon  thing  call'd  duke  ? 

Pie.    How    now,    blunt    Felice;    what's    the 
news  ? 

Feli.  Yonder's  a  knight  hath  brought  An- 
drugio's  head,  and  craves  admittance  to  your 
chair  of  state. 

Cornets  sound  a  cynet.     Enter  Andrugio,  in 
armour. 

Pie.  Conduct  him  with  attendance  sumptuous; 
Sound  all  the  pleasing  instruments  of  Joy ; 
Make  triumph  stand  on  tiptoe  whilst  we  meet : 
O  sight  most  gracious,  0  revenge  most  sweet ! 

And.  \j-eads'].  We  vow,  by  the  honour  of  our 
Virih,^  to  recompense  any  man  that  hringeth  An- 
drugio^s  head,  toith  twenty  thousand  doid)le  jnstolets, 
and  the  endearing  to  our  choicest  love. 

Pie.  We  still  with  most  unmov'd  resolv'd  con- 
firm 
Our  large  munificence  :  and  here  breathe 
A  sad  and  solemn  protestation : 
When  I  recall  this  vow,  oh,  let  our  house 
Be  even  commanded,  stain'd,  and  trampled  on, 
As  worthless  rubbish  of  nobility. 

And.  Then  here,  Piero,  is  Andrugio's  head, 
Eoyally  casked  in  a  helm  of  steel : 
Give  me  thy  love,  and  take  it.    My  dauntless 

soul 
Hath  that  unbounded  vigour  in  his  spirits 
That  it  can  bear  more  rank  indignity, 
With  less  impatience  than  thy  cancred  hate 


*  Ela — the  highest  note  in  the  scale  of  music. 

*  i.e.  if  the  music  were  pricked  or  written  on  it. 


Can  sting  and  venom  his  untainted  worth 
With  the  most  viperous  sound  of  malice.  Strike  ; 
Oh,  let  no  glimpse  of  honour  light  thy  thoughts  ; 
'  If  there  be  any  heat  of  royal  breath 
Creeping  in  thy  veins,  oh,  stifle  it. 
Be  still  thyself,  bloody  and  treacherous. 
Fame  not  thy  house  with  an  admu-ed  act 
Of  princely  pity.     Piero,  I  am  come 
To  soil  thy  house  with  an  eternal  blot 
Of  savage  cruelty ;  strike,  or  bid  me  strike. 
I  pray  my  death  ;  that  thy  ne'er-dying  shame 
Might  live  immortal  to  posterity. 
Come,  be  a  princely  hangman,  stop  my  breath. 
Oh  dread  thou  shame  no  more  than  I  dread  death. 

Pie.  We  are  amaz'd,  our  royal  spirits  numb'd, 
In  stiff  astonish'd  wonder-at  thy  prowess. 
Most  mighty,  valiant,  and  high  tow'ring  heart. 
We  blush,  and  turn  our  hate  upon  ourselves, 
For  hating  such  an  unpeer'd  excellence. 
I  joy  my  state  :  him  whom  I  loath'd  before. 
That  now  I  honour,  love,  nay  more,  adore. 

[The  still^  flutes  sound  a  mournful 
cynet.    Enter  a  coffin. 
But  stay ;  what  tragic  spectacle  appears  ! 
Whose  body  bear  you  in  that  mournful  hearse  ? 

Lu.  The  bi-eathless  trunk  of  young  Antonio. 

Mel.  Antonio   (ay  me),  my  lord !   my  love ! 
my— 

And.  Sweet  precious  issue  of  most  honour'd 
blood, 
Rich  hope,  ripe  virtue,  oh  untimely  loss  ! 
Come  hither,  friend.     Pr'ythee,  do  not  weep. 
Why,  I  am  glad  he's  dead ;  he  shall  not  see 
His  father's  vanquish'd  by  his  enemy. 
Even  in  princely  honour ;  nay,  pr'ythee,  speak ! 
How  died  the  wretched  boy  ? 

Lu.  My  lord! 

And.  I  hope  he  died  yet  like  my  son,  i'faith. 

Lu.  Alas,  my  lord  I 

And.  He  died  unforc'd,^  I  tmst,  and  valiantly. 

Lu.  Poor  gentleman,  being— 

And.  Did  his  hand   shake,  or  his  eve  look 
dull,  ^ 

His  thoughts  reel,  fearful  when  he  struck  the 

stroke  ? 
And  if  they  did,  I'll  rend  them  out  the  hearse, 
Itip  up  his  cerecloth,  mangle  his  bleak  face, 
That  when  he  comes  to  heaven,  the  powers 

divine 
Shall  ne'er  take  notice  that  he  was  my  son. 
I'll    quite    disclaim  his  birth.     Nay,    pr'ythee, 

speak : 
And  'twere  not  hoop'd  with  steel,   my  breast 
•     would  break. 

Mel.  Oh  that  my  sjiirit  in  a  sigh  could  mount 
Into  the  sphere,  where  thy  sweet  soul  doth  rest ! 

Pie.  Oh  that  my   tears,   bedewing  thy  wan 
cheek, 
Could  make  new  spirit  sprout  in  thy  cold  blood ! 

Bal.  Verily,  he  looks  as  pitifully  as  a  poor 
John ;  as  I  am  true  knight,  I  could  weep  like 
a  ston'd  horse. 

And.  Villain,  'tis  thou  hast  murdered  my  son ! 
Thy  unrelenting  spirit  (thou  black  dog. 
That  took'st  no  passion  *  of  his  fatal  love) 
Hath  forc'd  him  give  his  life  untimely  end. 

Pie.  Oh  that  my  life,   her  love,  my  dearest 
blood 
Would  but  redeem  one  minute  of  his  breath ! 

Ant.  I  seize  that  breath.     Stand  not  amaz'd, 
great  states : 
I  rise  from  death  that  never  liv'd  till  now. 


'  still— •>  low-toned. 
-  unforc'd — willinsly. 
^passion — compassion,  pity. 


564 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Piero,  keep  thy  vow,  and  I  enjoy 

More  unexpressed  height  of  happiness 

Than  power  of  thought  can  reach ;  if  not,  lo 

here 
There  stands  my  tomb,  and  here  a  pleasing 

stage  : 
Most  wish'd  spectators  of  my  tragedy. 
To  this  end  have  I  feign'd,  that  her  fair  eye. 
For  whom  I  liv'd,  might  bless  me  ere  I  die. 

Md.  Can    breath    depaint  *   my  unconceived 
thoughts  ? 
Can  words  describe  my  infinite  delight 
Of  seeing  thee,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 
Oh  no ;  conceit,  breath,  passion,  words,  be  dumb, 
Whilst  I  instil  the  dew  of  my  sweet  bliss, 
In  the  soft  pressure  of  a  melting  kiss  ! 
Sic,  sicjuvat  ire  sub  umbras? 

Pie.  Fair  son  (now  I'll  be  proud  to  call  thee 
son). 
Enjoy  me  thus  :  my  very  breast  is  thine ; 
Possess  me  freely,  I  am  wholly  thine. 

Ant.  Dear  father. 

And.  Sweet  son,  sweet  son,  I  can  speak  no 
more : 
My  joy's  passion  flows  above  the  shore, 
And  chokes  the  current  of  my  speech. 

Pie.  Young  Florence  prince,  to  you  my  lips 
must  beg 
For  a  remittance  of  your  interest. 

Gal.  In    your    fair    daughter,    with   all    my 
thought. 
So  help  me  faith,  the  naked  truth  I'll  unfold  ; 
He  that  was  ne'er  hot  will  soon  be  cold. 

Pie.  No  man  else  makes  claim  unto  her  ? 

Mat.  The  valiant  speak  truth  in  brief :  no — 

Bal.  Truly,  for  Sir  Jeffrey  Balurdo,   he  dis- 
claims to  have  had  anything  in  her. 

Pie.  Then  here  I  give  her  to  Antonio. 
Eoyal,  valiant,  most  respected  prince. 
Let's   clip  3   our  hands ;    I'll   thus   observe  my 
vow: 


1  depaint — paint,  depict. 

'  'Tims,  thus,  1  delight  to  go  under  his  protection.' 

*  clip — clasp. 


I  promised  twenty  thousand  double  pistolets. 

With  the  indearing  to  my  dearest  love. 

To  him  that  brought  thy  head;    thine  be  the 

gold. 
To  solemnize  our  houses'  unity ; 
My  love  be  thine,  the  all  I  have  be  thine. 
Fill  us  fresh  wine,  the  form  we'll  take  by  this  ; 
We'll  drink  a  health,  while  they  two  sip  a  kiss. 
Now  there  remains  no  discord  that  can  sound 
Harsh  accents  to  the  ear  of  our  accord  : 
So  please  you  niece  to  match. 

Ros.  Troth,  uncle,  when  my  sweet-fac'd  cuz 
hath  told  me  how  she  likes  the  thing  called  wed- 
loclc,  may  be  I'll  take  a  survey  of  the  checkroU 
of  my  servants ;  and  he  that  hath  the  best  parts 
of,  I'll  prick  him  down  for  my  husband. 

Bal.  For  passion  of  love  now,  remember  me  to 
my  mistress,  ladj'  Kossaline,  when  she  is  prick- 
ing down  the  good  parts  of  her  servants.  As  I 
am  true  knight,  I  grow  stiff ;  I  shall  carry  it. 

Pie.  I  will. 
Sound    Lydian  wires,    once    make  a  pleasing 

note. 
On  Nectar  streams  of  your  sweet  airs,  to  float. 

Ant.  Here  ends  the  comic  crosses  of  true  love; 
Oh !  may  the  passage  most  successful  prove ! 


EPILOGUE. 

Gentlemen,  though  I  remain  an  armed  Epilogue, 
I  stand  not  as  a  peremptory  challenger  of  desert, 
either  for  him  that  composed  the  comedy,  or  for 
us  that  acted  it ;  but  a  most  submissive  suppliant 
for  both.  What  imperfection  you  have  seen  in 
us,  leave  with  us,  and  we'll  amend  it ;  what 
hath  pleased  you,  take  with  you,  and  cherish  it. 
You  shall  not  be  more  ready  to  embrace  any- 
thing commendable,  than  we  will  endeavour  to 
amend  all  things  reprovable.  What  we  are,  is 
by  your  favour.  What  we  shall  be,  rests  all  in 
your  applausive  encouragements.  [Exit. 


ANTONIO'S    REVENGE. 

THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA. 


In  addition  to  those  in  the  first  part. 


Gasper  Strotzo,  a  Minion  of  Piero. 
Pandulpho  Felice,  Felice's  Father. 


Maria,  Andrugio's  Wife. 
NuTitiCE,  her  Maid. 


THE    PROLOGUE. 


The  rawish  dank  of  clumsy  winter  ramps  * 
The  fluent  summer's  vein ;  and  (frizzling  sleet 
Chilleth  the  wan  bleak  cheek  of  the  numb'd  earth. 
Whilst  snarling  gusts  nibble  the  juiceless  leaves 
From  the  nak'd  shuddering  bi-anch;  and  peels 

the  skin 
From  off  the  soft  and  delicate  aspects. 

'  ramps— t  creeps  up,  seizes  on. 


Oh  now,  methinks,  a  sullen  tragic  scene 
Would  suit  the  time,  with  pileasing  congruence. 
May  we  be  happy  in  our  weak  devoir, 
And    all    part    pleased    in    most    wish'd    con 

tent; 
But  sweat  of  Hercules  can  ne'er  beget 
So  blest  an  issue.     Therefore,  we  proclaim, 
If  any  spirit  breathes  within  this  round, 
Uncapable  of  weighty  passion 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


565 


(As  from  his  birth,  being  hugged  in  the  arms, 
And  nuzzled  i  'twixt  the  breasts  of  happiness), 
Who  winks,  and  shuts  his  apprehension  up 
From  common  sense  of  what  men  were,  and  arei 
Who  would  not  know  what  men  must  be — let 

such 
Hurry  amain  from  our  black- visag'd  shows : 
We  shall  affright  their  eyes.     But  if  a  breast 
Nail'd  to  the  earth  with  grief,  if  any  heart 
Pierc'd  through  with  anguish  pant  within  this  ring) 
If  there  be  any  blood  whose  heat  is  chok'd 

1  nuzzled,  nusled,  nurshd — nursed. 


And  stifled  with  true  sense  of  misery, 
If  ought  of  these  strains  fill  this  consort '  up — 
Th'  arrive  most  welcome.     Oh  that  our  power 
Could  lackey  or  keep  wing  with  our  desires, 
That  with  unused  paize  of  style  and  sense, 
We  might  weigh  massy  in  judicious  scale ! 
Yet  here's  the  prop  that  doth  support  our  hopes. 
When  our  scenes  falter,  or  invention  halts. 
Your  favour  will  give  crutches  to  our  faults. 

{Exit. 


1  consort — company. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

Enter  Piero  unbraced,  his  arms  hare,  smeared  in 
blood,  a  ]}onia7'd  in  one  hand  bloody,  and  a 
torch  in  the  other;  Stkotzo  following  him 
with  a  cord. 

Pie.  Ho,  Gasper  Strotzo,  bind  Felice's  trunk 
Unto  the  panting  side  of  Mellida.  \_Exit  Str. 

'Tis  j-et  dead  night,  yet  all  the  earth  is  clutch'd 
In  the  dull  leaden  hand  of  snoring  sleep. 
No  breath  disturbs  the  quiet  of  the  air. 
No  spirit  moves  upon  the  breast  of  earth. 
Save  howling  dogs,  night  crows,  and  screeching 

owls. 
Save  meagre  ghosts,  Piero,  and  black  thoughts. 
One,  two.     Lord,  in  two  hours  what  a  topless 

mount 
Of  unpeer'd  mischief  have  these  hands  cast  up ! 

Enter  Strotzo. 
I  can  scarce  coop  triumphing  vengeance  up 
From  bursting  forth  in  braggart  passion. 

Str.  My  lord,  'tis  firmly  said  that — 

Pie.  Andrugio  sleeps  in  peace :  this  brain  hath 
chok'd 
The  organ  of  his  breast.    Felice  hangs 
But  as  a  bait  upon  the  line  of  death. 
To  'tice  on  mischief.     I  am  great  in  blood, 
Unequall'd  in  revenge.    Yoii  horrid  scouts 
That  sentinel  swart  night,  give  loud  applause 
From  your  large  palms.    First  know,  my  heart 

was  rais'd 
Unto  Andrugio's  life  upon  this  ground. 

Str.  Duke,  'tis  reported — 

Pie.  We  both  were  rivals  in  our  May  of  blood, 
Unto  Maria,  fair  Ferrara's  heir. 
He  won  the  lady  to  my  honour's  death, 
And  from  her  sweets  cropp'd  this  Antonio ; 
For  which  I  burnt  in  inward  swelt'ring  hate, 
And  fester'd  rankling  malice  in  my  breast, 
Till  I  might  belli  1  revenge  upon  his  eyes  : 
And  now  (0  blessed  now !)  'tis  done.  Hell,  night. 
Give  loud  applause  to  my  hypocrisy. 
When  his  bright  valour  even  dazzled  sense, 
In  off'ring  his  own  head,  public  reproach 
Had  blurr'd  my  name.     Speak,  Strotzo,  had  it 

not? 
I  had—    If  then— 

Str.  It  had,  so  please — 

Pie.  What  had  so  please  ?    Unseasoned  syco- 
phant, 
Piero  Sforza  is  no  numbed  lord. 
Senseless  of  all  true  touch ;  stroke  not  the  head 
Of  infant  speech,  till  it  be  duly  born ; 
Go  to. 


1  iett— belch. 


Str.  How  now!    Fut,  I'll   not   smother   your 
speech. 

Pie.  Nay,  right  thine  eyes :  'twas  but  a  little 
spleen. 
(Hiige  plunge! 

Sin's  grown  a  slave,  and  must  observe  slight  evils; 
Huge  villains  ai-e  inforc'd  to  claw  all  devils.) 
Pish,  sweet  thy  thoughts  and  give  me — 

Str.  Stroke  not  the  head  of  infant  speech!  Goto 

Pie.  Nay,  calm  this  storm.     I  ever  held  thy 
breast 
More  secret,  and  more  firm  in  league  of  blood. 
Than  to  be  stinick  in  heat  with  each  slight  puff. 
Give  me  thy  ears  ;  huge  infamy 
Press  down  my  honour ;  if  even  then,  when 
His  fresh  act  of  prowess  bloom'd  out  full, 
I  had  ta'en  vengeance  on  his  hated  head — 

Str.  AVhy  it  had— 

Pie.  Could  I  avoid  to  give  a  seeming  grant 
Unto  fruition  of  Antonio's  love  ? 

Str.  No. 

Pie.  And  didst  thou  ever  see  a  Judas  kiss. 
With  a  more  covert  touch  of  fleering  hate  ? 

Str.  No. 

Pie.  And  having  dipt  them  with  pretence  of 
love, 
Have  I  not  crush'd  them  with  a  cruel  wring  ? 

Str.  Yes. 

Pie.  Say,  faith,  didst  thou  e'er  hear,  or  read,  or 
see 
Such  happy  vengeance,  unsuspected  death  ? 
That  I  should  di-op  strong  poison  in  the  bowl, 
Which  I  myself  carous'd  unto  his  health 
And  future  fortune  of  our  unity, 
That  it  should  work  even  in  the  hush  of  night, 
And  strangle  him  on  sudden  ;  that  fair  show 
Of  death,  for  the  excessive  joy  of  his  fate, 
Might  choke  the  murder ?     Ha!  Strotzo,  is't  not 

rare? 
Nay,  but  weigh  it.     Then  Felice  stabbed 
(Whose  sinking  thought  fright'ned  my  conscious 

heart). 
And  laid  by  Mellida,  to  stop  the  match. 
And  hale  on  mischief.     This  all  in  one  night ! 
Is't  to  be  equall'd,  think'st  thou?    Oh,  I  could  eat 
Thy  fumbling  throat,  for  thy  lagg'd  censure.   Fut, 
Is't  not  rare  ? 

-S-^)-.  Yes. 

Pie.  No?  yes?  nothing  but  no,  and  yes,  dull 
lump  ? 
Canst  thou  not  honey  me  with  fluent  speech. 
And  even  adore  my  topless  villany  ? 
Will  I  not  blast  my  own  blood  for  revenge  ? 
Must  not  thou  straight  be  pei-jur'd  for  revenge  ? 
And  yet  no  creature  dream  'tis  my  revenge. 
Will  I  not  turn  a  glorious  bridal  morn 
Unto  a  Stygian  night?     Yet  naught  but  no,  and 
yes! 


366 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Sir.  I  would  have  told  you,  if  the  incubus 
That  rides  your  bosom  "would  have  patience. 
It  is.  reported  that,  in  private  state, 
Maria,  Genoa's  duchess,  makes  to  coui-t, 
Longing  to  see  him,  whom  she  ne'er  shall  see, 
Her  lord  Andrugio.     Belike  she  hath  receiv'd 
The  news  of  reconclHation : 
Eeconciliation  with  a  death  ? 
Poor  lady,  shall  but  find  poor  comfort  in't. 

Pie.  Oh,  let  me  swoon  for  joy.     By  heaven,  I 
think 
I  ha'  said  my  prayers,  within  this  month  at  least ; 
I  am  so  boundless  happy.     Doth  she  come  ? 
By  this  warm  reeking  gore,  I'll  marry  her. 
Look  I  not  now  like  an  inamorate  ? 
Poison  the  father,  butcher  the  son,  and  marry  the 

mother,  ha ! 
Strotzo,  to  bed :  snort  in  securest  sleep ; 
For  see,  the  dapple  grey  coursers  of  the  morn 
Beat  up  the  light  with  their  bright  silver  hooves, 
And  chase  it  through  the  sky.     To  bed,  to  bed ! 
This  morn  my  vengeance  shall  be  amply  fed. 

{Exit. 

ACT  I.— SCENE  IL 

Enter  Lucio,  Makia,  and  ZSTdthice. 

Mar.  Stay,  gentle  Lucio,  and  vouchsafe  thy 
hand. 

Lu.  Oh,  madam — 

Mar.    Nay,   pr'ythee   give  me  leave  to   say, 
vouchsafe ; 
Submiss  >  intreats  beseem  my  humble  fate. 
Here  let  us  sit.     O  Lucio,  fortune's  gilt 
Is  rubb'd  quite  off  from  my  slight  tin-foil'd  state. 
And  poor  Maria  must  appear  ungrac'd 
Of  the  bright  fulgor  of  gloss'd  majesty. 

Im.    Cheer    up    your    spirits,   madam,    fairer 
chance 
Than  that  which  courts  your  presence  instantly 
Cannot  be  formed  by  the  quick  mould  of  thought. 

Mar.  Art  thou  assur'd  the  dukes  are  reconcil'd  ? 
Shall  my  womb's  honour  wed  fair  Mellida  ? 
WUl  Heaven  at  length  grant  harbour  to  my  head  ? 
Shall  I  once  more  clip  my  Andrugio, 
And  wreath  my  arms  about  Antonio's  neck  ? 
Or  is  glib  mmour  grown  a  parasite, 
Holding  a  false  glass  to  my  sorrow's  eyes, 
Making  the  wrinkl'd  front  of  grief  seem  fair, 
Though  'tis  much  rivel'd  ^  with  abortive  care  ? 

Lm.  Most  virtuous  princess,  banish  straggling 
feai', 
Keep  league  with  comfort ;  for  these  eyes  beheld 
The  dukes  united ;  yon  faint  glimmering  light 
Ne'er  peeped  through  the  crannies  of  the  east, 
Since  I  beheld  them  drink  a  sound  carouse 
In  si^arkling  Bacchus 
Unto  each  other's  health ; 
Tour  son  assur'd  to  beauteous  Mellida, 
And  all  clouds  clear'd  of  threatening  diiscontent. 

Mar.  What  age  is  morning  of  ? 

Im.  I  think  'bout  five. 

Mar.  Nutrice,  Nutrice! 

Nut.  Beshrew  your  fingers ;  marry,  you  have 
disturb'd  the  pleasure  of  the  finest  dream.  O 
God  I  I  was  even  coming  to  it,  la.  0  Jesu! 
'twas  coming  of  the  sweetest.  I'll  tell  you  now  : 
methought  I  was  maiTied,  and  methought  I 
spent  (0  Lord,  why  did  you  wake  me  ?), — and 
methought  I  spent  three   spm--royals^    on   the 


1  sitSmfss— sutimissive. 

2  riueZ'd!— wrinkled. 

3  spur-rorjal  was  a  gold  coin  -n-orth  about  15s. ;  it  had 
a  star  on  the  reverse,  resembling  the  rowel  of  a  spur. 


fiddlers  for  striking  up  a  fresh  hornpipe.     Saint 
Ursula,  I  was  even  going  to  bed,  and  you,  me- 
thought, my  husband,  was  even  putting  out  the 
tapers,  when  you.  Lord — I  shall  never  have  such 
a  dream  come  upon  me  as  long  as — 
Mar.  Peace,  idle  creature,  peace  ! 
When  will  the  court  rise  ? 
Lu.  Madam,  'twere  bestyou ''took  some  lodging 
up. 
And  lay  in  private  till  the  soil  of  grief 
Were   clear'd  your  cheek,    and  new  burnish'd 

lustre  j 

Cloth'd  your  presence,  'fore  you  saw  the  dukes,       | 
And  enter'd  'mong  the  proud  Venetian  States.     •^ 
Mar.  No,    Lucio,    my  dear  lord's  wise,    and 
knows  ; 

That  tinsel  glitter,  or  rich  purfled*  robes. 
Curled  hairs  hung  full  of  sparkling  carcanets,' 
Are  not  the  true  adornments  of  a  wife.  ! 

So  long  as  wives  are  faithful,  modest,  chaste,  \ 

Wise  lords  affect  them.     Vii'tue  doth  not  waste, 
With  each  slight  flame  of  crackling  vanity. 
A  modest  eye  forceth  affection, 
Whilst  outward  gayness  light  looks  but  entice. 
Fairer  than  nature's  fair  is  foulest  vice. 
She  that  loves  art  to  get  her  cheek  more  lovers. 
Much  outward  gauds  slight  inward  grace  dis- 
covers. 
I  care  not  to  seem  fair  but  to  my  lord. 
Those  that  strive  most  to  please  most  strangers' 

sight, 
Folly  may  judge  most  fair,  wisdom  most  light. 

{Miisic  sounds  a  short  strain. 
But  hark,  soft  music  gently  moves  the  air : 
I  think  the  bridegroom's  up.     Lucio,  stand  close. 
Oh  now,  Maria,  challenge  gi'ief  to  stay 
Thy  joy's  encounter.    Look,  Lucio,  'tis  clear  day. 


ACT  L-SCENE  IIL 

Enter  Antonio,  Galeatzo,  Matzagente,  Ba- 
LURDO,  Pandulpho  Felice,  Albekto, 
FOKOBOSCO,  Castilio,  and  a  Page. 

Ant.  Darkness  is  fled  :  look,  infant  morn  hath 
drawn 
Bright  silver  curtains  'bout  the  couch  of  night ; 
And  now  Aurora's  horse  trots  azure  rings, 
Breathing  fair  light  about  the  firmament. 
Stand !  what's  that  ? 

Mat.  And  if  a  horned  devil  should  burst  forth, 
I  would  pass  on  him  with  a  mortal  stroke. 

Alh.  Oh,  a  horned  devil  would  prove  ominous 
Unto  a  bridegroom's  eyes. 

Mat.  A  horned  devil  ?  Good,  Ha,  ha,  ha  !— 
very  good ! 

Alh.  Good  tann'd  prince,  laugh  not.    By  the 
joys  of  love, 
When  thou  dost  girn,  thy  rusty  face  doth  look 
Like  the  head  of  a  roasted  rabbit :  fie  upon't. 

Bal.  By  my  troth,  methinks  his  nose  is  Just 
colour  de  roy.^ 

Mai.  I  teU  thee,  fool,  my  nose  will  abide  no 
jest. 

Bal.  No,  in  truth,  I  do  not  jest ;  I  speak  truth. 
Truth  is  the  touchstone  of  all  things;  and  if 
your  nose  will  not  abide  the  truth,  your  nose  will 
not  abide  the  touch;  and  if  your  nose  will  not 
abide  the  touch,  your  nose  is  a  copper  nose,  and 
must  be  nail'd  up  for  a  slip. 

1  purfled — ornamented  with  trimmings  or  embroidery. 

2  carcanets  properly  means  jewelled  necklaces,  or 
chains ;  here  it  may  mean  simply  jewels. 

3  colour  de  roy — ?  red. 

•I  slip — a  piece  of  counterfeit  copper  money,  washed 
over  with  silver  or  gold. — Halliwbll. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


3^7 


Mat.  I  scorn  to  retort  the  obtuse  jest  of  a  fool. 
[Baluedo  draws  out  his  writing  tables,  and 
writes. 
Bal.  Eetort  and  obtuse ;  good  words,  very  good 
words. 

Gal:  Toung  prince,  look  sprightly ;  fie,  a  bride- 
groom sad ! 

Bal.  In  truth,  if  he  were  retort,  and  obtuse,  no 
question  he  would  be  merry  ;  but  and  please  my 
genius,  I  will  be  most  retort  and  obtuse  ere  night. 
I'U  tell  you  what  I'll  bear  soon  at  night  in  my 
shield  for  my  device. 

Gal.  What,  good  Balurdo  ? 
Bal.  Oh,  do  me  right.  Sir  Gefferey  Balurdo ; 
sir,  sir,  as  long  as  ye  live,  sir. 

Gal.  What,  good  Sir  Gefferey  Balurdo? 
Bal.  Mari-y,  forsooth,  I'll  carry  for  my  device 
ray  grandfather's  great  stone  horse,  flinging  iip 
his  head,  and  jerking  out  his  left  leg.  The  word 
'  Wighy  Purt,'  ^  as  I  am  a  true  knight,  will't  not 
be  most  retort  and  obtuse,  ha  ? 

Ant.  Blow  hence  these   sapless  jests.     I  tell 

you,  bloods ! 
]\Iy  spirit's  heavy,  and  the  juice  of  life 
Creeps  slowly  through  my  stiffeu'd  arteries. 
Last  sleep,    my  sense  was    steep'd    in    horrid 

dreams ; 
Three  parts  of  night  were  swallow'd  in  the  gulf 
Of    ravenous    time,   when    to    my   slumbering 

powers. 
Two  meagre  ghosts  made  apparition. 
The   one's    breast    seemed  fresh,  punch'd  with 

bleeding  wounds. 
Whose  bubbling  gore  sprang  in  frighted  eyes ; 
The  other  ghost  assumed  my  father's  shape  : 
Both  cried,  '  Eevenge  ! '    At 'which  my  trembling 

joints 
(Iced  quite  over  with  a  froz'd  cold  sweat) 
Leap'd  forth  the  sheets.     Three  times  I  grasp'd 

at  shades ; 
And  thrice,  deluded  by  erroneous  sense, 
I   forc'd  my  thoughts  make   stand — when   lo! 

topp'd 
A  large  bay  window,  through  which  the  night 
Struck  terror  to  my  soul.     The  verge  of  heaven 
Was  ring'd  with  flames,  and  all  the  upper  vault 
Thick  lac'd  with  flakes  of  fire,  in  midst  whereof 
A  blazing  comet  shot  his  threat'ning  train 
Just  on  my  face.     Viewing  these  prodigies, 
I  bow'd  my  naked  knee,  and  pierc'd  the  star 
With  an  outfacing  eye  ;  pronouncing  thus : 
Deus  imperat  astrls."    At  which  my  nose  straight 

bled ; 
Then  doubl'd  I  my  word,  so  slunk  to  bed. 

Bal.  Verily,  Sir  Gefferey  had  a  monstrous 
strange  dream  the  last  night.  For  methought  I 
dreamt  I  was  asleejD,  and  methought  the  ground 
yawn'd  and  belkt'  up  the  abhominable*  ghost  of 
a  misshapen  simile,  with  two  ugly  pages ;  the 
one  called  master,  even  as  going  before  ;  and  the 
other  mounser,*  even  so  following  after ;  whilst 
Signior  Simile  stalked  most  prodigiously  in  the 
midst.  At  which  I  bewrayed  the  fearlessness  of 
my  nature,  and  being  ready  to  forsake  the  fortress 
of  my  wit,  start  up,  called  for  a  clean  shirt,  eat  a 
mess  of  broth,  and  with  that  I  awaked. 


1  Wighy  Purt.  Wighy  was  applied  to  the  neighing  of 
a  horse ;  Purt  is  still  used  provincially  as  meaning  to 
purt,  to  t)e  sulky,  but  we  don't  know  that  this  is  the 
sense  here. 

2  '  God  rules  the  stars.'  '  6eZi<— helched. 

*  ahhominable — abominable ;  a  common  spelling  of 
this  word  with  our  old  writers,  from  a  mistaken  notion 
that  it  was  derived  from  Latin  ab,  from,  and  homo, 
hominis,  man,  abhorred  by  man ;  its  real  derivation  is 
ab  and  omen— i.e.  to  be  turned  from  as  ominom. 

*  mounser — (?)  monsieur. 


Ant.  I  pr'ythee,  peace.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen. 
The  frightful  shades  of  niglit  yet  shake  my  brain  : 
My  jellied'   blood's    not  thaw'd :     the    sulphur 

damps, 
That  flow  in  winged  lightning  'bout  my  couch, 
Yet  stick  within  my  sense,  my  soul  is  great 
In  expectation  of  dire  prodigies. 

Pan.  Tut,  my  young  prince,  let  not  thy  fortunes 
see 
Their  lord  a  coward.    He  that's  nobly  born 
Abhors  to  fear.    Base  fear's  the  brand  of  slaves. 
He  that  observes,  pursues,  slinks  back  for  fright, 
Was  never  cast  in  mould  of  noble  sprite. 

Gal.  Tush,  there's  a  sun  wiU  straight  exhale 
these  damps 
Of  chilling  fear.     Come,  shall's  salute  the  bride  ? 

Ant.  Castillo,  I  pr'ythee  mix  thy  breath  with  his: 
Sing  one  of  Signior  Kenaldo's  airs. 
To  rouse  the  slumbering  bride  from  gluttoning 
In   surfeit   of  superfluous  sleep.     Good  signior, 
sing.  {They  sing. 

What  means  this  silence  and  unmoved  calm ! 
Boy,  wind  thy  cornet ;  force  the  leaden  gates 
Of  lazy  sleep  fly  open,  with  thy  breath. 
My  Mellida  not  up  ?   nor  stirring  yet  ?  umh ! 

Mar.  That  voice  should  be  my  son  Antonio's. 
Antonio ! 

Ant.  Here,  who  calls  ?  here  stands  Antonio. 

Mar.  Sweet  son. 

Ant.  Dear  mother. 

Mar.  Fair  honour  of  a  chaste  and  loyal  bed, 
Thy  father's  beauty,  thy  sad  mother's  love, 
Were  I  as  powerful  as  the  voice  of  fate, 
Felicity^complete  should  sweet  thy  state  ; 
But  all  the  blessings  that  a  poor  banjsh'd  wretch 
Can  pour  upon  thy  head,  take,  gentle  son  : 
Live,  gracious  youth,  to  close  thy  mother's  eyes, 
Lov'd  of  thy  parents  till  their  latest  hour  : 
How  cheers  my  lord,  thy  father  ?     0  sweet  boy, 
Part  of  him  thus  I  clip,  my  dear,  dear  joy. 

Ant.  Madam,  last  night  I  kissed  his  princely 
hand, 
And  took  a  treasur'd  blessing  from  his  lips : 
Oh  mother,  you  arrive  in  jubilee, 
And  firm  atonement  of  all  boist'rous  rage  ; 
Pleasure,  united  love,  protested  faith. 
Guard  my  lov'd  father,  as  sworn  pensioners. 
The  dukes  are  leagu'd  in  firmest  bond  of  love. 
And  you  arrive  even  in  the  solsticio 
And  highest  point  of  sunshine  happiness. 

[One  winds  a  cornet  within. 
Hark,  madam,  how  yon  cornet  jerketh  up 
His  strain'd  shrill  accents  in  the  capering  air, 
As  proud  to  summon  up  my  bright-cheek'd  love ! 
Now,  mother,  ope  wide  expectation ; 
Let  loose  your  amplest  sense,  to  entertain 
Th'  impression  of  an  object  of  such  worth. 
That  life's  too  poor  to. 

Gal.  Nay,  leave  hyperboles. 

Ant.  I  tell  thee,  prince,  that  presence  straight 
appears. 
Of  which  thou  canst  not  form  hyperboles  : 
The  trophy  of  triumphing  excellence. 
The  heart  of  beauty,  Melhda  appears. 
See !  look !  the  curtain  stirs,  sliine  nature's  pride, 
Love's  vital  spirit,  dear  Antonio's  bride. 

[The    curtain's    draion,   and   the    lody  of 
Felice,  stahhed  thick  with  wounds,  ap- 
pears hung  up. 
What  villain  bloods  the  window  of  my  love  ? 
What  slave  hath  hung  yon  gory  ensign  up, 
In  flat  defiance  of  humanitj''  ? 
Awake,  thou  fair,  unspotted  purity ! 
Death's  at  thy  window ;  awake,  bright  Mellida, 
Antonio  calls ! 

'  ieWiVtZ— congealed. 


368 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


ACT  I.-SCENE  IV. 
Ent&T  PiERO  as  in  Scene  i.,  with  Foeobosco. 

Pie.  "Who  gives  these  ill-befitting  attributes 
Of  chaste,  unspotted,  bright,  to  Mellida  ? 
He  lies  as  loud  as  thunder ;  she's  unchaste, 
Tainted,  impure,  black  as  the  soul  of  heU  ! 

[Antonio  draws  his  rapier,  offers  to  run  at 
PiERO,  but  Maeia  holds  his  arm  and 
staj/s  him. 

Ant.  Dog  !  1  will  make  thee  eat  thy  vomit  up. 
Which  thou  hast  belk't  'gainst  taintless  Mellida. 

Pie.  Eam't  quickly  down,  that  it  may  not  rise 
up 
To  imbraid  mj'  thoughts.     Behold  my  stomach  : 
Strike  me  quite  through  with  the  relentless  edge 
Of  raging  fury.     Boy,  I'll  kill  thy  love. 
Pandulpho  Felice,  I  have  stabb'd  thy  son. 
Look !  yet  his  lifeblood  reeks  upon  this  steel. 
Albert,  yon  hangs  thy  friend.   Have  none  of  you 
Courage  of  vengeance  ?   Forget  I  am  your  duke  ; 
Think  Mellida  is  not  Piero's  blood. 
Imagine,  on  slight  ground,  I'll  blast  his  honour! 
Oh,  numb  my  sense  of  anguish,  cast  my  life 
In  a  dead  sleep,  whilst  law  cuts  off  yon  main, 
Yon  putrid  ulcer  of  my  royal  blood. 

For.  Keep  league  with  reason,  gracious  sove- 
reign. 

Pie.  There  glow  no  sparks  of  reason  in  the 
world ; 
All  are  rak'd  up  in  ashy  beastliness. 
The  bulk  of  man's  as  dark  as  Erebus  ; 
No  branch  of  reason's  light  hangs  in  his  trunk. 
There  lives  no  reason  to  keep  league  withal. 
I  ha'  no  reason  to  be  reasonable. 
Her  wedding  eve,  link'd  to  the  noble  blood 
Of  my  most  lirmly  reconciled  friend, 
And  found  even  cling'd '  in  sensuality ! 
0  Heaven !   0  Heaven !  were  she  as  near  my 

heart 
As  is  my  liver,  I  would  rend  her  off. 

Enter  Stbotzo. 

aS'^*.  Whither,    oh  whither  shall   I   hurl  vast 
grief .' 

Pie.  Here,  into  my  breast;  'tis  a  place  built 
wide 
By  fate,  to  give  receipt  to  boundless  woes. 

Str.  Oh  no  ;  here  throb  those  hearts,  which  I 
must  cleave 
With  my  keen,  piercing  news.   Andrugio's  dead. 

Pie.  Dead? 

Mar.  Oh  me,  most  miserable  ! 

Pie.  Dead !  alas  !  how  dead  ? 

[Give  seeming  passion.^ 
Fut,^  weep,  act,  feign.     Dead  !  alas !  how  dead  ? 

Str.  The  vast  delights  of  his  large  sudden  joys 
Open'd  his  powers  so  wide,  that's  native  heat 
So  prodigally  flow'd  t'exterior  parts, 
That  th'  inner  citadel  was  left  unmann'd. 
And  so  surpris'd  on  sudden  by  cold  death. 

3far.  0  fatal,  disastrous,  cursed,  dismal ! 
Choke  breath  and  life.   I  breathe,  I  live  too  long. 
Andrugio,  my  lord,  I  come,  I  come  ! 

Pie.  Be  cheerful,  princess;  help,  Castilio, 
The  lady's  swooned  ;  help  to  bear  her  in. 
Slow  comfort  to  huge  cares  is  swiftest  sin, 

Bal.  Courage,  courage,  sweet  lady,  'tis  Sir 
Gefferey  Balurdo  bids  you  courage.  Truly  I  am 
as  nimble  as  an  elephant  about  a  lady. 

Pan.  Dead? 


^  cling'd — clasped,  embraced. 

^  ie.  appears  to  be  affected  with  grief. 

2  Fut—nn  exclaAation  of  impatience. 


Ant.  Dead  ? 

Alb.  Dead? 

Ant.  Why,  now  the  womb  of  mischief  is  de- 
liver'd 
Of  the  prodigious  issue  of  the  night. 

Pan.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Ant.  My  father  dead  P  my  love  attaint  of  lust : 
That's  a  large  lie,  as  vast  as  spacious  hell ! 
Poor,  guiltless  ladj"- !     Oh,  accursed  lie ! 
What,  whom,  whither,  which  shall  I  first  lament  ? 
A  dead  father,  a  dishonour'd  wife.     Stand. 
Methinks  I  feel  the  frame  of  nature  shake. 
Cracks  not  the  joints  of  earth  to  bear  my  woes  ? 

Alb.  Sweet  prince,  be  patient. 

Ant.  'Slid,  sir,  I  will  not  in  despite  of  thee. 
Patience  is  slave  to  fools  ;  a  chain  that's  fix'd 
Only  to  posts,  and  senseless,  log-like  dolts. 

Alb.  'Tis  reason's  glory  to  command  affects.' 

Ant.  Lies  thy  cold  father  dead,  his  glossed  * 
eyes 
New  closed  up  by  thy  sad  mother's  hands  ? 
Hast  thou  a  love  as  spotless  as  the  brow 
Of  clearest  heaven,  blurr'd  with  false  defames  ? 
Are  thy  moist  entrails  crumpled  up  with  grief 
Of  parching  mischiefs  ?    Tell  me,  does  thy  heart 
With  punching  anguish  spur  thy  galled  ribs  ? 
Then  come,  and  let's  sit  and  weep,  and  wreath 

our  arms ; 
I'll  hear  thy  counsel. 

Alb.  Take  comfort. 

Ant.  Confusion  to  all  comfort!    I  defy  it. 
Comfort's  a  parasite,  a  flattering  Jack, 
And  melts  resolv'd  despair.     Oh,  boundless  woe 
If  there  be  any  black  yet  unknown  grief, 
If  there  be  any  hoi-ror  yet  unfelt, 
Unthought-of  mischief  in  thy  fiend-like  power, 
Dash  it  upon  my  miserable  head ; 
Make   me  more  wretch,   more   cursed,   if  thou 

canst ! 
Oh,  now  my  fate  is  moVe  than  I  could  fear ; 
My  woes  more  weighty  than  my  soul  can  bear. 

[Exit. 

Pan.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Alb.  Why  laugh  you,  uncle  ?     That's  my  cuz, 
your  son, 
Whose  breast  hangs  cased  in  his  cluttered  ^  gore. 

Pan.  True,  man,  true  ;  why,  wherefore  should 
I  weep  ? 
Come,  sit,  kind  nephew  ;  come  on  ;  thou  and  I 
Will  talk  as  chorus  to  this  tragedy. 
Entreat  the  music  strain  their  instruments 
With  a  slight  touch,  whilst  we. — Say  on,  fair  cuz. 

Alb.  He  was  the  very  hope  of  Italy, 

[3fusic  sounds  soft!?/. 
The  blooming  honour  of  your  drooping  age. 

Pan.  True,  cuz,  true.     They  say  that  men  of 
hope  are  crush'd ; 
Good  are  supprest  by  base,  desertless  clods. 
That  stifle  gasping  virtue.     Look,  sweet  youth. 
How  provident  our  quick  Venetians  are. 
Lest  hooves  of  jades  should  ti-ample  on  my  boy ! 
Look  how  they  lift  him  up  to  eminence. 
Heave  him  'bove  reach  of  flesh.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Alb.  Uncle,    this    laughter  ill    becomes   your 
grief. 

Pan.  Would'st  have  me  cry,  run  raving  up 
and  down. 
For  my  son's  loss  ?   Would'st  have  me  turn  rank 

mad, 
Or  wring  my  face  with  mimic  action ; 
Stamp,  curse,  weep,  rage,  and  then  my  bosom 
strike  ? 

1  affects — affections,  passions. 

2  glossed — glazed. 

3  cluttered — clotted,  curdled ;   clutter  was  the  namo 
given  to  a  preparation  of  curdled  cream. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


369 


Away !  'tis  aspish  action,  player-like. 

If  he  is  guiltless,  why  should  tears  be  spent  ? 

Thrice  blessed  soul  that  dieth  innocent. 

If  he  is  leper'd  ^  with  so  foul  a  guilt, 

Why  should  a  sigh  be  lent,  a  tear  be  spilt  ? 

The  gripe  of  chance  is  weak  to  wring  a  tear 

From  him  that  knows  what  fortitude  should  beai*. 

Listen,  young  blood.   'Tis  not  true  valour's  pride 

To  swagger,  quarrel,  swear,  stamp,  rave,  and 

chide. 
To  stab  in  fume  of  blood,  to  keep  loud  coil,' 
To  bandy  factions  in  domestic  broils, 
To  dare  the  act  of  sins,  whose  filth  excels 
The  blackest  customs  of  blind  infidels. 
No,  my  lov'd  youth :  he  may  of  valour  vaunt 
Whom  fortune's  loudest  thunder  cannot  daunt ; 
Whom  fretful  gales  of  chance,  stern  fortune's 

siege. 
Makes  not  his  reason  slink,  the  soul's  fair  liege, 
Whose  well-pac'd  action  ever  rests  upon, 
Not  giddy  humours,  but  discretion. 
This  heart  in  valour,  even  Jove  outgoes ; 
Jove  is  without,  but  this  'bove  sense  of  woes : 
And  such  a  one,  eternity  :  Behold — 
Good  morrow,  son  ;  thou  bid'st  a  fig  for  cold. 
Sound  loader  music :  let  my  breath  exact, 
You  strike  sad  tones  iinto  this  dismal  act. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 
The.  cornets  sound  a  cynet. 
Enter   two    mourners    with    torches,    two   with 
streamers;    Castilio  and  Forobosco,  with 
torches ;  a  Herald  bearing  Andrugio's  helm 
and  sword;    the  coffin;  Makia  supj^orted  by 
Lucio  and  Alberto  ;  Antonio  by  himself; 
PiEKO  and  Strotzo  talking ;  Galeatzo  and 
Matzagente,  Balukdo,  and  Pandulpho  : 
the  coffin  set  down  ;  helm,  sword,  and  streamers 
hung  up,  placed  by  the  Herald  ;  tvhilst  Antonio 
and  Maria  tcet  their  handkerchief's  with  tears, 
kiss  them,  and  lay  them  on  the  hearse,  kneel- 
ing;  all  go  out  but  Piero.     Cornets  cease,  and 
he  speaks. 
Pie.  Eot  there,  thou  cerecloth  that  infolds  the 
flesh 
Of  my  loath'd  foe ;  moulder  to  crumbling  dust ; 
Oblivion  choke  the  passage  of  thy  fame. 
Trophies  of  honour'd  birth  drop  quickly  down  : 
Let  naught  of  him,  but  what  was  vicious,  live. 
Though  thou  art  dead,  think  not  my  hate  is 

dead : 
I  have  but  newly  twone  ^  my  arm  in  the  curl'd 

locks 
Of  snaky  vengeance.     Pale,  beetle-brow'd  hate 
But  newly  bustles  up.     Sweet  wrong,  I  clap  thy 

thoughts. 
Oh  let  me  hug  my  bosom,  rub  thy  breast. 
In  hope  of  what  may  hap.     Andrugio  rots : 
Antonio  lives  :  umh !  how  long  ?     Ha,  ha  !  how 

long? 
Antonio  pack'd  hence,  I'll  his  mothei'  wed 
Then  clear  my  daughter  of  supposed  lust. 
Wed  her  to  Florence'  heir.     Oh  excellent! 
Venice,  Genoa,  Florence  at  my  beck, 
At  Piero's  nod. — Balurdo,  oh  ho ! — 
Oh,  'twill  be  rare,  all  unsuspected  done. 
I  have  been  nurs'd  in  blood,  and  still  have  suck'd 
The  steam  of  reeking  gore. — Balurdo,  ho  ! 

Enter  Balitrdo  with  a  beard  half  off  half  on. 
Bal.  When  my  beard  is  on,  most  noble  prince, 
when  my  beard  is  on. 


1  leper'd — affected  as  a  leper. 

2  cot/— noise,  tumult. 


3  iwone— twined. 


Pie.  Why,  what  dost  thou  with  a  beard  ? 

Bal.  In  truth,  one  told  me  that  my  wit  was 
bald,  and  that  a  mermaid  was  half  fish  and 
half  flesh,  and  therefore  to  speak  wisely  like  one 
of  your  own  counsel,  as  indeed  it  hath  pleased 
you  to  make  me,  not  only  being  a  fool,  of  your 
counsel,  but  also  to  make  me  of  your  counsel, 
being  a  fool.  If  my  wit  be  bald,  and  a  mermaid 
be  half  fish  and  half  conger,  then  I  must  be 
forced  to  conclude,  the  tiring  man  hath  not  glued 
on  my  beard  half  fast  enough ;  it  will  not  stick 
to  fall  off. 

Pie.  Dost  thou  know  what  thou  hast  spoken 
all  this  while  ? 

Bal.  O  lord  duke,  I  would  be  sorry  of  that. 
Many  men  can  utter  that  which  no  man  but 
themselves  can  conceive :  but  I  thank  a  good 
wit,  I  have  the  gift  to  speak  that  which  neither 
any  man  else  nor  myself  understands. 

Pie.  Thou  art  wise.  He  that  speaks  he  knows 
not  what,  shall  never  sin  against  his  own  con- 
science.   Go  to,  thou  art  wise. 

Bal.  Wise.'  Oh  no;  I  have  a  little  natural 
discretion,  or  so ;  but  for  wise,  I  am  somewhat 
prudent ;  but  for  wise,  0  lord ! 

Pie.  Hold,  take  those  keys,  open  the  castle 
vault,  and  put  iu  Mellida. 

Bal.  And  put  in  Mellida?     Well,  let  me  alone. 

Pie.  Bid  Forobosco  and  Castilio  guard, 
Endear  thyself  Piero's  intimate. 

Bal.  Endear  and  intimate ;  good,  I  assure  you. 
I  will  endear  and  intimate  Mellida  into  the  dun- 
geon presently. 

Pie.  Will  Pandulpho  Felice  wait  on  me  ? 

Bal.  I  will  make  hira  come,  most  retort  and 
obtuse,  to  you  presently.  I  think  Sir  Jeffrey 
talks  like  a  councillor.    Go  to,  I  think  I  tickle  it. 

Pie.  I'll  seem  to  wind  yon  fool  with  kindest 
arm. 
He  that's  ambitious  minded,  and  but  man. 
Must  have  his  followers  beasts,  dubb'd  slavish 

Bots, 
Whose  service  is  obedience,  and  whose  wit 
Eeacheth  no  farther  than  to  admire  their  lord. 
And  stare  in  adoration  of  his  worth. 
I  love  a  slave  rak'd  out  of  common  mud 
Should  seem  to  sit  in  counsel  with  my  heart. 
High  honour'd  blood's  too  squeamish  to  assent, 
And  lend  a  hand  to  an  ignoble  act. 
Poison  from  roses  who  could  e'er  abstract? 

Enter  Pandulpho. 

How  now,  Pandulpho,  weeping  for  thy  son  ? 
Pan.  No,  no,  Piero,  weeping  for  my  sins. 
Had  I  been  a  good  father,  he  had  been  a  gracious 
son. 
Pie.  Pollution  must  be  purg'd. 
Pan.  Why  taint'st  thou  then  the  air  with  stench 
of  flesh. 
And  human  putrefaction's  noisome  scent  ? 
I  pray  his  body.     Who  less  boon  can  crave 
Than  to  bestow  upon  the  dead  his  grave? 
Pie.  Grave  ?    Why,  think'st  thou  he  deserves 
a  grave, 
That  hath  defiled  the  temple  of — 

Pan.  Peace,  peace ! 
Methinks  I  heard  a  humming  murmur  creep 
From  out  his  jellied  wounds.  Look  on  those  lips, 
Those    now  lawn    pillows,i   on   whose    tender 

softness, 
Chaste  modest  speech,    stealing  from  out    his 
breast, 


'  lawn  pillows.    This,  we  suppose,  means  that  his  lips 
were  now  as  white  as  little  lawn  pillows. 


2  A 


370 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Had  wont  to  rest  itself,  as  loth  to  post 

From  out  so  fair  an  inn :  look,  look,  they  seem 

to  stir, 
And  breathe  defiance  to  black  obloquy. 
Pie.  Think'st  thou  thy  son  could  suffer  wrong- 
fully ? 
Fan.  A  wise  man  wrongfully,  but  never  wrong 
Can  take ;   his  breast's  of  such  well-tempered 

proof, 
It  may  be  rac'd,'  not  pierc'd  by  savage  tooth 
Of  foaming  malice  :  showers  of  darts  may  dark 
Heaven's  ample  brow,  but  not  strike  out  a  spark. 
Much  less  pierce  the  sun's  cheek.     Such  songs 

as  these, 
I  often  dittied  till  my  boy  did  sleep : 
But  now  I  turn  plain  fool,  (alas)  I  weep. 

Pie.  'Fore  heaven,  he  makes  me  shrug ;  would 
a'  were  dead ! 
He  is  a  virtuous  man.     What  has  our  court  to  do 
With  virtue,  in  the  devil's  name  ?     Pandulpho, 

hark: 
My  lustful  daughter  dies ;  start  not,  she  dies. 
I  pursue  justice ;  I  love  sanctity. 
And  an  undefiled  temple  of  pure  thoughts. 
Shall  I  speak  freely  ?    Good  Andrugio's  dead  : 
And  I  do  fear  a  fetch  ;^  but  (umh)  would  I  durst 

speak. 
I  do  mistrust ;    but  (umh)  death ;   is  he  all,  all 

man; 
Hath  he  no  part  of  mother  in  him,  ha  ? 
No  lickerish,  womanish  inquisitiveness? 
Pan.  Andrugio's  dead ! 

Pie.  Ay ;  and  I  fear  his  own  unnatural  blood. 
To  whom  he  gave  life,  hath  given  death  for  life. 
How  could  he  come  on  ?     I  see  false  suspect  ^ 
Is  vic'd ;  wrung  hardly  in  a  virtuous  heart. 
Well,  I  could  give  you  reason  for  my  doubts. 
Tou  are  of  honour'd  birth,  my  very  friend. 
You  know  how  god-like  'tis  to  root  out  sin. 
Antonio  is  a  villain.     Will  you  join 
In  oath  with  me,  against  the  traitor's  life. 
And  swear  you  knew  he  sought  his  father's 

death  ? 
I  lov'd  him  well,  yet  I  loved  justice  more. 
Our  friends  we  should  affect,  justice  adore. 
Pan.  My  lord,  the  clapper  of  my  mouth's  not 
glib'd 
With  court  oil ;  'twill  not  strike  on  both  sides  yet. 
Pie.  'Tis  just  that  subjects  act  commands  of 

kings. 
Pan.    Command,   then,  just  and    honourable 

things. 
Pie.  Even  so,  myself  then  will  traduce*  his 

guilt. 
Pan.  Beware!  take  heed,  lest  guiltless  blood 

be  spilt. 
Pie.  Where  only  honest  deeds  to  kings  are  free. 
It  is  no  empire,  but  a  beggary. 

Pan.  Where  more  than  noble  deeds  to  kings 
are  free. 
It  is  no  empire,  but  a  tyranny. 

Pie.  Tush,  juiceless  greybeard,  'tis  immunity. 
Proper  to  princes,  that  our  state  exacts. 
Our  subjects  not  alone  to  bear,  but  praise  our 
acts. 
Pan.  Oh,  but  that  prince  that  worthful  praise 
aspires. 
From  hearts,  and  not  from  lips,  applause  desires. 
Pie.  Pish,  true  praise,  the  brow  of   common 
men  doth  ring. 
False  only  girds  the  temple  of  a  king. 
He  that  hath  strength  and's  ignorant  of  power, 
He  was  not  made  to  rule,  but  to  be  rul'd. 


1  rac'd — erased. 
3  suspect — suspicion. 


-  fetch — stratagem,  trick. 
■*  traduce — propagate. 


Pan.  'Tis  praise  to  do,  not  what  we  can,  but 
should. 

Pie.  Hence,  doting  stoic :  by  my  hope  of  blisa, 
I'll  make  thee  wretched. 

Pan.  Defiance  to  thy  power,  thou  rifted  jawne.* 
Now,  by  the  lov'd  heaven,  sooner  thou  shalt 
Einse  thy  foul  ribs  from  the  black  filth  of  sin 
That  soots  thy  heart,  than  make  me  wretched. 

Pish! 
Thou  canst  not  coop  me  up.     Hadst  thou  a  jail 
With  treble  walls,  like  antique  Babylon, 
Pandulpho  can  get  out.     I  tell  thee,  duke, 
I  have  old  Fortunatus'  wishing  cap, 
And  can  be  where  I  list,  even  in  a  trice. 
I'll  skip  from  earth  into  the  arms  of  heaven : 
And  from  triumphal  arch  of  blessedness, 
Spit  on  thy  frothy  breast.     Thou  canst  not  slave 
Or  banish  me  ;  I  will  be  free  at  home, 
Maugre  the  beard  of  greatness.     The  port-holes 
Of  sheathed  spirit  are  ne'er  curb'd  up ; 
But  still  stand  open  ready  to  discharge 
Their  precious  shot  into  the  shrouds  of  heaven. 

Pie.  Oh  torture!      Slave,  I  banish  thee  the 
town. 
Thy  native  seat  of  birth. 

Pan.  How  proud  thou  speak'st!    I  tell  thee, 
duke,  the  blasts 
Of  the  swoln  cheek'd  winds,  nor  all  the  breath  of 

kings 
Can  puff  me  out  my  native  seat  of  birth. 
The  eai-th's  my  body's,  and  the  heaven's  my  soul's 
Most  native  place  of  birth,  which  they  will  keep, 
Despite  the  menace  of  mortality. 
Why,  duke, 

That's  not  my  native  place,  where  I  was  rock'>d. 
A  wise  man's  home  is  wheresoe'er  he  is  wise ; 
Now  that,  from  man,  not  from  the  place,  doth  rise. 

Pie.  Would  I  were  deaf  (oh,  plague) !    Hence, 
dotard  wretch : 
Tread  not  in  court.     All  that  thou  hast,  I  seize. 
His  quiet's  firmer  than  I  can  disease.^ 

Pan.  Go,  boast  unto  thy  flatt'ring  sycophants ; 
Pandulpho's  slave,  Piero  hath  o'erthrown. 
Loose  fortunes  rags  are  lost ;  my  own's  my  own. 

[PiEEO  going  out,  looks  back.    Exeunt  at  several 
doors. 
'Tis  true,  Piero,  thy  vex'd  heart  shall  see. 
Thou  hast  but  tript  my  slave,  not  conquered  me. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 

Enter  Antonio  with  a  hook,  Lucio,  Alberto, 
Antonio  in  black. 

Alb.  Nay,  sweet,  be  comforted,  take  counsel 
and — 

Ant.  Alberto,  peace :  that  grief  is  wanton  sick, 
Whose  stomach  can  digest  and  brook  the  diet 
Of  stale  ill-relish'd  counsel.     Pigmy  cares 
Can  shelter  under  patience'  shield ;  but  giant  griefs 
Will  burst  all  covert. 

Lu.  My  lord,  'tis  supper  time. 

Ant.  Drink  deep,  Alberto  ;  eat,  good  Lucio ; 
But  my  pin'd  heart  shall  eat  on  naught  but  woe. 

Alb.  My  lord,  we  dare  not  leave  you  thus  alone. 

Ant.  You  cannot  leave  Antonio  alone. 
The  chamber  of  my  breast  is  even  thi-oug'd 
With  firm  attendance  that  forswears  to  flinch. 
I  have  a  thing  sits  here ;  it  is  not  grief, 
'Tis  not  despair,  nor  the  most  plague 
That  the  most  wretched  are  infected  with ; 


1  jawne,  or  chaune—a,  crack  or  crevice ;  Gr.  chauno,  to 
gape. 

2  i.e.  '  I  cannot  touch  his  qmet  or  calmness  of  mind. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


371 


But  the  most  grief ul,  despairing,  wretched, 
Accursed,  miserable.     Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake 
Forsake  me  now ;  you  see  how  light  I  am, 
And  yet  you  force  me  to  defame  my  patience. 

Lu.  Fair  gentle  prince — 

Ant.  Away,  thy  voice  is  hateful;   thou  dost 
buzz, 
And  beat  my  ears  with  intimations 
That  Mellida,  that  Mellida  is  light. 
And  stained  with  adulterous  luxury  !  * 
I  cannot  brook't.     I  tell  thee,  Lucio, 
Sooner  will  I  give  faith,  that  virtue's  scant 
In  princes'  courts,  will  be  adorn'd  with  wreath 
Of  choice  respect,  and  endear'd  intimate, 
Sooner  will  I  believe  that  friendship's  rein 
Will  curb  ambition  from  utility, 
Than  Mellida  is  light.     Alas,  poor  soul, 
Didst  e'er  see  her  (good  heart),  hast  heard  her 

speak .' 
Kind,  kind  soul.     Incredulity  itself 
Would  not  be  so  brass-hearted,as  suspect  so  modest 
cheeks. 

Lu.  My  lord — 

Ant.  Away,  a  self-one  2  gui'"  doth  only  hatch 
distrust ; 
But  a  chaste  thought's  as  far  from  doubt  as  lust. 
I  entreat  you,  leave  me. 

Alb.  Will  you  endeavour  to  forget  your  grief  ? 

Ant.  Ay,  faith  I  will,  good  friend,  ay,  faith  I 
will. 
I'll  come  and  eat  with  you.    Alberto,  see, 
I  am  taking  physic,  here's  philosophy. 
Good  honest,  leave  me,  I'll  drink  wine  anon. 

Alb.  Since  you  enforce  us,  fair  prince,  we  are 
gone.  [Exeunt  Alberto  and  Lucio. 

Antonio  reads. 

A.  Ferte  ybrtiter :  hoc  est  quo  deum  antecedatis. 
llle  enim  extra  patieniiam  nialoi'um,  vos  supra. 
Contemnite  dolorem:  aut  solvetur,  aut  solvet. 
Contemnite  fortunas ;  nullus  telum,  quojeriret 
animum  habet.^ 

Pish,  thy  mother  was  not  lately  widowed, 
Thy  dear  aified  love  lately  defam'd 
With  blemish  of  foul  lust,  when  thou  wrot'st  thus. 
Thou  wrapt  in  furs,  beaking  ■•  thy  limbs  'fore  fires, 
Forbidst  the  frozen  zone  to  shudder.     Ha,  ha! 

'tis  naught 
But  foamy  bubbling  of  a  fleamy  *  brain, 
Naught  else  but  smoke.   Oh  what  dank  marrish  "^ 

spirit, 
But  would  be  fired  with  impatience. 
At  my —    No  more,  no  more ;  he  that  was  never 

blest 
With  height  of  birth,  fair  expectation 
Of  mounted  fortunes,  knows  not  what  it  is 
To  be  the  pitied  object  of  the  world. 
Oh,  poor  Antonio,  thou  may'st  sigh! 

Mel.^  Ay  me ! 

Ant.  And  curse. 

Pan.  Black  powers. 

Ant.  And  cry. 

Mar.  Oh  Heaven ! 


1  luxury — licentiousness,  indulgence. 

-  self-one — single. 

3  '  Bear  yourselves  with  fortitude :  by  this  means  you 
surpass  the  gods.  For  they  are  out  of  the  reach  of  mis- 
fortunes, you  superior  to  them.  Despise  pain ;  it  will 
either  be  destroyed,  or  it  will  destroy  you.  Be  inditferent 
to  circumstances.  No  one  has  a  weapon  to  strike  the  mind.' 

■*  beaking — basking. 

^fleamy — (?)  phlegmy :  this  word  is  still  used  provin- 
cially  as  equivalent  to  bloody,  clotted. 

■^  jnarrisft— marshy. 

'  Mel.  Mellida,  as  will  be  seen  below,  speaks  through 
the  grating  of  her  prison,  near  to  which  Antonio  is  sup- 
posed to  have  come. 


Ant.  And  close  laments  with — 

Alb.  Oh  me,  most  miserable  ! 

Pan.  Woe  for  my  dear,  dear  son  ! 

Mar.  Woe  for  my  dear,  dear  husband  ! 

Mel.  Woe  for  my  dear,  dear  love ! 

Ant.  Woe  for  me  all,  close  all  your  woes  in  me, 
In  me,  Antonio,  ha  ?     Where  live  these  sounds  ? 
I  can  see  nothing;  grief's  invisible. 
And  lurks  in  secret  angles  of  the  heart. 
Come,  sigh  again,  Antonio  bears  his  part. 

Mel.  Oh  here,  here  is  a  vent  to  pass  my  sighs. 
I  have  surcharged  the  dungeon  with  my  plaints. 
Prison  and  heart  will  burst,  if  void  of  vent. 
I,  that  is  Phoebe,  empress  of  the  night. 
That  'gins  to  mount:  0  chastest  deity, 
If  I  be  false  to  my  Antonio, 
If  the  least  soil  of  lust  smears  my  pure  love, 
Make  me  more  wretched,  make  me  more  accurst 
Then  infamy,  torture,  death,  hell,  and  heaven. 
Can  bound  with  amplest  power  of  thought :  if  not. 
Purge  my  poor  heart  with  defamation's  blot. 

Ant.  Pui-ge  my  poor  heart  from  defamation's 
blot! 
Poor  heart,  how  lilie  her  virtuous  self  she  speaks ! 
Mellida,  dear  Mellida,  it  is  Antonio : 
Slink  not  away,  'tis  thy  Antonio. 

Mel.  How  found  you  out,  my  lord  (alas!),  I 
know 
'Tis  easy  in  this  age  to  find  out  woe. 
I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Ant.  What  is't,  dear  soul  ? 

Mel.  Kill  me  :  i'faith  I'll  wink,  not  stir  a  jot. 
For  God  sake  kill  me ;  in  sooth,  lov'd  youth, 
I  am  much  injur'd;  look,  see  how  I  creej). 
I  cannot  wreak  my  wrong,  but  sigh  and  weep. 

Ant.  May  I  be  cursed,  but  I  credit  thee, 

Mel.  To-morrow  I  must  die. 

Ant.  Alas,  for  what  ? 

Mel.  For  loving  thee,    'Tis  true,  my  sweetest 
breast, 
I  must  die  falsely :  so  must  thou,  dear  heart. 
Nets  are  a  knitting  to  entrap  thy  life. 
Thy  father's  death  must  make  a  Paradise 
To  my  (I  shame  to  call  him)  father.     Tell  me, 

sweet. 
Shall  I  die  thine  ?  dost  love  me  still,  and  still  ? 

Ant.  I  do. 

Mel.  Then  welcome  Heaven's  will. 

Ant.  Madam,  I  will  not  swell,  like  a  tragedian, 
In  forced  passion  of  affected  strains. 

If  I  had  present  power  of  ought  but  pitying 
you,  I  would  be  as  ready  to  redress  your  wrongs 
as  to  pursue  your  love.  Throngs  of  thoughts 
crowd  for  their  passage ;  somewhat  I  will  do. 
Eeach  me  thy  hand ;  think  this  is  honour's  bent, 
To  live  unslav'd,  to  die  innocent. 

Mel.  Let  me  entreat  a  favour,  gracious  love. 
Be  patient,  see  me  die ;  good,  do  not  weep ; 
Go  sup,  sweet  chuck,  drink,  and  secm-ely  sleep. 

Ant.  I'faith  I  cannot ;  but  I'll  force  my  faco 
To  palliate  1  my  sickness. 

Mel.  Give  me  thy  hand.     Peace  on  thy  bosom 
dwell. 
That's  all  my  woe  can  breathe :   kiss.    Thus 
farewell. 

Ant.  Farewell :  my  heart  is  great  of  thoughts ; 
Stay,  dove: 

And  therefore  I  must  speak ;  but  what  ?  Oh  love ! 
By  this  white  hand :  no  more :  read  in  these  tears, 
What  crushing  anguish  thy  Antonio  bears. 

[Antonio  hisseth  Melleda's  hand;  then 
Mellida  goes  from  the  grate. 
Mel.  Good  night,  good  heart. 


•  palliate — to  soften,  to  conceal. 


372 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ant.  Thus  heat  from  blood,  thus  souls  from 
bodies  part. 

Enter  Piero  and  Stkotzo. 

Pie.  He  grieves;   laugh,  Strotzo,  laugh.     He 
weeps. 
Hath  he  tears  ?     Oh  pleasure !  hath  he  tears  ? 
Now  do  I  scourge  Andrugio  with  steel  whips 
Of  knotty  vengeance.    Strotzo,  cause  me  straight 
Some  plaining  ditty  to  augment  despair. 
Triumph,  Piero ;  hark,  he  groans.     Oh  rare ! 
Ant.  Eehold  a  prostrate  wretch  laid  on  his 
tomb. 
His  epitaph,  thus :  Ne  plus  ultra.     Ho ! 
Let  none  out- woe  me;  mine's  Herculean  woe. 

[Strotzo  sings. 
[Exit  Piero  at  the  end  of  the  song. 

Enter  Maria. 

Ant.  May  I  be  more  cursed  than  Heaven  can 
make  me, 
If  I  am  not  more  wretched 
Than  man  can  conceive  me.     Sore  forlorn 
Orphan,  what  omnipotence  can  make  thee  happy  ? 

Mar.  How  now,  sweet  son  ?     Good  youth, 
What  dost  thou  ? 

Ant.  Weep,  weep. 

Mar.  Dost  naught  but  weep,  weep? 

Ant.  Yes,  mother,  I  do  sigh,  and  wring  my 
hands, 
Beat  my  poor  breast,  and  wreath  my  tender  arms. 
Hark  ye ;  I'll  tell  you  wondrous  strange,  strange 
news. 

Mar.  What,  my  good  boy,  stark  mad  ? 

Ant.  I  am  not. 

Mar.  Alas !  is  that  strange  news  ? 

Ant.  Strange   news?    Why,   mother,   is't  not 
wondrous  strange 
I  am  not  mad — I  run  not  frantic,  ha? 
Knowing  my  father's  trunk  scarce  cold,  your  love 
Is  sought  by  him  that  doth  pursue  my  life ! 
Seeing  the  loeauty  of  creation, 
Antonio's  bride,  pure  heai-t,  defam'd,  and  stow'd 
Under  the  hatches  of  obscuring  earth. 
Heu  quo  labor,  quo  vota  ceciderunt  mea! ' 

Enter  Piero. 

Pie.  Good  evening  to  the  fair  Antonio ; 
Most  happy  fortune,  sweet  succeeding  time, 
Eich  hope :    think  not  thy  face  a    bankrout  2 
though. 
Ant.  Umh!  the  devil  in  his  good  time  and  tide 
forsake  thee. 

Pie.  How  now  ?  hark  ye,  prince. 
Ant.  God  be  with  you. 

Pie.  Nay,  noble  blood,  I  hope  ye  not  suspect — 

Ant.  Suspect !  I  scorn't.     Here's  cap  and  leg,^ 

good  night : 

Thou  that  wants  power,  with  dissemblance  fight. 

[Exit  Antonio. 

Pie.  Madam,  oh  that  you  could  remember  to 

forget — 
Mar.  I  had  a  husband  and  a  happy  son. 
Pie.  Most  powerful  beauty,  that  enchanting 

grace — 
Mar.  Talk  not  of  beauty  nor  enchanting  grace  : 
My  husband's  dead,  my  son's  distraught,  accurst ! 
Come,  I  must  vent  my  griefs,  or  heart  will  burst. 

[Exit  Maria. 
Pie.  She's  gone  (and  yet  she's  here) :  she  hath 
left  a  print 


*  '  Alas,  how  has  my  labour  been  lost !  how  have  my 
vows  been  destroyed ! ' 

■•'  bankrout — bankrupt. 

*  cap  and  leg.    Antonio  doffs  his  cap  and  bowa 


Of  her  sweet  graces  fix'd  within  my  heart, 

As  fresh  as  is  her  face.     I'll  marry  her. 

She's  most  fair,  true,  most  chaste,  most  false ; 

because 
Most  fair,  'tis  firm  I'll  marry  her. 

ETiier  Strotzo. 

Str.  My  lord. 

Pie.  Ha,  Strotzo,  my  other  soul,  my  life  ! 
Dear,  hast  thou  steel'd  the  point  of  thy  resolve  ? 
Wilt  not  turn  edge  in  execution  ? 
Sir.  No. 

Pie.  Do  it  with  rare  passion,  and  present  thy 
guilt 
As  if  'twere  wrung  out   with    thy    conscience 

gripe. 
Swear  that  my  daughter's  innocent  of  lust. 
And  that  Antonio  brib'd  thee  too  defame 
Her  maiden  honour,  on  inveterate  hate 
Unto  my  blood ;  and  that  thy  hand  was  fed 
By  his  large  bounty  for  his  father's  death. 
S  wear  plainly  that  thou  chok'dst  Andrugio, 
By  his  son's  only  egging.^    Eush  me  in 
Whilst  Mellida  prepares  herself  to  die  ; 
Halter  about  thy  neck,  and  with  such  sighs. 
Laments,  and  applications  liven  it, 
As  if  impulsive  power  of  remorse — 
jStr.  I'll  weep. 

Pie.  Ay,  ay,  fall  on  thj'  face,  and  cry :  '  Why 
suffer  you 
So  lewd  a  slave  as  Strotzo  is  to  breathe  ?  ' 

Sir.  I'll  beg  a  strangling,  grow  importunate — 
Pie.  As  if  thy  life  were  loathsome  to  thee : 
then  I 
Catch  sti-aight  the  cord's  end,  and,  as  much  in- 

cens'd 
With  thy  damn'd  mischiefs,  offer  a  rude  hand 
As  ready  to  gird  in  thy  pipe  of  breath ; 
But  on  the  sudden  straight  I'll  stand  amaz'd. 
And  fall  in  exclamations  of  thy  virtues. 
iStr.  Applaud  my  agonies  and  penitence. 
Pie.  Thy  honest  stomach,  that  could  not  digest 
The  crudities  of  murder,  but,  surcharg'd, 
Vomited'st  them  up  in  Christian  piety. 
Str.  Then  clip  me  in  your  arms. 
Pie.  And  call  thee  brother,  mount  thee  straight 
to  state. 
Make  thee  of  counsel :  Tut,  tut,  what  not  ?  what 

not? 
Think  on't,  be  confident,  pursue  the  plot. 
Str.  Look,  here's  a  trope :  A  true  rogue's  lips 
are  mute : 
I  do  not  use  to  speak,  but  execute. 

[He  lays  hisjinger  on  his  mouth,  and  draws 
his  dagger. 
Pie.  So,  so  ;  run  headlong  to  confusion ! 
Thou  slight-brain'd  mischief,  thou  art  made  as 

dirt, 
To  plaster  up  the  bracks-  of  my  defects. 
I'll  wring  what  may  be  squeez'd  from  out  his  use; 
And  good  night,  Strotzo.    Swell,  plump,  bold 

heart ; 
For  now  thy  tide  of  vengeance  roUeth  in : 
Oh  now  Tragcedia  Cothurnata^  mounts, 
Piero's  thoughts  are  fix'd  on  dire  exploits. 
Pell  mell — confusion  and  black  murder  guides 
The  organs  of  my  spirit :  shrink  not,  heart ; 
Capienda  rebus  in  malis  prxceps  via  est.* 


1  egging — urging,  instigation.. 

*  bracks — brealvs,  cracks. 

3  Tragcedia  Cothurnata.  The  Cothurnus  was  the  boot 
anciently  worn  by  tragic  actors;  the  adj.  means  lofty, 
elevated. 

•*  'The  headlong  way  is  to  be  taken  in  desperate 
circimistances.' 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


373 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

A  dumb  show.     The  cornets  sounding  for  the  Act. 

Enter  Castilio  and  Forobosco,  Alberto  and 
Balurdo,  with  poleaxes.  Strotzo  talking 
with  PiEBO,  who  seemeth  to  send  out  Strotzo. 
Exit  Strotzo.  Enter  Strotzo,  Maria,  Nu- 
TRICE,  and  Lucio.  Piero  passeth  through 
his  guard,  and  talks  with  her  with  seeming 
amorousness;  she  seemeth  to  reject  his  suit, 
Jlies  to  the  tomb  [of  her  husband],  kneels  and 
kisseth  it.  Fi'ERO  bribes  Nutrice  anc^Lucio; 
they  go  to  her,  seeming  to  solicit  his  suit.  She 
riseth,  offers  to  go  out;  Piero  stayeth  her, 
tears  open  his  breast,  emiraceth  and  kisseth 
her,  and  so  they  go  all  out  in  state. 

Enter  two  Pages,  the  one  with  tapers,  the  other 
loith  a  chafing  dish ;  a  perfume  in  it.  An- 
tonio, in  his  nightgown  and  a  nightcap,  un- 
braced, following  after. 

Ant.  The  black  jades  of  s^-art  night  trot  foggy 
rings 
'Bout  heaven's  brow.  'Tis  now  stark  dead  night. 
Is  this  Saint  Mark's  Church  ? 

1  Pa.  ]  t  is,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  stands  my  father's  hearse  ? 

2  Pa.  Those  streamers  bear  his  arms.  Ay, 
that  is  it. 

Ant.   Set  tapers  to  the  tomb,  and  lamp  the 

church. 
Give  me  the  fire.    Now  depart  and  sleep. 

\_Exeunt  Pages. 
I  purify  the  air  with  odorous  fume. 
Graves,   vault,  and  tombs,   groan  not  to  bear 

my  weight ; 
Cold  flesh,  bleak  trunks,  wrapt  in  your  half-rot 

shrouds, 
I  press  you  softly  with  a  tender  foot. 
Most  honour'd  sepulchre,  vouchsafe  a  wretch 
Leave  to  weep  o'er  thee.    Tombs,  I'll  not  be  long 
Ere  I  creep  in  thee,  and  with  bloodless  lips 
Kiss  my  cold  father's  cheek,     I  pr'ythee,  grave, 
Provide  soft  mould  to  wrap  my  carcass  in. 
Thou  royal  spirit  of  Andrugio,  where'er  thou 

hover'st 
(Airy  intellect)  I  heave  up  tapers  to  thee  (viev.^ 

thy  son) 
In  celebration  of  due  obsequies. 
Once  every  night  I'll  dew  thy  funeral  hearse 
"With  my  religious  tears. 
Oh  blessed  father  of  a  cursed  son. 
Thou  died  most  happy,  since  thou  livedst  not 
To  see  thy  son  most  wretched,  and  thy  wife 
Pursu'd  by  him  that  seeks  my  guiltless  blood ! 
Oh,  in  what  orb  thy  mighty  spirit  soars. 
Stoop  and  beat  down  this  rising  fog  of  shame, 
That  strives  to  blur  thy  blood,  aud  gird  defame 
About  my  innocent  and  spotless  brows. 
Non  est  mori  miserum,  sed  miser e  mori.^ 

And.  Thy  pangs  of  anguish  rip  my  cerecloth 
And  lo  the  ghost  of  old  Andrugio  [up : 

Forsakes  his  coiHn.     Antonio,  revenge ! 
I  was  impoison'd  by  Piero's  hand  : 
Revenge  my  blood  ;  take  spirit,  gentle  boy ; 
Eevenge  my  blood.     Thy  Mellida  is  chaste  : 
Only  to  frustrate  thy  pursiiit  in  love. 
Is  blaz'd  unchaste.     Thy  mother  yields  consent 
To  be  his  wife,  and  give  his  blood  a  son, 
"That  made  her  husbandless,  and  doth  complot 
To  make  her  sonless ;  but  before  I  touch 
The  banks  of  rest,  my  ghost  shall  visit  her. 


1  '  It  is  not  a  wretched  thing  to  die,  but  it  is  to  die 
wretchedly.' 


Thou  vigour  of  my  youth,  juice  of  my  love. 
Seize  on  revenge,  grasp  the  stem  bended  front 
Of  frowning  vengeance  with  unpaized  '  clutch. 
Alarm  Nemesis,  rouse  up  thy  blood ! 
Invent  some  stratagem  of  vengeance. 
Which,  but  to  think  on,  may  like  lightning  glide 
With  horror  through  thy  breast.  Remember  this. 
Scelera  non  ulcisceris,  nisi  ri7icis.- 

\_Exit  Andrugio's  Ghost. 
Enter  Maria,  her  hair  about  her  ears ;  Nutrice 
and  Lucid,  with  Pages,  and  torches. 

Mar.  Where  left  you  him .'    show  me,  good 
boys,  away. 

Nut.  God's  me,  your  hair ! 

Mar.  Nurse,  'tis  not  yet  proud  day  : 
The  neat  gay  mists  of  the  light's  not  up, 
Her  cheeks  not  yet  slurr'd  over  with  the  paint 
Of  borrowed  crimson  ;  the  impranked'  world 
Wears  yet  the  night-clothes  :  let  flare  my  loosed 

hair. 
I  scorn  the  presence  of  the  night. 
Where's  my  boy?      Run:    I'll  range  about  the 

church. 
Like  frantic  bacchanal  or  Jason's  wife. 
Invoking  all  the  spirits  of  the  graves 
To  tell  me  where!    Hah  ?  Oh  my  poor  wretched 

blood ! 
What  dost  thou  up  at  midnight,  my  kind  boy .' 
Dear  soul,  to  bed  !     Oh  thou  hast  struck  a  fright 
Unto  thy  mother's  panting. 

Ant.  0  quisquis  nova 
Supplicia  fimctis  dints  umbrarum  arbiter 
Disponis,  quisquis  exeso  faces 
Pavidus  sub  antra,  quisquis  venturi  times 
Montis  ruinam,  quisquis  avidoruni  feres. 
Rictus  leonum,  et  dirafuriarum  agmina 
Implicitus  horres,  Antonii  vocem  excipe 
Properantis  ad  vos — Ulciscar.* 

Mar.  Alas!  my  son's  distraught.     Sweet  boy, 
appease 
Thy  mutinous  affections. 

Ant.  By  the  astonning*  terror  of  swart  night, 
By  the  infectious  damps  of  clammy  graves, 
And  by  the  mould  that  presseth  down 
My  dead  father's  skull,  I'll  be  revenged ! 

Mar.  Wherefore  ?  on  whom  ?  for  what .'     Go, 
go  to  bed, 
Good  duteous  son.    Ho,  but  thy  idle — 

Ant.  So  I  may  sleep  tomb'd  in  an  honour'd 
hearse, 
So  may  my  bones  rest  in  that  sepulchre — 

Mar.  Forget  not  duty,  son  :  to  bed,  to  bed. 

Ant.  May  I  be  cursed  by  my  father's  ghost, 
And  blasted  with  incensed  breath  of  Heaven, 
If  my  heart  beat  on  ought  but  vengeance. 
May  I  be  numb'd  with  horror,  and  ray  veins 
Pucker®  with  singing  torture,  if  my  brain 
Digest  a  thought  but  of  dire  vengeance  ; 
May  I  be  fetter'd  slave  to  coward  Chance, 
If  blood,  heart,  brain,  plot  ought  save  vengeance. 

Mar.  Wilt  thou  to  bed .'     I  wonder  when  thou 
sleep'st ! 
I'faith  thou  look'st  sunk-ey'd  ;  go  couch  thy  head. 
Now,  faith,  'tis  idle :  sweet,  sweet  son,  to  bed. 


1  unpaized — unpoised,  unmeasured,  unhesitating. 

2  "You  do  not  avenge  crimes  unless  you  conquer.' 
'  unpranked — unadorned. 

*  '  0  whosoever  thou  art,  the  dread  judge  of  the  shades 
tliat  dispensest  new  punisliments  to  the  dead,  whosoever 
thou  art  that  liest  in  terror  under  tlio  liollow  cave,  who- 
soever thou  art  that  fearest  the  downfall  of  the  coming 
mountain,  whosoever  thou  art  that  shalt  endure  the 
gaping  jaws  of  greedy  lions,  and  entangled  shudderest 
at  the  fearful  bands  of  the  furies,  hear  the  voice  of 
Antonio  hastening  to  you — I  will  take  vengeance.' 

^  asionning — stunning.        ®  Fucker — wrinlUe,  shrink. 


374 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ant.  I  have  a  prayer  or  two  lo  offer  up 
For  the  good,  good  prince,  my  most  dear,  dear 

lord, 
The  Duke  Piero,  and  your  virtuous  self ; 
And  then,  -when  those  prayers  have  obtain'd 

success. 
In  sooth  I'll  come  (believe  it  now)  and  couch 
My  head  in  downy  mould.     But  first  I'll  see 
You  safely  laid :  I'll  bring  ye  all  to  bed. 
Piero,  Maria,  Strotzo,  Lucio, 
I'll  see  you  all  laid  :  I'll  bring  you  all  to  bed, 
And  then,  i'f aith,  I'll  come  aud  couch  my  head, 
And  sleep  in  peace. 

Mar.  Look  then,  we  go  before. 

\_Exe,imt  all  hut  Antonio. 

Ant.  Ay,  so  you  must,  before  we  touch  the 
shore 
Of  wish'd  revenge.    Oh,  you  departed  souls. 
That  lodge  in  coffiu'd  trunks,  which  my  feet 

press 
(If  Pythagorean  Axioms  be  true. 
Of  spirits'  transmigration),  fleet  no  more 
To  human  bodies,  rather  live  in  swine. 
Inhabit  wolves'  flesh,  scorpions,  dogs,  and  toads, 
Eather  than  man.     The  curse  of  Heaven  rains 
In  plagues  unlimited  through  all  his  days. 
His  mature  age  grows  only  mature  vice, 
And  ripens  only  to  corrupt  and  rot 
The  budding  hopes  of  infant  modesty. 
Still  striving  to  be  more  than  man,  he  proves 
More  than    a  devil,   devilish  suspect,    devilish 

cruelty : 
All  hell-straid '  juice  is  poured  to  his  veins, 
Making  him  drunk  with  fuming  surquech-ies,^ 
Oontempt  of  Heaven,  untam'd  arrogance, 
Lust,  state,  pride,  murder. 

And.  Murder.        "> 

Fel.  Murder.  >•  From  above  and  beneath. 

Pan.  Murder.         ) 

Ant.  Ay,  I  will  murder :  graves  and  gliosis 
Fright  me  no  more,  I'll  suck  red  vengeance 
Out  of  Piero's  wounds.    Piero's  wounds. 


Enter  two  Boys,  with  Pieko  in  his  nightgown  and 
nightcap. 

Pie.  Maria,  love,  Maria !  She  took  this  aisle. 
Left  you  her  here  ?     On,  lights,  away ! 
I  think  we  shall  not  warm  om-  beds  to-day. 

Enter  Julio,  Forobosco,  and  Castxlio. 

Jul.  Ho,  father !  father ! 
Pie.  How  now,  Julio,  my  little  pretty  son  ? 
"Why  suffer  you  the  child  to  walk  so  late  ? 

For.  He  wiU  not  sleep,  but  calls  to  follow  you. 
Crying  that  bugbears  and  spirits  haunted  him. 

[Antonio  offers  to  come  near  and  stab; 
Pieko  presently  withdraws. 
Ant.  No,  not  so. 
This  shall  be  sought  for ;  I'll  force  him  feed  on 

life 
Till  he  shall  loathe  it.     This  shall  be  the  close 
Of  vengeance'  strain. 
Pie.   Away  there,  pages,   lead  on  fast  with 
light; 
The  church  is  full  of  damps  ;  'tis  yet  dead  night. 
[JExit  all,  saving  Julio. 
Jul.  Brother  Antonio,  are  you  here,  i'f  aith  ? 
Why  do  you  frown  ?     Indeed  my  sister  said 
That  I  should  call  you  brother,  that  she  did. 
When  you  were  married  to  her.     Buss  me :  good 
Truth,  I  love  you  better  than  my  father,  'deed. 
Ant.    Thy  father?      Gracious,    O    bounteous 
Heaven ! 


*  hell-straid— Q)  hell-strewed. 

*  surquedries — presumptions 


I  do  adore  thy  justice :   Venit  in  nostras  manus 
Tandem  vindicta,  venit  et  tota  quideni.^ 
Jid.  Truth,  since  my  mother  died,  I  lov'd  you 

best. 
Something  hath  anger'd  you;   pray  you,   look 

merrily. 
Ant.  I  will  laugh,  and  dimple  my  thin  cheek 
With  cap'ring  joy  ;  chuck,  my  heart  doth  leap 
To  grasp  thy  bosom.     Time,  place,  aud  blood, 
How  fit  you  close  together  !     Heaven's  tones 
Strike  not  such  music  to  immortal  souls 
As  your  accordance  sweets  my  breast  withal. 
Methinks  I  pace  upon  the  front  of  Jove, 
And  kick  corruption  with  a  scornful  heel. 
Griping  this  flesh,  disdain  mortality. 
Oh  that  I  knew  which  joint,  which  side,  which 

limb, 
Were  father  all,  and  had  no  mother  in't. 
That  I  might  rip  it  vein  by  vein,   and  carve 

revenge 
In  bleeding  races !  but  since  'tis  mixt  together, 
Have  at  adventure,  pell  mell,  no  reverse. 
Come  hither,  boy.     This  is  Andi'ugio's  hearse. 
Jul.  0  God,  you'll  hurt  me.     For  my  sister's 

sake. 
Pray  you  do  not  hurt  me.    An  you  kill  me, 

'deed, 
I'll  tell  my  father. 
Ant.  Ob,  for  thy  sister's  sake,  I  flag  revenge. 
And.  Eevenge ! 
Ant.  Staj",  stay,  dear  father,  fright  mine  eyes 

no  more. 
Eevenge  as  swift  as  lightning  bursteth  forth, 
And  clears  his  heart.     Come,  pretty  tender  child. 
It  is  not  thee  I  hate,  not  thee  I  kill. 
Thy  father's  blood  that  flows  within  thy  veins 
Is  it  I  loathe;  is  that,  revenge  must  suck. 
I  love  thy  soul :  and  were  thy  heart  lajDt  up 
In  an}'  flesh  but  in  Piero's  blood, 
I  would  thus  kiss  it ;  but  being  his,  thus,  thus. 
And  thus  I'll  punch  it.     Abandon  fears. 
Whilst  thy  wounds  bleed,  my  brows  shall  gush 

out  tears. 
Jid.  So  you  will  love  me,  do  even  what  you 

will. 
Ant.  Now  barks  the  wolf  against   the  full- 

cheek'd  moon ; 
Now  lions  half-clam'd^  entrails  roar  for  food  ; 
Now  croaks  the  toad,  and  night  crows  screech 

aloud, 
Fluttering  'bout  casements  of  departed  souls ; 
Now  gapes  the  graves,  and  thi-ough  their  yawns 

let  loose 
Imprison'd  spirits  to  revisit  earth ; 
And  now  swart  night,  to  swell  thy  hour  out. 
Behold  I  spurt  warm  blood  in  thy  black  eyes. 

[From  under  the  stage  a  groan. 
Howl   not^    thou    pm-y  mould;    groan  not,  ye 

graves. 
Be  dumb,  all  breath.    Here  stands  Andi-ugio's 

son, 
Worthy  his  father.     So :  I  feel  no  breath. 
His  jaws  are  f  all'n,  his  dislodg'd  soul  is  fled : 
And  now  there's  nothing  but  Piei-o  left. 
He  is  all  Piero,  father  all.     This  blood. 
This  breast,  this  heart,  Piero  all : 
Whom  thus  I  mangle.     Spirit  of  Julio, 
Forget  this  was  thy  trunk.     I  live  thy  friend. 
May'st  thou  be  twined  with  the  soft'st  embrace 
Of  clear  eternity :  but  thy  father's  blood 
I  thus  make  incense  of,  to  vengeance. 
Ghost  of  my  poisoned  sire,  suck  this  fume  : 


'  '  At  length  has  vengeance  come  into  my  power,  and 
that  to  the  full.' 
-  half-clam'd — half-starved. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


375 


To  sweet  revenge  perfume  thy  circling  air, 
With  smoke  of  blood.     I  sprinkle  round  his  gore, 
And  dew  thy  hearse  with  these  fresh  reeking 

di'ops. 
Lo  thus  I  heave  my  blood-dyed  hands  to  heaven, 
Even  like  insatiate  hell,  still  crying,  More. 
My  heart  hath  thirsting  drojisies  after  gore. 
Sound  peace  and  rest  to  church,  night  ghosts, 

and  graves. 
Blood  cries    for  blood ;    and  murder,    murder 

craves.  [Exit. 

ACT  HI.— SCENE  II. 

Entefli'  two  Pages  loith  torches ;  Makia,  her  hair 
loose^  and  Nuteice. 

Nut.  Pie,  fie ;  to-morrow  your  wedding-day, 
and  weep  !  God's  my  comfort !  Andrugio  could 
do  well :  Piero  may  do  better.  I  have  had  four 
husbands  myself.  The  first  I  called  sweet  duck  ; 
the  second,  dear  heart ;  the  third,  pretty  pug ;  but 
the  fourth,  most  sweet  dear,  pretty,  all  in  all :  he 
was  the  very  cockeall  i  of  a  husband.  What, 
lady?  your  skin  is  smooth,  your  blood  warm, 
your  cheek  fresh,  your  eye  quick  :  change  of 
pastiu'e  makes  fat  calves ;  choice  of  linen,  clean 
bodies,  and  (no  question)  variety  of  husbands, 
perfect  wives.  I  would  you  should  know  it :  as 
few  teeth  as  I  have  in  my  head,  I  have  read 
Aristotk's  Problems,  which  saith,  that  woman  re- 
ceiveth  perfection  by  the  man.  What  then  be 
the  men  ?  Go  to,  to  bed,  lie  on  your  back,  dream 
not  on  Piero ;  I  say  no  more.  To-morrow  is 
yom-  wedding :  go  dream  not  of  Piero. 

Enter  Baldrdo  with  a  base  viol. 

Mar.  What  an  idle  prate  thou  keep'st,  good 
nurse ;  go  sleep. 
I  have  a  mighty  task  of  tears  to  weep. 

Bal.  Lady,  with  a  most  retort  and  obtuse  leg, 
I  kiss  the  curled  locks  of  your  loose  hair.  The 
duke  hath  sent  you  the  most  musical  Sir  Gefferey, 
with  his  not  base,  but  most  ennobled  viol,  to 
rock  your  baby  thoughts  in  the  cradle  of  sleep. 

3Iar.  I  give  the  noble  duke  respective"  thanks. 

Bal.  Eespective ;  truly  a  veiy  pretty  word. 
Indeed,  madam,  I  have  the  most  respective 
fiddle ;  did  you  ever  smell  a  more  sweet  sound .' 
My  ditty  must  go  thus ;  very  witty,  I  assure  you  : 
I  myself  in  an  humorous  passion  made  it,  to  the 
tune  of  my  mistress  Nutrice's  beauty.  Indeed, 
very  pretty,  very  retort  and  obtuse :  I'U  assure 
you  'tis  thus : — 

My  mistress'  eye  doth  oil  my  joints, 

And  makes  my  fingers  nimble : 
0  love,  come  on,  untruss  your  points, 

My  fiddlestick  wants  rosin. 
My  lady's  dugs  are  all  so  smooth, 

That  no  flesh  must  them  handle : 
Her  eyes  do  shine,  for  to  say  sooth, 

Like  a  new  snuffed  candle. 

Mar.  Truly,  veiy  pathetical  and  unvulgar. 

Bal.  Pathetical  and  unvulgar ;  words  of  worth, 
excellent  words.  In  sooth,  madam,  I  have  taken 
a  muiT,  3  which  makes  my  nose  run  most  pathe- 
tically, and  unvulgarly.    Have  you  any  tobacco  ? 

Mar.  Good  signior,  your  song. 

Bal.  Instantly,  most  unvulgarly,  at  your  ser- 
vice. 
Truly,  here's  the  most  pathetical  rosin.     Umh. 

[Sings. 


1  cockeall.  This  may  he  for  cock-ale,  a  very  superior 
ale  well  known  in  Marston's  time.  Here  Nutrice  evi- 
dently means  to  say  that  her  fourth  husband  was  super- 
latively excellent. 

2  respective — respectful.  ^  murr — violent  cold. 


Mar.  In  sooth,  most  knightly  sung,  and  like 
Sir  Gefferej'. 

Bal.  Why,  look  you,  lady,  I  was  made  a  knight 
only  for  my  voice ;  and  a  counsellor,  only  for  my 
wit. 
Mar.  I  believe  it.     Good  night,   gentle  sir, 

good  night. 
Bal.  You  will  give  me  leave  to  take  my  leave 
of  my  mistress,  and  I  will  do  it  most  famously 
in  rhyme. 

Farewell,  adieu !  saith  thy  love  time, 

As  to  part  loath. 
Time  bids  us  part,  mine  own  sweet  heart, 
God  bless  us  both. 

[Exit  Balurdo. 
Mar.  Good  night,  Nutrice.     Pages,  leave  the 
room.     The  lifej  of  night  grows  short,  'tis  al- 
most dead.  [Exeunt  Pages  and  Nutrice. 
0  thou  cold  widow  bed,  sometime  thrice  blest, 
By  the  warm  pressure  of  my  sleeping  lord : 
Open  thy  leaves,  and  whilst  on  thee  I  tread. 
Groan  out,  Alas,  my  dear  Andrugio's  dead ! 

[Maria    draioeth    the    curtain :    and    the 
ghost  q/ Andrugio  is  displayed,  sitting 
on  the  bed. 
Amazing  terror,  what  portent  is  this  ? 
And.  Disloyal  to  our  hymeneal  rites, 
What  raging  heat  reigns  in  thy  strumpet  blood  ? 
Hast  thou  so  soon  forgot  Andrugio  ? 
Are  our  love-bands  so  quickly  cancelled  ? 
Where  lives  thy  plighted  faith  unto  this  breast  ? 

0  weak  Maria !     Go  to,  calm  thy  fears. 

1  pardon  thee,  poor  soul !  oh  shed  no  tears ; 
Thy  sex  is  weak.     That  black  incarnate  fiend 
May  trip  thy  faith  that  hath  o'erthrown  my  life  : 
I  was  impoison'd  by  Piero's  hand. 

Join  with  my  son  to  bend  up  strain'd  revenge. 
Maintain  a  seeming  favour  to  his  suit. 
Till  time  may  form  our  vengeance  absolute. 
Enter  Ajstonio,  his  arms  bloody;  a  torch  and  a 
poniard. 

Ant.  See,  unamazed,  I  will  behold  thy  face  ; 
Outstare  the  terror  of  thy  grim  asi^ect. 
Daring  the  horrid'st  object  of  the  night. 
Look  how  I  smoke  in  blood,  reeking  the  steam 
Of  foaming  vengeance  !    Oh  my  soul's  enthron'd 
In  the  triumphant  chariot  of  revenge ! 
Methinks  I  am  all  air,  and  feel  no  weight 
Of  human  dirt  clog.     This  is  Julio's  blood. 
Kich  music,  father ;  this  is  Julio's  blood. 
Why  lives  that  mother .' 

And.  Pardon  ignorance.    Fly,  dear  Antonio : 
Once  more  assume  disguise,  and  dog  the  court 
In  feigned  habit,  till  Piero's  blood 
May  even  o'erflow  the  brim  of  full  revenge. 

[Exit  Antonio. 
Peace,  and  all  blessed  fortunes  to  you  both. 
Fly  thou  from  court,  be  peerless  in  revenge : 
Sleep  thou  in  rest,  lo  here  I  close  thy  couch. 

[Exit  Maria  to  her  bed,  Andrugio  draw- 
ing the  curtains. 
And  now  ye  sooty  coursers  of  the  night. 
Hurry  your  chariot  into  hell's  black  womb. 
Darkness,  make  flight;   graves,  eat   your  dead 

again : 
Let's  repossess  our  shrouds.    Why  lags  delay  ? 
Mount  sparkling  brightness,  give  the  world  his 
day.  [Exit  Andrugio. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  L 

Enter  Antonio  in  afooVs  habit,  with  a  little  toy 
of  a  ivahiut  shell  and  soap,  to  make  bubbles ; 
Maria  and  Alberto. 

Mar.  Away  with  this  disguise  in  any  hand. 


11^ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Alb.  Fie,  'tis  unsuiting  to  your  elate  spirit: 
Eather  put  on  some  transhap'd  •  cavalier, 
Some  habit  of  a  spitting  critic,  whose  mouth 
Voids  nothing  but  genteel  and  unvulgar 
Bheum  of  censure :  rather  assume — 

Ant.  Why,  then,  should  I  put  on  the  very 
flesh 
Of  solid  folly  ?    No,  this  cockscomb  is  a  crown 
Which  I  affect,  even  with  unbounded  zeal. 

Alh.  'Twill  thwart  your  plot,   disgrace  your 
high  resolve. 

Ant.  By  wisdom's  heart  there  is  no  essence 
mortal. 
That  I  can  envy,  but  a  plump-cheek'd  fool : 
Oh,  he  hath  a  patent  of  immunities 
Confirm'd  by  custom,  seal'd  by  policy. 
As  lai'ge  as  spacious  thought. 

Alh.  You  cannot  press  among  the  courtiers. 
And  have  access  to — 

Ant.    What?    not  a  fool?      Why,   friend,    a 
golden  ass, 
A  baubl'd  fool  are  sole  canonical, 
Whil'st  pale-cheek'd  wisdom  and  lean-ribb'd  art 
Are  kept  in  distance  at  the  halbert's  point  ; 
All  held  Apocrypha,^  not  worth  survey. 
Why,  by  the  genius  of  that  Florentine, 
Deep,  deep  observing,  sound-brain'd  Machiavel, 
He  is  not  wise  that  strives  not  to  seem  fool. 
When  will  the  duke  hold  fee'd  intelligence, 
Keep  wary  observation  in  large  pay. 
To  dog  a  fool's  act  ? 

Mar.    Ay,   but  feigning  known  3    disgraceth 
much. 

Ant.  Pish !  Most  things  that  morally  adhere  to 
souls. 
Wholly  exist  in  drunk  opinion : 
Whose  reeling  censure,  if  I  value  not. 
It  values  naught. 

Mar.  You  are  transported  with  too  slight  a 
thought, 
If  you  but  meditate  of  what  is  past, 
And  what  you  plot  to  pass. 

Ant.  Even  in  that,  note  a  fool's  beatitude  : 
He  is  not  capable  of  passion ; 
Wanting  the  power  of  distinction, 
He  bears  an  unturned  sail  with  every  wind: 
Blow  east,  blow  west,  he  steers  his  course  alike. 
I  never  saw  a  fool  lean :  the  chub-fac'd  fop 
Shines  sleek  with  full-cramm'd  fat  of  happiness, 
Whilst  studious  contemplation  sucks  the  juice 
From  wizard's   cheeks:    who    making    curious 

search 
For  nature's  secrets,  the  first  innating  ^  cause 
Laughs  them  to  scorn,  as  man  doth  busy  ^  apes 
When  they  will  zany  men.     Had  Heaven  been 

kind. 
Creating  me  an  honest  senseless  dolt, 
A  good  poor  fool,  I  should  want  sense  to  feel 
The  stings  of  anguish  shoot  through  every  vein; 
I  should  not  know  what  'twere  to  lose  a  father ; 
I  should  be  dead  of  sense,  to  view  defame 
Blur  my  bright  love ;  I  could  not  run  mad. 
As  one  confounded  in  a  maze  of  mischief, 
Stagger'd,   stark  fell'd  with  bruising  stroke  of 

chance. 
I  should  not  shoot  mine  eyes  into  the  earth. 
Poring  for  mischief,  that  might  countei'poise 

Enttr  Lucio. 
mischief,  murder  and —  How  now,  Lucio? 

Iai.  My  lord  the  duke,  with  the  Venetian  states. 
Approach  the  great  hall  to  judge  Mellida. 

'  <raniAap'<Z— transformed. 

*  Apocrypha — uncanonical,  profane. 
^feigning  known — feigning  when  found  out. 

*  innating — innate,  natural. 

^  6uj)2/— have  intercourse  with. 


Ant.  Ask'd  he  for  Julio  yet  ? 

Lii.  No  motion  of  him :   dare  you  trust  this 

habit? 
Ant.  Alberto,  see  you  straight  rumour  me  dead. 
Leave  me,  good  mother ;  leave  me,  Lucio  : 
Forsake  me,  all.     Now  patience  hoop  my  sides 

\_Exeunt  omnes,  saving  Antonio. 
With  steeled  ribs,  lest  I  do  burst  my  breast 
With  struggling  passions.     Now  disguise,  stand 

bold. 
Poor  scorned  habits,  oft  choice  souls  infold. 

[^The  cornets  sound  a  cynet. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 

Enter  to  Antonio,  Castilio,  Forobosco, 
Balurdo,  and  Alberto,  with  poleaxes; 
Lucio  hare.  Piero  and  Maria  talking  to- 
gether;   two   Senators,   Galeatzo,   Matza- 

GENTE,  NUXRICE. 

Pie.  Entreat  me  not :  there's  not  a  beauty  lives 
Hath  that  impei-ial  predominance 
O'er  my  affects,  ■  as  your  enchanting  graces: 
Yet  give  me  leave  to  be  myself. 

Ant.  Ah,  villain. 

Pie.  Just. 

Ant.  Most  just. 

Pie.  Most  just  and  upright  in  our  judgment- 
seat. 
Were  Mellida  mine  eye,  with  such  a  blemish 
Of  most  loath'd  looseness,  I  would  scratch  it  out. 
Produce  the  strumpet  in  her  bridal  robes. 
That  she  may  blush  t'appear  so  white  in  show. 
And  black  in  inward  substance.     Bring  her  in. 

\_Exeunt  Forobosco  and  Castilio. 
I  hold  Antonio,  for  his  father's  sake, 
So  very  dearly,  so  entirely  choice. 
That  knew  I  but  a  thought  of  prejudice 
Imagin'd  'gainst  his  high  ennobled  blood, 
I  would  maintain  a  mortal  feud,  undying  hate, 
'Gainst  the  conceiver's  life.    And  shall  justice 

sleep 
In  fleshly  lethargy,  for  mine  own  blood's  favour, 
When  the  sweet  prince  hath  so  apparent  scorn 
By  my  (I  will  not  call  hei-)  daughter?     Go, 
Conduct  in  the  loved  youth  Antonio : 

\_Exit  Alberto  to  fetch  Antonio. 
He  shall  behold  me  spurn  my  private  good ; 
Piero  loves  his  honour  more  than's  blood. 

Ant.  The  devil  he  does  more  than  both. 

Bal.  Stand  back  there,  fool ;  I  do  hate  a  fool 
most  most  pathetically.  Oh,  these  that  have  no 
sap  of  retort  and  obtuse  wit  in  them  :  faugh  ! 

Ant.  Puff,  hold  world ;  puff,  hold  bubble ; 
puff,  hold  world ;  puff,  break  not  behind ;  puff, 
thou  art  full  of  wind  ;  puff,  keep  up  by  wind ; 
puff,  'tis  broke!  and  now  I  laugh  like  a  good 
fool  at  the  breath  of  mine  own  lips ;  he,  he,  he, 
he,  he ! 

Bal.  You  fool! 

Ant.  You  fool,  puff ! 

Bal.  I  cannot  disgest  thee,  the  unvulgar  fool. 
Go,  fool. 

Pie.  Forbear,  Balurdo ;  let  the  fool  alone. 
Come  hither.    Is  he  your  fool  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  my  lov'd  lord. 

Pie.  Would  all  the  states  in  Venice  were  like 
thee! 
Oh  then  I  were  secur'd. 
He  that's  a  villain,  or  but  meanly  soul'd, 
Must  still  converse,  and  cling  to  routs  of  fools, 
That  cannot  search  the  leaks  of  his  defects. 
Oh,  your  imsalted  fresh  fool  is  your  only  man : 

'  fr^ecfs— affections. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


\77 


These  viuegar  tart  spirits  are  too  piercing, 

Too  searciiing  in  the  unglued  joints  of  shaken 

■srits. 
Find  they  a  chink,  they'll  wriggle  in  and  in, 
And  eat  like  salt  in  his  siddow '  ribs, 
Till  they  have  opened  all  his  rotten  parts 
Unto  the  vaunting  surge  of  base  contempt, 
And  sunk  the  tossed  galleass  in  depth 
Of  whirlpool  scorn.     Give  me  an  honest  fop. 
Dud  a  dud  a !     Why,  lo,  sir,  this  takes  he 
As  grateful  now  as  a  monopoly. 

The  still  flutes  sound  softly. 

Enter  Foeobosco  and  Castilio;   Mellida 

supported  by  two  Waiting-women. 
Mel.  All  honour  to  this  royal  coniluence.* 
Pie.  Forbear  (impure)  to  blot  bright  honour's 
name 
With  thy  defiled  lips.     The  flux  of  sin 
Flows  from  thy  tainted  body :  thou  so  foul, 
So  aU-dishonour'd,  canst  no  honour  give, 
No  wish  of  good  that  can  have  good  effect 
To  this  grave  senate,  and  illustrate  bloods. 
Why  stays  the  doom  of  death  ? 

1  Sen.  Who  riseth  up  to  manifest  her  guilt  ? 

2  Sen.  You  must  produce  apparent  proof,  my 
lord. 

Pie.  Why,  where  is  Strotzo  ? — he  that  swore 
he  saw 
The  very  act  ?  and  vow'd  that  Felice  fled 
Upon  his  sight  ?  on  which  I  brake  the  breast 
Of  the  adulterous  lecher  with  five  stabs. 
Go  fetch  in  Strotzo.     Now,  thou  impudent, 
If  thou  hast  any  drop  of  modest  blood 
Shrouded  within   thy  cheeks,  blush,  blush  for 

shame. 
That  rumour  yet  may  say  thou  felt'st  defame. 

Mel.  Produce  the  devil ;  let  your  Strotzo  come ; 
I  can  defeat  his  strongest  argument. 
With— 

Pie.  With  what? 

Mel.    With  tears,  with  blushes,    sighs,   and 
clasped  hands, 
With  innocent  upreared  arms  to  heaven  : 
With  my  unnook'd^  simplicity.     These,  these 
Must,  will,  can  only  quit  my  heart  of  guilt. 
Heaven  permits  not  taintless  blood  be  spilt, 
If  no  remorse  live  in  your  savage  breast. 

Pie.  Then  thou  must  die. 

Mel.  Yet  dying,  I'll  be  blest. 

Pie.  Accurs'd  by  me. 

Mel.  Yet  blest,  in  that  I  strove 
To  live  and  die 

Pie.  My  hate. 

Mel.  Antonio's  love. 

Ant.  Antonio's  love ! 

Enter  Strotzo,  a  cord  about  his  neck. 
Sir.  Oh  what  vast  ocean  of  repentant  tears 
Can  cleanse  my  breast  from  the  polluting  filth 
Of  ulcerous  sin  !     Supreme  Efficient, 
Why  cleav'st  thou  not  my  breast  with  thunder- 
Of  wing'd  revenge  ?  [bolts 

Pie.  What  means  this  passion  ? 
Ant.  What  villany  are  they  decocting*  now  ? 

Umh! 
Str.  In  me  convertite  ferruni,  0  proceres  ! 
Nihil  iste,  nee  ista.^ 
Pie.  Lay  hold  on  him.    What  strange  portent 
is  this  ? 

1  siddow.     In  Gloucestershire,  peas  which    hecome 
pulpy  soft  hy  toiling  are  then  said  to  be  siddow. 

2  confluence — meeting,  company. 

'  unnook'd — without  nooks,  guileless. 
*  decocting — concocting. 

5  '  Turn  the  sword  on  me,  0  nobles  I    Neither  he  nor 
she  has  done  anything.' 


Str.  I  will  not  flinch.    Death,  hell  more  grimly 
stare 
Within  my  heart  than  in  your  threatening  brows. 
Record,  thou  threefold  guard  of  dreadest  power, 
What  I  here  speak  is  forced  from  my  lips 
By  the  pulsive'  strain  of  conscience. 
I  have  a  mount  of  mischief  clogs  my  soul, 
As  weighty  as  the  high-noll'd"  Appenine, 
Which  I  must  straight  disgorge,  or  breast  will 

burst. 
I  have  defam'd  this  lady  wrongfully, 
By  instigation  of  Antonio, 

AVhose  reeling  love,  toss'd  on  each  fancy's  surge. 
Began  to  loathe  before  it  fully  joy'd. 
Pie.  Go,  seize  Antonio  ;  guard  him  strongly  in. 
[Exit  FoROBOsco. 
Str.  By  his  ambition,  being  only  brib'd, 
Fee'd  by  his  impious  hand,  I  poisoned 
His  aged  father,  that  his  thirsty  hope 
Might  quench  their  dropsy  of  aspiring  drought 
With  full  unbounded  quaff. 
Pie.  Seize  me  Antonio. 

Str.  Oh,  why  permit  you  now  such  scum  of 
filth 
As  Strotzo  is  to  live,  and  taint  the  air 
"With  his  infectious  breath ! 
Pie.  Myself  will  be  thy  strangler,  unmatcli'd 
slave. 

[PiERO  comes  from  his  chair,  tnatcheth  the 
cord's   end,   and  Castilio   aideth  him; 
both  strangle  Strotzo. 
Str.  Now  change  your — 

Pie.  Ay,  pluck  Castilio — I  change  my  humour : 
pluck  Castilio. 
Die,  with  thy  death's  intreats'  even  in  thy  jaws. 
Now,  now,  now,  now,  now,  my  plot  begins  to 

work ! 
Why,  thus  should  statesmen  do 
That  cleave  through  knots  of  craggy  policies. 
Use  men  like  wedges,  one  strike  out  another. 
Till  by  degrees  the  tough  and  knurly*  trunk 
Be  riv'd  in  sunder. — Where's  Antonio  ? 

Enter  Alberto,  running. 
Alb.     Oh,    black    accursed    fate  !      Antonio's 

drowned. 
Pie.  Speak,  on  thy  faith,  on  thy  allegiance, 

speak. 
Alb.  As  I  do  love  Piero,  he  is  drown'd. 
Ant.  In  an  inundation  of  amazement. 
Mel.  Ay,  is  this  the  close  of  all  my  strains  in 
love  ? 
Oh  me  most  wretched  maid  ! 
Pie.  Antonio  di-own'd!  How?  how?  Antonio 

drown'd ! 
Alb.  Distraught  and  raving,  from  a  turret's  top 
He  threw  his  body  in  the  swoll'n  sea, 
And  as  he  headlong  topsy  turvy  ding'd  down. 
He  still  cried  '  Mellida  !  ' 

Ant.  My  love's  bright  crown. 
Mel.  He  still  cried  '  Mellida  ! ' 
Pie.  Daughter,    methinks   your    eyes    should 
sparkle  joy. 
Your  bosom  rise  on  tiptoe  at  this  news. 
Mel.  Ay  me ! 

Pie.   How  now!      Ay    me!      Why,   art    not 
great  of  thanks 
To  gracious  Heaven,  for  the  just  revenge 
Upon  the  author  of  thy  obloquies  ! 

Mar.  Sweet  beauty,  I  could  sigh  as  fast  as  you, 
But  that  I  know  that,  which  I  weep  to  know, 
His  fortunes  should  be  such  he  dare  not  show 
His  open  presence. 


1  pulsive — impulsive. 

-  high-noll'd — liigh-peak'd. 

3  intreats — entreaties. 


*  i-n!H-?j/— knotty. 


378 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Mel.  I  know  he  lov'd  me  dearly,  dearly  ;  ay, 
And  since  I  cannot  live  with  him  I  die. 

Pie.  Tore  Heaven,  her  sjpeech  falters;    look, 
she  swoons. 
Convey  her  up  into  her  private  bed. 

[Maria,  Nutrice,  and  the  Ladies  hear  out 
Mellida,  as  leing  swooned. 
I  hope  she'll  live.     If  not — 

Ant.  Antonio's   dead!      The  fool  will  follow 
too ;  he,  he,  he  ! 
Now  works  the  scene ;  quick  observation  scud 
To  coat  the  plot,  or  else  the  path  is  lost : 
My  very  self  am  gone,  my  way  is  fled  : 
Ay,  all  is  lost,  if  Mellida  is  dead. 

\^Exit  Antonio. 

Pie.  Alberto,  I  am  kind  ;  Alberto,  kind. 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  cuz,  i'faith  I  am. 
Go  take  him  down,  and  bear  him  to  his  father. 
Let  him  be  buried :  look  ye,  I'll  pay  the  priest. 

Alb.  Please  you  to  admit  his  father  to   the 
court  ? 

Pie.  No. 

Alb.  Please  you  to  restore  his  lands  and  goods 
again  ? 

Pie.  No. 

Alb.  Please  you  vouchsafe  him  lodging  in  the 
city? 

Pie.  God's  foot,  no,  thou  odd  uncivil  fellow. 
I  think  you  do  forget,  sir,  where  you  are. 

Alb.  I  know  you  do  forget,  sir,  where  you  must 
be. 

Foro.  You  are  too  malapert,  i'faith  you  are. 
Your  honour  might  do  well  to — 

Alb.  Peace,  parasite;  thou  burr,  that  only  sticks 
Unto  the  nap  of  greatness. 

Pie.  Away  with  that  same  yelping  cur — away. 

Alb.  A.J — I  am  gone  ;  but  mark,  Piero,  this. 
There  is  a  thing  call'd  scourging  Nemesis. 

{Exit  Alberto. 

Bal.  God's  neaks,  he  has  wrong,  that  he  has : 
and  s'fut,  and  I  were  as  he,  I  would  bear  no 
coles.     La,  I,  I  begin  to  swell — puff. 

Pie.  How  now,  fool,  fop,  fool  ? 

Bal.  Fool,  fop,  fool !  Marry  muff.  I  pray  you, 
how  many  fools  have  you  seen  go  in  a  suit  of 
satin  ?  I  hope  yet  I  do  not  look  a  fool  i'faith ! 
a  fool !  God's  bores,  I  scorn't  with  my  heel. 
S'neaks,  and  I  were  worth  but  three  hundred 
pound  a  year  more,  I  could  swear  richly ;  nay, 
but  as  poor  as  I  am,  I  will  swear  the  fellow  hath 
wrong. 

Pie.  1  Young  Galeatzo  !  ay,  a  proper  man  ; 
Florence,  a  goodly  city :  it  shall  be  so. 
I'll  marry  her  to  him  instantly. 
Then  Genoa  mine,  by  my  Maria's  match, 
"Which  I'll  solemnize  ere  next  setting  suu. 
Thus  Venice,  Florence,  Genoa,  strongly  leagu'd. 
Excellent,  excellent!  I'll  conquer  Komo, 
Pop  out  the  light  of  bright  religion  ; 
And  then,  helter-skelter,  all  cock  sure. 

Bal.  Go  to,  'tis  just,   the  man  hath  wrong: 
goto. 

Pie.   Go  to,  thou  shalt  have  right.    Go  to, 
Castilio, 
Clap  him  into  the  palace  dungeon ; 
Lap  him  in  rags,  and  let  him  feed  on  slime 
That  smears  the  dungeon  cheek.     Away  with 
him. 

Bal.  In  very  good  truth,  now,  I'll  ne'er  do  so 
more ;  this  one  time  and — 

Pie.  Away  with  him — observe  it  strictly — go ! 

Bal.  Why  then,  0  wight !  alas,  poor  knight ! 
Oh,  well-a-day,  Sir  Geffery.     Let  poets  roai-. 
And  aU  deplore ;  for  now  I  bid  you  good  night. 
[Exit  Balurdo  ivith  Castilio. 


'  Piero  apparently  speaks  aside. 


Mar.  Oh  piteous  end  of  love !  Oh  too,  too  rude 
hand 
Of  unrespective  death !     Alas,  sweet  maid  ! 

Pie.   Forbear'  me,    Heaven.     What  intend* 
these  plaints? 

Mar.  The  beauty  of  admir'd  creation, 
The  life  of  modest  unmix'd  purity, 
Our  sex's  glory,  Mellida  is — 

Pie.  What,  0  Heaven,  what ! 

Mar.  Dead! 

Pie.  May  it  not  sad  your  thoughts,  how  ? 

Mar.  Being  laid  upon  her  bed,  she  grasp'd  my 
hand, 
And  kissing  it,  spake  thus  :  Thou  very  poor, 
Why  dost  not  weep  ?     The  jewel  of  thy  brow, 
The  rich  adornment  that  inchas'd  thy  breast, 
Is  lost.     Thy  son,  my  love,  is  lost,  is  dead. 
And  do  I  live  to  say  Antonio's  dead  ? 
And  have  I  liv'd  to  see  his  virtues  blurr'd 
With  guiltless  blots?     0  world,  thou  art  too 

subtile 
For  honest  natures  to  converse  withal. 
Therefore  I'll  leave  thee  ;  farewell,  mart  of  wo, 
I  fly  to  clip  mj'  love,  Antonio'! 
With  that  her  head  sank  down  upon  her  breast ; 
Her  cheek  chang'd  earth,  her  senses  slept  in  rest. 
Until  my  fool,  that  press'd  unto  the  bed, 
Screech'd  out  so  loud  that  he  brought  back  her 

soul, 
Call'd  her  again,  that  her  bi-ight  eyes  'gan  ope. 
And  star'd  upon  him.    He,  audacious  fool, 
Dar'd  kiss  her  hand,  wish'd  her  soft  rest,  lov'd 

bride ; 
She  fumbled  out,  thanks  good,  and  so  she  died. 

Pie.  And  so  she  died !     I  do  not  use  to  weep ; 
But  by  thy  love  (out  of  whose  fertile  sweet 
I  hope  for  as  fair  fruit)  I  am  deep  sad. 
I  will  not  stay  my  marriage  for  all  this. 
Castilio,  Forobosco,  all, 
Strain  all  your  wits,  wind  up  invention 
Unto  his  highest  bent ;  to  sweet  this  night, 
Make  us  drink  Lethe  by  your  quaint  conceits; 
That  for  two  days  oblivion  smother  grief. 
But  when  my  daughter's  exequies  approach, 
Let's  all  turn  sighers.     Come,  despite  of  fate, 
Sound  loudest  music,  lets  pace  out  in  state. 

[The  cornets  sound.     Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IIL 

Enter  Antonio  alone,  in  fooVs  habit. 

Ant.   Ay,  Heaven,   thou  may'st,    thou  may'st 
omnipotence. 
What  vermin  breed  of  putrefacted  slime 
Shall  dare  to  expostulate  with  thy  decrees! 

0  Heaven,  thou  may'st  indeed :  she  was  all  thine, 
All  heavenly :  I  did  but  humbly  beg 

To  borrow  her  of  thee  a  little  time. 

Thou  gav'st  her  me,  as  some  weak-breasted  dame 

Giveth  her  infant,  puts  it  out  to  nurse; 

And  when  it  once  goes  high-lone,  ^  takes  it  back. 

She  was  my  vital  blood,  and  yet,  and  yet, 

I'll  not  blaspheme.    Look  here !  behold !_ 

[Antonio  2}uts  of  his  cup,  and  liethjust  upon 
■    his  back. 

1  turn  my  prostrate  breast  upon  thy  face, 
And  vent  a  heaving  sigh.     Oh  hear  but  this ! 

I  am  a  poor,  poor  orphan — a  weak,  weak  child. 
The  wrack  of  splitted  fortune,  the  very  ouze. 
The  quicksand  that  devours  all  misery. 
Behold  the  valiant'st  creature  that  doth  breathe. 


1  Forbear — spare. 

-  intend — mean. 

•''  high-lone— qmiQ  alone. — Halliwell. 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


379 


For  all  this  I  dare  live,  and  I  will  live, 
Only  to  numb  some  other  cursed  blood 
With  the  dead  palsy  of  like  misery. 
Then  death,  like  to  a  stifling  incubus. 
Lie  on  my  bosom.     Lo,  sir,  I  am  sped. 
My  breast  is  Golgotha,  grave  for  the  dead. 

Enter  Pandulpho,  Alberto,  and  a  Page, 
carrying  Felice's  trunk  in  a  winding-sheet, 
and  lay  it  athwart  Antonio's  breast. 

Pan.  Antonio,  kiss  my  foot:  I  honour  thee, 
lu  laying  'thwart  my  blood  upon  thy  breast. 
I  tell  thee,  boy,  he  was  Pandulj)ho's  son ; 
And  I  do  grace  thee  with  supporting  him. 
Young  man. 

The  domineering  monarch  of  the  earth. 
He  who  hath  naught  thatfortune's  gripe  can  seize. 
He  who  is  all  irapregnably  his  own, 
He  whose  great  heart  Heaveu  cannot  force  with 

force. 
Vouchsafes  his  love. 

Ant.  I  ha'  lost  a  good  wife. 

Pan.  Didst  find  her  good,  or  didst  thou  make 
her  good  ? 
If  found,  thou  may'st  refind,  because  thou  hadst 

her. 
If  made,  the  work  is  lost ;  but  thou  that  mad'st  her 
Liv'st  yet  as  cunning.     Hast  lost  a  good  wife  ? 
Thrice  blessed  man  that  lost  her  whilst  she  was 

good, 
Fair,  j'oung,  unblemish'd,  constant,  loving,  chaste. 
1  tell  thee,  youth,  age  knows,  young  loves  seem 

grac'd. 
Which  with  grey  cares,  rude  jars,  are  oft  defac'd. 

Ant.  But  she  was  full  of  hope. 

Pa7i.   May  be,  may  be ;   but  that  which  may 
be,  stood. 
Stands  now  without  all  may.     She  died  good, 
And  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

Alb.  I  ha'  lost  a  true  friend. 

Pan.  I  live  encompass'd  with  two  blessed  souls. 
Thou  lost  a  good  wife,  thou  lost  a  true  friend,  ha ! 
Two  of  the  rarest  lendings  of  the  heavens. 
But  lendings,  which  at  the  fixed  day  of  pay 
Set  down  by  fate,  thou  must  restore  again. 

0  what  unconscionable  souls  are  here ! 

Are  you  all  like  the  spoke-shaves  of  the  church  ? 

Have  you  no  maw  to  restitution  ? 

Hast  lost  a  true  friend,  cuz  ?  then  thou  hadst  one. 

1  tell  thee,  youth,  'tis  all  as  difficult 
To  find  true  friend  in  this  apostate  age 
(That  balks  all  right  afSance  'twixt  two  hearts) 
As  'tis  to  find  a  fixed  modest  heart. 

Under  a  painted  breast.     Lost  a  true  friend ! 

0  happy  soul  that  lost  him  whilst  he  was  true  ! 
Believe  it,  cuz,  I  to  my  tears  have  found, 

Oft  dirt's  respect  makes  firmer  friends  unsound. 

Alb.  You  have  lost  a  good  son. 

Pan.   Why,  there's  the  comfort  on't,  that  he 
was  good. 
Alas,  poor  innocent ! 

Alb.  Why  weeps  mine  uncle  ? 

Pan.  Ha,  dost  ask  me  why?  ha,  ha! 
Good  cuz,  look  here ! 

[Se  shows  him  his  son''s  breast. 
Man  will  break  out,  despite  philosophy. 
Why,  all  this  while  I  ha'  but  play'd  a  part, 
Like  to  some  boy  that  acts  a  tragedy. 
Speaks  burly  words,  and  raves  out  passion ; 
But  when  he  thinks  upon  his  infant  weakness. 
He  droops  his  eye.     I  spake  more  than  a  god, 
Yet  am  less  than  a  man. 

1  am  the  miserablest  soul  that  breathes. 

[Antonio  starts  up. 
Ant.  S'lid,  sir,  ye  lie!   by  the  heart  of  grief, 
thou  liest ! 
I  scorn'd  that  any  wretched  should  survive, 


Outmounting  me  in  that  superlative, 
Most  miserable,  most  unmatch'd  in  woe. 
Who  dare  assume  that,  but  Antonio  ? 

Pan.   Wilt  still   be  so,  and  shall  yon  blood- 
hound live  ? 

Ant.  Have  I  an  arm,  a  heart,  a  sword,  a  soul  ? 

Alb.  Were  you  but  private  unto  what  we  know. 

Pan.  I'll  know  it  all ;  first  let's  inter  the  dead  : 
Let's  dig  his  grave,  with  that  shall  dig  the  heart, 
Liver,  and  entrails  of  the  murderer. 

[They  strike  the  stage  zcith  their  daggers, 
and  the  grave  openeth. 

Ant.  Wilt  sing  a  dirge,  boy  ? 

Pan.  No,  no  song ;  'twill  be  vile  out  of  tune. 

Alb.  Indeed,  he's  hoarse ;  the  poor  boy's  voice 
is  crack'd. 

Pan.  Why,  cuz !  why  should  it  not  be  hoarse 
and  crack'd, 
When  all  the  strings  of  nature's  symphony 
Are  crack'd  and  jar?     Why   should  his  voice 

keep  tune. 
When  there's  no  music  in  the  breast  of  man  ? 
I'll  say  an  honest  antic  rhyme  I  have 
(Help  me,  good  sorrow-mates,  to  give  him  grave). 
[They  all  help  to  carry  Felice  to  his  grave. 
Death,  exile,  plaints,  and  woe. 
Are  but  man's  lackeys,  not  his  foe. 
No  mortal  'scapes  from  fortune's  war 
Without  a  wound,  at  least  a  scar. 
Many  have  led  these  to  the  grave ; 
But  all  shall  follow,  none  shall  save. 
Blood  of  my  youth,  rot  and  consume  ; 
Virtue,  in  dirt,  doth  life  assume. 
With  this  old  saw,  close  up  this  dust ; 
Thrice  blessed  man  that  dieth  just. 

Ant.  The  gloomy  wing  of   night  begins  to 
stretch 
His  lazy  pinion  over  all  the  air. 
We  must  be  stiff  and  steady  in  resolve ; 
Let's   thus    our    hands,    our    hearts,    our    arms 
involve.  [.They  wreath  their  arms. 

Pan.  Now  swear  we  by  this  Gordian  knot  of  love. 
By  the  fresh  turned  up  mould  that  wraps  my  son  ; 
By  the  dead  brow  of  triple  Hecate ; 
Ere  night  shall  close  the  lids  of  yon  bright  stars, 
We'll  sit  as  heavy  on  Piero's  heart. 
As  Mtnn  doth  on  groaning  Pelorus. 

Ant.  Thanks,  good  old  man  ! 
We'll  cast  at  royal  chance. 
Let's  think  a  plot — then  pell  mell  vengeance  ! 

[Exeimt,  their  arms  wreathed. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

The  cornets  sound  for  the  Act. 

The  dumb  shoio. 

Enter  at  one  door  Castilio  and  Forobosco, 
withhalberts;  foiir  Ta.ges  tvith  torches ;  Lucio 
bare ;  Piero,  Maria,  and  Alberto,  talking. 
Alberto  draws  out  his  dagger,  Maria  her 
knife,  aiming  to  menace  the  Duke.  Then 
Galeatzo,  betwixt  two  Senators,  reading  a 
paper  to  them,  at  which  they  all.  make  sem- 
blance of  loathing  Piero,  and  knit  their  fists 
at  him;  two  TiAdies  and  Nutrice.  All  these 
go  softly  over  the  Stage,  whilst  at  the  other 
door  enters  the  Ghost  of  Andrugio,  who 
passeth  by  them,  tossing  his  torch  about  his 
head  in  triumph.  All  forsake  the  Stage,  sav- 
ing Andrugio,  who,  speaking,  begins  the  Act. 

And.   Venit  dies,  tempusque,  quo  reddat  suis 
Animam  squaleniem  sceleribus.'- 

1  '  The  time  has  come  when  he  shall  render  back  his 
filthy  soul  to  its  crimes." 


?8o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


The  fist  of  strenuous  vengeance  is  clutch'd, 
And  stern  Vindicta'  tow'reth  up  aloft, 
That  she  may  fall  with  a  more  weighty  paise,  * 
And  crush  life's  sap  from  out  Piero's  veins. 
K"ow  'gins  the  lep'rous  cores  of  ulcered  sins 
Wheel   to    a   head ;    now  is  his    fate    grown 

mellow, 
Instant  to  fall  into  the  rotten  jaws 
Of  chap-faU'n  death.     Now  down  looks  Provi- 
dence, 
T'  attend  the  last  act  of  my  son's  revenge. 
Be  gracious,  observation,  to  our  scene. 
For  now  the  plot  unites  his  scatter'd  limbs 
Close  in  contracted  bands.    The  Florence  prince 
(Drawn  by  firm  notice  of  the  duke's  black  deeds) 
Is  made  a  partner  in  conspiracy. 
The  states  of  Venice  are  so  swoll'n  in  hate 
Against  the  duke  for  his  accursed  deeds 
(Of  which  they  are  confirm'd  by  some  odd  letters 
Found  in  dead  Strotzo's  study,  which  had  pass'd 
Betwixt  Piero  and  the  murd'ring  slave^. 
That  they  can  scarce  retain  from  bursting  forth 
In  plain  revolt.     Oh,  now  triumphs  my  ghost, 
Exclaiming,  Heaven's  just,  for  I  shall  see 
The  scourge  of  murder  and  impiety !  \Exxt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 

Baluruo y;-o»}  undtr  the  Stage. 

Bdl.  Ho !  who's  above  there,  ho  ?  A  murrain 
on  all  proverbs.  They  say  hunger  breaks  through 
stone  walls;  but  I  am  as  gaunt  as  lean-ribb'd 
famine,  yet  I  can  burst  through  no  stone  walls. 
Oh  now,  Sir  Gefferej',  show  thy  valour,  break 
prison  and  be  hang'd.  Nor  shall  the  darkest 
nook  of  hell  contain  the  discontented  Sir  Ba- 
lurdo's  ghost.  Well,  I  am  out  well ;  I  have  put 
off  the  prison  to  put  on  the  rope.  Oh  poor 
shotten  herring,  what  a  pickle  art  thou  in!  Oh 
hunger,  how  thou  domineer'st  in  my  guts  !  Oh 
for  a  fat  leg  of  ewe  mutton  in  stew'd  broth,  or 
drunken  song  to  feed  on  !  I  could  belch  rarely, 
for  I  am  all  wind.  Oh  cold,  cold,  cold,  cold, 
cold  !  Oh  poor  knight !  Oh,  poor  Sir  Gefferey, 
sing  like  an  unicorn  before  thou  dost  dip  thy 
horn  in  the  water  of  death.  Oh  cold  !  Oh  sing ! 
Oh  cold!  Oh,  poor  Sir  Gefferey,  sing,  sing  ! 

[Sings. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Alberto  at  several  doors, 
their  rapiers  drawn,  in  their  masking  attire. 

Ant.  Vindicta ! 

Alb.  Mellida ! 

Ant.  Alberto ! 

Alb.  Antonio ! 

Ant.  Hath  the  duke  supp'd  ? 

Alb.  Yes  ;  and  triumphant  revels  mount  aloft. 
The  duke  drinks  deep  to  overflow  his  grief. 
The  court  is    rack'd    to  pleasure  ;    each   man 

strains 
To  feign  a  jocund  eye.    The  Florentine — 

Ant.  Young  Galeatzo! 

Alb.  Even  he  is  mighty  on  our  part.  The 
states  of  Venice — 

Enter  Pandulpho,  running,  in  masJdng  attire. 

Pan.  Like  high-swoU'n  floods  drive  down  the 
muddy  dams 
Of  pent  allegiance.     Oh,  my  lusty  bloods. 
Heaven  sits  clapping  ^  of  our  enterprise. 
I  have  been  labouring  general  favour  firm. 


•  Ttntiicto— Vengeance. 
3  c/ap/)i»(;— applauding. 


*  paise — ^poise,  weight. 


And  I  do  find  the  citizens  grown  sick 
With  swallowing  the  bloody  crudities 
Of  black  Piero's  acts ;  they  fain  would  cast 
And  vomit  him  from  off  their  government. 
Now  is  the  plot  of  mischief  ript  wide  ope  ; 
Letters  are  found  'twixt  Strotzo  and  the  duko 
So  clear  apparent,  yet  more  firmly  strong 
By  suiting  circumstance,  that  as  I  walked 
Mufiled,  to  eavesdrop  speech,  I  might  observe 
The  graver  statesmen  whispering  fearfully. 
Here  one  gives  nods,  and  hums  what  he  would 

speak. 
The  rumour's  got  'mong  troop  of  citizens, 
Making  loud  murmur  with  confused  din. 
One  shakes  his  head  and  sighs.  Oh  ill-us'd  power ! 
Another  frets  and  sets  his  grinding  teeth 
Foaming  with  rage,  and  swears  this  must  not  be. 
Here  one  complots, '  and  on  a  sudden  starts. 
And  cries.  Oh  monstrous,  Oh  deep  villany ! 
All  knit  their  nerves,  and  from  beneath  swoll'a 

brows 
Appears  a  gloating  eye  of  much  mislike  ; 
Whilst  swart  Piero's  lips  reek  steam  of  M-ine, 
Swallows  lust  thoughts,    devours  all  pleasiug 

hopes, 
With  strong  imagination  of,  what  not  ? 
Oh  now  Vindicta,  that's  the  word  we  have, 
A  royal  vengeance,  or  a  royal  grave ! 

Ant.  Vindicta ! 

Bal.  I  am  acold. 

Pan.  Who's  there  ?     Sir  Gefferey  ? 

Bal.  A  poor  knight,  God  wot.  The  nose  of 
thy  knighthood  is  bitten  off  with  cold.  Oh  poor 
Sir  Gefferej',  cold,  cold! 

Pan.  What  chance  of  fortune  hath  tript  up  his 
heels. 
And  laid  him  in  the  kennel,  ha  ? 

Alb.  I  will  discourse  it  all.     Poor  honest  soul, 
Hadst  thou  a  bever*  to  clasp  up  thy  face. 
Thou  shouldst  associate^  us  In  masquery,* 
And  see  revenge. 

Bal.  Nay,  and  you  talk  of  revenge,  my 
stomach's  up,  for  I  am  most  tyrannically  hungry. 
A  bever !  1  have  a  headpiece,  a  skull,  a  brain  of 
proof,  I  warrant  ye. 

Alb.  Slink  to  my  chamber,  then,  and  tiro  thee. 

Bal.  Is  there  a  fire  .-* 

Alb.  Yes. 

Bal.  Is  there  a  fat  leg  of  ewe  mutton  ? 

Alb.  Yes. 

Bal.  And  a  clean  shirt  ? 

Alb.  Yes. 

Bal.  Then  am  I  for  you,  most  pathetically, 
and  un vulgarly,  la!  [Exit. 

Ant.  Kesolved  hearts,  time  curtails  night,  op- 
portunity shakes  us  his  foretop.  Steel  your 
thoughts,  sharp  your  resolve,  embolden  your 
spirit,  grasp  your  swords ;  alarm  mischief,  and 
with  an  undaunted  brow,  outscout  the  grim 
opposition 

Of  most  menacing  peril. 
Hark  here,  proud  pomp  shoots  mounting  triumph 

up, 
Corne  in  loud  accents  to  the  front  of  Jove. 

Pan.  Oh  now,  he  that  wants  soul  to  kill  a 
slave. 
Let  him  die  slave,  and  rot  in  peasant's  grave. 

Ant.  Give  me  thy  hand,  and  thine,  most  noble 
heai't ; 
Thus  will  we  live,  and,  but  thus,  never  part. 

[Exeunti  twined  together. 
Cornets  sound  a  cynet. 


1  complots — conspires. 

2  bever — the  face-part  of  a  helmet. 
2  associate — associate  with. 

*  masquery — masking. 


yOHN  MARSTON. 


?8i 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III. 

Enter  Castilio  and  Foroeosco  ;  two  Pages,  with 
torches;  Lucio,  bare;  Piero  and  Maria, 
GaleATZO,  two  Senators,  and  Nutrice. 

Piero  to  Maria. 

Pie.  Sit  close  unto  my  breast,  heart  of  my  love, 
Advance  thy  drooping  eyes. 
Thy  son  is  drown'd. 

Eich  happiness  that  such  a  son  is  drown'd. 
Thy  husband's  dead,  life  of  my  joy's  most  blest, 
In  that  the  sapless  log  that  press'd  thy  bed 
With  an  unpleasing  weight,  being  lifted  hence, 
Even  I,  Piero,  live  to  warm  his  place. 
I  tell  you,  lady,  had  you  view'd  us  both 
With  an  unpartial  eye,  when  first  we  woo'd 
Tour  maiden  beauties,  I  had  borne  the  prize, 
'Tis  firm  i  I  had  ;  for,  fair,  I  ha'  done  that — 

Mar.  Murder! 

Pie.  Which  he  would  quake  to  have  adventur'd; 
Thou  kuow'st  I  have — 

Mar.  Murder'd  my  husband. 

Pie.  Borne  out  the  shock  of  war,  and  done, 
what  not. 
That  valour  durst.    Dost  love  me,  fairest  ?    Say. 

Mar.  As  I  do  hate  my  son,  I  love  thy  soul. 

Pie.  Why  then  lo  to  Hymen,  mount  a  lofty 
note. 
Full  red-cheek'd  Bacchus,  let  Lyeus  ^  float 
In  burnish'd  goblets.    Force  the  plump-lipp'd 

god, 
Skip  light  lavoltas^  in  your  full-sapp  d  vems. 
'Tis  well  brim  full.    Even  I  have  glut  of  blood. 
Let  quaff  carouse.     I  drink  this  Bordeaux  wine 
Unto  the  health  of  dead  Andrugio, 
Felice,  Strotzo,  and  Antonio's  ghosts. 
Would  I  had  some  poison  to  infuse  it  with ; 
That  having  done  this  honour  to  the  dead, 
I  might  send  one  to  give  them  notice  on't. 
I  would  endear  my  favour  to  the  full. 
Boy,  sing  aloud  ;  make  heaven's  vault  to  ring 
With  thy  breath's  strength.      I   drink.      Now 
loudly  sing.  [Boy  tings. 

The  song  ended,  the  cornets  sound  a  cynet. 

Enter  Antonio,  Pandulpho,  and  Alberto,  in 
maskery ;  Balurdo,  and  a  Torchbearer. 
Pie.  Call  Julio  hither.    Where's  the  little  soul  ? 
I  saw  him  not  to-day.    Here's  sport  alone  ^ 
For  him,  i'faith ;  for  babes  and  fools,  I  know, 
Eelish  not  substance,  but  applaud  the  show. 

[To  the  Conspirators,  as  they  stand  in  rank 
for  the  measure. 
Gal.  All  blessed  fortune  crown  your  brave 
attempt.  [To  Antonio. 

I  have  a  troop  to  second  your  attempt. 

[To  Pandulpho. 
The  Venice  states  join  hearts  unto  your  hands. 

[To  Alberto. 
By  the  delights  in  contemplation 
Of  coming  joys,  'tis  magnificent. 
You  grace   my  marriage   eve  with  sumptuous 

pomp. 
Sound  still,  loud  music.     Oh,  your  breath  gives 

grace 
To  ciu-ious  feet,  that  in  proud  measure  pace. 
Ant.  Mother,  is  Julio's  body — 
Mar.  Speak  not,  doubt  not;  all  is  above  all 
hope. 

•■  firm — certain. 

2  Lyeus,  from  the  Greek  (  =>  the  unhender),  was  a 
Burname  of  Bacchus,  and  is  here  used  generally  for  wine. 
'  lavolta.    See  note  1,  p.  S7,  col.  1. 
♦  sport  alone — excellent  sport. 


Ant.  Then  will  I  dance  and  whirl  about  the 
air. 
Methinks  I  am  all  soul,  all  heart,  all  spirit. 
Now  murder  shall  receive  his  ample  merit. 

The  measure. 

While  the  measure  is  dancing,  Andrugio's  ghost 
is  placed  betwixt  the  music  houses. 

Pie.  Bring  hither  suckets,'  candied  delicates. 
We'll   taste  some  sweetmeats,  gallants,  ere  we 
sleep. 
Ant.  We'll  cook  your  sweetmeats,  gallants,  with 
tart  sour  sauce. 

And.  Here  will  I  sit,  spectator  of  revenge. 
And  glad  my  ghost  in  anguish  of  my  foe. 

[The  Maskers  whisper  with  Piero. 
Pie.  Marry  and  shall ;  i'faith  I  were  too  rude, 
If  I  gainsaid  so  civil  fashion. 
The  maskers  pray  you  to  forbear  the  room 
Till  they  have  banqueted.     Let  it  be  so  : 
No  man  presume  to  visit  them  on  death. 

[The  Maskers  whisper  again. 
Only  myself?     Oh,  why,  with  all  my  heart: 
I'll  fill  your  consort.2    Here  Piero  sits  ; 
Come  on,  unmask,  let's  fall  to. 

[The  Conspirators  hind  Piero,  pluck  out 
his  tongue,  and  triumph  over  him. 
Ant.  Murder  and  torture  !  no  prayers,  no  en- 
treats ! 
Pan.  We'll  spoil  your  oratory.     Out  with  his 

tongue. 
Ant.  I  have't,  Pandulpho ;  the  veins  panting 
bleed. 
Trickling  fresh  gore  about  my  fist.     Bind  fast — 
so,  so ! 
And.  Blest  be  thj'  hand !     I  taste  the  joys  of 
heaven, 
Viewing  my  son  triumph  in  his  black  blood. 

Bal.  Down  to   the   dungeon   with   him ;    I'll 
duugeon  with  him  !     I'll  fool  you;  Sir  Gefferey 
will  be  Sir  Gefferey.     I'll  tickle  you. 
Ant.  Behold,  black  dog ! 
Pan.  Grinn'st  thou,  thou  snarling  cur  ? 
Alb.  Eat  thy  black  liver. 
Ant.  To  thine  anguish  see 
A  fool  triumphant  in  thy  misery. 
Vex  him,  Balurdo. 

Pan.  He  weeps ;  now  do  I  glorify  my  hands  ; 
I  had  no  vengeance,  if  I  had  no  tears. 
Ant.  Fall  to,  good  duke.     Oh  these  are  worth- 
less cates,' 
You  have  no  stomach  to  them ;  look,  look  here : 
Here  lies  a  dish  to  feast  thy  father's  gorge. 
Here's  flesh  and  blood,  which  I  am  sure  thou 
lov'st.  [Piero  seems  to  condole  his  son. 

Pan.  Was  he  thy  flesh,  thy  son,  thy  dearest 

son? 
Ant.  So  was  Andrugio  my  dearest  father. 
Pan.  So  was  Felice  my  dearest  son. 

Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  So  was  Andrugio  my  dearest  husband. 

Ant.  My  father  found  no  pity  in  thy  blood. 

Pan.  Eemorse  was  banish'd  when  thou  slew'st 
my  son. 

Mar.  When  thou  impoisonedst  my  loving  lord, 
Exil'd  was  piety. 

Ant.  Now  therefore,  pity,  piety,  remorse. 
Be  aliens  to  our  thoughts ;  grim  fire-ey'd  rage 
Possess  us  wholly. 


'  suckets— iriei  sweetmeats,  or  sugar-plums  for  suck- 
inff. 
2  consort — company.  *  cales — delicacies. 


382 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Pan.  Thy  son  ?  true ;  and  which  is  my  most  joy, 
I  hope  no  bastard,  but  thy  very  blood. 
Thy  true  begotten,  most  legitimate 
And  loved  issue — there's  the  comfort  on't. 
Ant.  Scum  of  the  mud  of  hell ! 
Alb.  Slime  of  aU  filth ! 
Mar.  Thou  most  detested  toad ! 
Bal.  Thou  most  retort  and  obtuse  rascal ! 
Ant.  Thus  charge  we  death  at  thee ;  remem- 
ber hell, 
And  let  the  howling  mumiurs  of  black  spirits, 
The  horrid  torments  of  the  damned  ghosts, 
Affright  thy  soul  as  it  descendeth  down 
Into  the  entrail  of  the  ugly  deep. 

Pan.  Sa,  sa ;  no,  let  him  die,  and  die,  and  still 
be  dying. 

{They  offer  to  run  all  at  Piero,  and  on  a 
sudden  stop. 
And  yet  not  die  till  he  hath  died  and  died 
Ten  thousand  deaths  in  agony  of  heart. 
Ant.  Now  pell  mell ;  thus  the  hand  of  Heaven 
chokes 
The   throat  of  murder.     This  for  my   father's 
blood.  [Ee  stabs  Piero. 

Pan.  This  for  my  son. 
Alb.  This  for  them  all. 
And  this,  and  this,  sink  to  the  heart  of  hell ! 

l^Thei/  run  all  at  Piero  with  their  rapiers. 
Pan.  Murder  for  murder,  blood  for  blood,  doth 

yeU! 
And.  'Tis  done,  and  now  my  soul  shall  sleep 
in  rest. 
Sons  that  revenge  their  fathers'  blood  are  blest. 
[T/se  curtains  being  drawn,  exit  Andrugio. 

Enter  Galeatzo,  two  Senators,  Lucio,  Foro- 
Bosco,  Castilio,  and  Ladies. 

1  Sen.   Whose  hand  presents  this  gory  spec- 
tacle ? 

Ant.  Mine. 

Pan.  No,  mine. 

Alb.  No,  mine. 

Ant.  I  will  not  lose  the  glory  of  the  deed, 
"Were  all  the  tortures  of  the  deepest  hell 
Fixt  to  my  limbs.     I  pierc'd  the  monster's  heart 
With  an  undaunted  hand. 

Pan.  By  yon  bright  spangled  front  of  heaven 
'twas  I ; 
'Twas  I  sluic'd  out  his  life-blood. 

Alb.  Tush,  to  say  truth,  'twas  all. 

2  Sen.  Blest  be  you  all,  and  may  your  honours 
live 

Religiously  held  sacred,  even  for  ever  and  ever. 
Gal.  (to  Antonio).  Thou  art  another  Hercules 
to  us, 
In  ridding  huge  pollution  from  our  state. 

1  Sen.  Antonio,  belief  is  fortified 
With  most  invincible  approvements!  of  much 

wrong, 
By  this  Piero  to  thee.     We  have  found 
Beadrolls  of  mischief,  plots  of  villany, 

1  approvements — ^proofs. 


Laid  'twixt  the  duke  and  Strotzo,   which  we 

found 
Too  fii-mly  acted. 
2  Sen.  Alas,  poor  orphan  ! 
Ant.  Poor,  standing  triumphant  over  Beelzebub! 
Having  large  interest  for  blood,  and  yet  deem'd 
poor? 

1  Sen.  What  satisfaction  outward  pomp  can 
yield, 

Or  chiefest  fortunes  of  the  Venice  state, 
Claim  freely.     You  are  well-season'd  props, 
And  will  not  warp,  or  lean  to  either  part ; 
Calamity  gives  man  a  steady  heart. 

Ant.  We  are  amaz'd  at  your  benignity ; 
But  other  vows  constrain  another  course. 

Pan.  We  know  the  world,  and  did  we  know 
no  more, 
We  would  not  live  to  know ;  but  since  constraint 
Of  holy  bands  forceth  us  keep  this  lodge 
Of  dirt's  coiTuption,  till  dread  power  calls 
Our  souls'  appearance,  we  will  live  enclos'd 
In  holy  verge  of  some  religious  order. 
Most  constant  votaries. 

[The  curtains  are  drawn,  Piero  departeth.^ 

Ant.  First  let's  cleanse  our  hands. 
Purge  hearts  of  hatred,  and  entomb  my  love, 
Over  whose  hearse  I'll  weep  away  my  brain 
In  true  affection's  tears. 
For  her  sake,  here  I  vow  a  virgin  bed. 
She  lives  in  me ;  with  her  my  love  is  dead. 

2  Sen.  We  will  attend  her  mournful  exequies ; 
Conduct  you  to  your  calm  sequester'd  life, 
And  then — 

Mar.  Leave  ns  to  meditate  on  misery, 
To  sad  our  thought  with  contemplation 
Of  past  calamities.     If  any  ask 
Where  lives  the  widow  of  the  poisoned  lord  ? 
Where  lies  the  orphan  of  a  murder'd  father  ? 
Where  lies  the  father  of  a  butcher'd  son  ? 
Where  lives  all  woe .' — conduct  him  to  us  there, 
The  downcast  ruins  of  calamity. 

And.  Sound  doleful  tunes,  a  solemn  hymn  ad- 
vance, 
To  close  the  last  act  of  my  vengeance ; 
And  when  the  subject  of  your  passion's  spent, 
Sing  fiellida  is  dead,  all  hearts  will  relent. 
In  sad  condolement  at  that  heavy  sound. 
Never  more  woe  in  lesser  plot  was  found. 
And,  oh,  if  ever  time  create  a  muse. 
That  to  th'  immortal  fame  of  virgin  faith. 
Dares  once  engage  his  pen  to  write  her  death, 
Presenting  it  in  some  black  tragedy. 
May  it  prove  gracious  ;  may  his  style  be  deck'd 
With  freshest  blooms  of  purest  elegance ; 
May  it  have  gentle   presence,  and  the  scenes 

suck'd  up 
By  calm  attention  of  choice  audience  ; 
And  when  the  closing  Epilogue  appears. 
Instead  of  claps,  may  it  obtain  but  tears. 

\_Exeunt  omnes. 


'  dix>artelh — i.e.  we  suppose,  his  body  is  earned  out. 


PHILIP    MASSINGER. 


[Philip  Massinger,  the  son  of  Arthur  Massinger,  a  gentleman  attached  in  some  capacity 
to  the  family  of  Henry,  second  Earl  of  Pembroke,  was  born  at  Wilton,  the  seat  of  the 
WUtous,  in  the  year  1584.  Massinger,  in  all  likelihood,  received  the  rudiments  of  his 
education  at  the  place  of  his  bu'th,  although  little  is  known  of  his  early  years,  and  nearly  as 
little  of  the  rest  of  his  life.  When  the  dramatist  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  the  patron  of 
himself  and  his  father  died  ;  but  William,  the  third  earl,  continued  the  latter  in  his  service 
probably  till  his  death.  Massinger  became  a  student  of  St.  Alban's  Hall,  Oxford,  in  1602, 
in  the  eighteenth  year  of  his  age,  where  he  was  maintained  apparently  at  the  expense  of 
his  father.  While  at  college,  Anthony-a-Wood  tells  us  '  that  he  gave  his  mind  more  to 
poetry  and  romance,  for  about  four  years  or  more,  than  to  logic  and  philosophy,  which  he 
ought  to  have  done.'  Gifford,  however,  thinks  he  must  have  applied  himself  to  study  with 
tmcommon  energy,  for  his  literary  acquisitions  at  this  early  period  appear  to  be  multifarious 
and  extensive.  He  left  college  abruptly  and  without  taking  his  degree,  for  which  various 
reasons  are  alleged,  the  most  likely  being  the  death  of  his  fatlier,  which  left  him  entirely 
without  the  means  of  support,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  treating  him  with  entire  neglect. 
Another  reason  urged  to  account  both  for  his  abruptly  leaving  college  and  for  the  Earl  of 
Pembroke's  neglect  is,  that  he  had  become  a  convert  to  Eoman  Catholicism  ;  this,  however, 
is  a  mere  conjecture  of  Mr.  Gilford's,  founded  on  certain  expressions  in  some  of  his  dramas, 
and  is  in  every  way  improbable.  In  all  likelihood  Massinger  went  straight  to  London  on 
q^uitting  college,  and  there  betook  himself  to  almost  the  only  means  then  available  to 
a  friendless,  penmless  genius  for  earning  a  livelihood — mending  and  writing  plays.  He 
became  connected  with  some  of  the  most  celebrated  of  his  contemporaries,  in  conjunction 
with  several  of  whom  he  appears  to  have  concocted  several  dramas, — a  practice,  we  have  seen, 
then  very  common.  We  have  evidence  of  this,  as  well  as  of  Massinger's  necessitous  condition, 
in  a  letter  written  about  1612  by  him,  in  conjunction  with  some  others,  to  the  well-kno^vn 
manager  and  play -broker,  Henslow.     It  is  as  follows  : — 

'  To  our  most  loving  friend,  Mr.  Philip  Hinchlow,  esquire.  These, 

'Mr.  Hinchlow, 

'  You  understand  our  unfortunate  extremitie,  and  I  doe  not  thincke  you  so 
void  of  cristianitie  but  that  you  would  throw  so  much  money  into  the  Thames  as  wee 
request  now  of  you,  rather  than  endanger  so  many  innocent  lives.  You  know  there  is  xl. 
more  at  least  to  be  receaved  of  you  for  the  play.  We  desire  you  to  lend  us  vZ.  of  that ; 
which  shall  be  allowed  to  you,  without  which  we  cannot  be  bayled,  nor  1  play  any  more  till 
this  be  dispatch'd.  It  will  lose  you  xxZ.  ere  the  end  of  the  next  weeke,  besides  the  hin- 
derance  of  the  next  new  play.  Pray,  sir,  consider  our  cases  with  humanity,  and  now  give 
us  cause  to  acknowledge  you  our  true  friend  in  time  of  need.  Wee  have  entreated  Mr. 
Davison  to  deliver  this  note,  as  well  to  witness  your  love  as  our  promises,  and  alwayes 
acknowledgement  to  be  ever, 

•  Your  most  thanckfull  and  loving  friend, 

Nat.  Field.' 

'  The  money  shall  be  abated  out  of  the  money  remayns  for  the  play  of  Mr.  Fletcher 
and  ours.  Eoe.  Daborne.' 

S83 


384  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 

'  I  have  ever  found  you  a  true  loving  friend  to  mee,  and  in  soe  small  a  suite,  it  beeinge 
honest,  I  hope  you  will  not  fail  us.  Philip  Massinger.  ' 

Indorsed — 

'  Received  by  mee  Eobert  Davison  of  Mr.  Hinchlow  for  the  use  of  Mr.  Daboerne,  Mr. 
Feeld,  Mr.  Messenger,  the  sum  of  yl.  EoB.  Davison.  ' 

Massinger  left  college  about  1606,  and  the  earliest  known  play  of  his  still  extant  is  The 
Virgin  Martyr,  which  did  not  appear  in  print  till  1622  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  previous  to 
this  he  must  have  written  or  helped  to  Avrite  many  others,  which  have  been  either  lost  or 
cannot  now  be  identified.  A  Mr.  Warburton,  Somerset  Herald  of  last  century,  formed  an 
extensive  collection  of  the  writings  of  our  old  dramatists,  which  fell  into  the  hands  of  his 
cook ;  and  when  "Warburton  '  after  a  lapse  of  years  condescends  to  revisit  his  hoards,  he  finds 
they  have  been  burnt,  from  an  economical  wish  to  save  him  the  charges  of  more  valuable 
brown  paper.'  In  this  sacrilegious  way,  it  has  been  conjectured,  were  consumed  about 
twelve  of  Massinger's  plays,  besides  forty  other  manuscript  plays  of  various  authors.  Of 
these  lost  twelve,  no  doubt  a  number  must  have  been  written  previous  to  1622.  After  this 
he  continued  industriously  writing  plays  till  his  death,  eighteen  altogether  being  still 
extant.  Although  neglected  by  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  he  found  other  patrons,  who  appear 
to  have  added  a  little  to  the  very  slender  income  he  derived  from  the  sale  of  his  plays  ;  but 
withal,  apd  notwithstanding  that  he  seems  to  have  led  a  more  correct  life  than  was  the  case 
with  most  of  his  contemporaries,  it  appears  to  have  been  one  of  poverty,  misfortune, 
and  sadness.  He  probably  never  married,  and  to  all  appearance,  after  his  father's  death,  he 
had  no  relation  of  any  kind  alive.  His  death,  like  his  life,  was  mysterious  and  lonely  ;  it 
took  place  on  the  I7th  of  March  1640.  He  went  to  bed,  says  Langbaine,  in  good  health,  and 
was  found  dead  in  the  morning  in  his  own  house  on  the  Bankside.  *  Such  is  the  received 
account, '  says  Hartley  Coleridge  ;  *  but  he  seems  to  have  had  none  to  care  for  him,  none  to 
mark  his  symptoms,  or  to  detect  the  slow  decay  which  he  might  conceal,  in  despair  of 
sympathy. '  He  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Saviour's,  and  the  comedians  paid  the 
last  sad  duty  to  his  name,  by  attending  him  to  the  grave.  No  stone  or  inscription  of  any 
kind  marked  his  resting-place  ;  but,  on  the  authority  of  Sir  Aston  Cockayne,  one  of  Mas- 
singer's  most  intimate  acquaintance  and  his  warm  admirer,  he  was  buried  in  the  grave  of 
his  brother  dramatist  Fletcher.  His  death  is  thus  entered  in  the  parish  register : — '  March 
20,  1639-40,  buried  Philip  Massinger,  a  stranger.'  This  entry  has  been  pathetically  com- 
mented on  by  GifTord  and  others  ;  but  Mr.  Collier  has  shown  that  the  word  '  stranger '  was 
applied  to  every  person  who  was  buried  in  a  parish  to  which  he  did  not  belong. 

Massinger's  best  known  plays  are  The  Virgin  Martyr  (printed  1622) ;  The  Duhe  of  Milan 
(1623) ;  The  Bondman  (acted  1622,  printed  1624) ;  The  Fatal  Dowry  (1632) ;  The  City 
Madam  (acted  1632) ;  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts  (1633). 

The  chief  merits  of  Massinger's  plays  are  their  unusual  earnestness  and  religiousness  of 
tone,  the  power  of  deep  reflection,  and  of  depicting  with  a  master  hand  the  tenderer  human 
emotions  which  they  display,  and  the  richness,  beauty,  music,  and  often  stateliness  of  their 
language.  His  dramas  display  far  more  care  and  elaboration  than  those  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  on  at  least  an  equal  level  \vith  wliom  we  are  inclined  to  place  him.  As  we  esteem 
Massinger  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  worthy  of  our  dramatists,  we  shall  take  the  liberty 
of  appending  a  somewhat  minute  list  of  the  qualities  displayed  in  his  works,  taken  from  the 
volume  of  the  Cabinet  Cyclopcedia  on  the  British  Dramatists : — '  1.  His  style  is  natural,  yet 
elegant ;  it  is  easy,  clear,  flowing,  and  unailected.  Its  great  beauty,  indeed,  is  perspicuity  ; 
he  does  not  rise  into  bombast ;  but  he  does  sometimes  descend  lower  than  he  ought.  2.  If 
Ms  plots  are  sometimes  intricate,  they  are  always  connected ;  circumstances  apparently  of 
trifling  import,  are  made  the  hinges  of  important  events.  3.  And  he  observes  the  unities 
more  than  the  writers  of  his  age,  Ben  Jonson  and  one  or  two  more  excepted.  Of  these, 
unity  of  action  is  always  essential.  He  has  rarely  under -plots  ;  and  when  he  has,  they  are 
so  skilfully  allied  with  the  pervading  one,  as  not  to  afi'ect  the  simplicity  and  clearness  of  the 
action.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  has  too  much  incident ;  and  this  hurries  the  piece  so  much 
that  we  have  not  leisure  enough  to  dwell  on  the  delineation  of  character.    4.  Of  his  learning, 


PHILIP  MASSINGER.  3S5 


we  can  only  say  that  it  was  respectable.  He  has  many  classical  allusions,  but  these  he 
sometimes  applies  with  little  judgment.  They  are  proper  enough  in  the  mouth  of  Dorothea, 
the  Virgin-Martyr,  when  she  wishes  to  convict  her  pagan  antagonists  of  folly  in  their 
monstrous  creed  ;  but  they  are  sadly  misplaced  in  the  mouths  of  women  and  servants.  He 
seems  to  have  read  the  early  fathers,  or  at  least  so  much  of  ecclesiastical  history  as  to  be 
conversant  with  their  spirit.  Nor  was  he  ignorant  of  general  history.  But  he  was  far  more 
conversant  with  the  traditionary  lore  of  the  middle  ages.  He  had  read  the  romances  of 
France  and  Italy  with  great  attention.  His  jjlots  are  often  founded  on  them.  5.  Of  his 
morals  we  say,  as  we  have  already  said,  that  though  he  has  many  indecent  expressions, 
many  allusions  still  more  so,  he  is  generally  ready  to  visit  guilt  with  retribution.  This  is 
one  of  his  distinguishing  characteristics.  Let  us  not,  however,  forget  to  condemn  him  for 
the  obscenity  of  some  among  his  dialogues.  He  had,  indeed,  no  Kking  to  it ;  he  writes  as 
if  he  were  undergoing  a  painful  necessity  ;  as  if  he  felt  that,  if  he  would  have  his  dramas 
popular,  he  must  sacrifice  to  the  mob.  For  tliis  reason,  there  is,  we  are  glad  to  perceive, 
something  very  lifeless  in  such  descriptions :  they  have  no  charm,  they  can  have  none,  for 
the  most  prurient  mind.  He  has  not  laboured  to  render  vice  attractive,  and  therefore  he 
has  not  succeeded.  In  this,  he  is  unlike  most  of  his  contemporaries.  Beaumont,  the  son  of 
a  judge,  Fletcher,  the  son  of  a  bishop,  were  far  more  licentious.  6.  His  characters  are 
delineated,  not,  indeed,  with  the  master  hand  of  Jonson,  but  with  considerable  felicity. 
They  are,  however,  more  true  to  nature  than  those  of  his  celebrated  contemporary.  He 
drew  more  from  history  or  from  real  life  ;  and  he  has,  consequently,  exhibited  portraits,  less 
striking  indeed,  but  far  more  just.  7.  In  poetic  fancy  he  is  not  equal  to  Beaumont,  or 
Fletcher,  or  Ford  ;  but  he  is  superior  to  Ben  Jonson.  He  writes  with  too  much  ease  to  be 
studious  about  words  ;  and  he  seldom  allows  a  metaphor  to  carry  him  beyond  the  bounds  of 
sobriety.  8.  Of  suhllmity  he  has  little.  He  did  not,  however,  aim  at  it.  9.  I^for  can  we  say 
that  he  has  great  power  over  the  passions.  He  inspires  pity,  indeed,  but  seldom  terror  ;  and 
he  does  not  draw  tears.  Still  he  rivets  the  attention,  both  by  the  striking  nature  of  his 
incidents,  and  by  the  animation  of  his  dialogue.  10.  Of  wit  he  has  absolutely  none.  Hence 
he  was  unfitted  for  comedy.  On  the  whole,  we  may  say  of  him,  with  Dr.  Ireland,  that  "  he 
does  not  soar  to  the  heights  of  fancy :  he  dwells  among  men,  and  describes  their  business 
and  their  passions  with  judgment,  feeling,  and  discrimination.  He  has  a  justness  of 
principle  which  is  admirably  fitted  to  the  best  interests  of  human  life. "  ' 

We  have  selected,  as  giving  a  fair  idea  of  Massinger's  powers,  The  Vircjin-Martyr,  The 
Duke  of  Milan,  and  A  Neio  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  the  last  being,  even  at  the  present  day, 
sometimes  seen  upon  the  stage.] 


'I  B 


386 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


THE    VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

BY     PHILIP     MASSINGEP.. 

London.     1622. 


^ramatis  ^jersnittE. 


King  of  Pontus. 

King  of  Epire. 

King  of  Macedon. 

Sapritius,  Governor  of  Csssarea. 

Theophilus,   a   zealous   Persecutor   of  the 

Christians. 
Sempronius,  Captain  of  SApeitius'  Guards. 
Antoninus,  Son  to  Sapeitius. 
Macrinus,  Friend  to  Antoninus. 
Haepax,  an  evil  Spirit  folloioing  Theophilus 

in  the  shajie  oj  a  Secretary. 
Angelo,  a  good  Spirit,  serving  Doeothea  in 

the  habit  of  a  Page. 


HiECius,  a  Whoremaster,\  Servants  o/'Dobo- 

Spungius,  a  Drunkard,  J  thea. 

julianus,  ■ 

Geta, 

Priest  of  Jupiter. 

British  Slave. 


'  >•    Servants  of  Theophilus. 


Aetejiia,  Daughter  to  Dioclesian. 
Christeta,}  Daughters  to  Theophilus. 
Dorothea,  the  Virgin-Martte. 


Officers  and  Executioners. 


S  CENE —  Cxsarea. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

The  Governor''s  Palace. 

Enter  Theophilus  and  Haepax. 

Theoph.  Come  to  Csesarea  to-night ! 

Harp.  Most  true,  su". 

Theoph.  The  emperor  in  person  ! 

Harp.  Do  I  live  ? 

Theoph.  'Tis  wondrous  strange!     The  marches 
of  great  princes. 
Like  to  the  motions  of  prodigious  meteors, 
Are  step  by  step  ohserv'd;  and  loud-tongued 

Fame 
The  harbinger  to  prepare  their  entertainment: 
And,  were  it  possible  so  great  an  army, 
Though  cover'd  with  the  night,  could  be  so  near, 
The  governor  cannot  be  so  unfriended 
Among  the  many  that  attend  his  x^erson, 
But,  by  some  secret  means,  he  should  have  notice 
Of  Caesar's  purpose  ; — in  this,  then,  excuse  me, 
If  r  appear  incredulous. 

Harp.  At  your  i^leasure. 

Theoph.  Yet,  when  I  call  to  mind  you  never 
fail'd  me 
In  things  more  difficult,  but  have  discover'd 
Deeds  that  were  done  thousand  leagues  distant 

from  me, 
When  neither  woods,  nor  caves,  nor  secret  vaults, 
No,  nor  the  Power  they  serve,  could  keep  these 

Christians 
Or  from  my  reach  or  punishment,  but  thy  magic 
Still  laid  them  open ;  I  begin  again 
To  be  as  confident  as  heretofore. 
It  is  not  possible  thy  powerful  art 
Should  meet  a  check,  or  fail. 

Enter  the  Priest  of  Jupiter,  hearing  an  Image,  and 
followed  ly  Calista  and  Cheisteta. 

Harp.  Look  on  the  Vestals, 
The  holy  pledges  that  the  gods  have  given  you, 
Your  chaste,  fair  daughters.    Were't  not  to  up- 
braid 


A  sei-vice  to  a  master  not  unthankful, 

I  could  say  these,  in  spite  of  your  prevention. 

Seduced  by  an  imagined  faith,  not  reason, 

(Which  is  the  strength  of  nature),  quite  forsaking 

The  Gentile  gods,  had  yielded  up  themselves 

To  this  new-found  religion.     This  I  cross'd, 

Discover'd  their  intents,  taught  you  to  use. 

With  gentle  words  and  mild  persuasions, 

The  power  and  the  authority  of  a  father. 

Set   off  with  cruel   threats  ;    and  so  reclaim'd 

them  : 
And,  whereas  they  with  torment  should  have 

died, 
(Hell's  furies  to  me,  had  they  undergone  it !) 

[Aside. 
They  are  now  votaries  in  great  Jupiter's  temple, 
And,  by  his  priest  instructed,  grown  familiar 
With  all  the  mysteries,  nay,  the  most  abstruse 

ones, 
Belonging  to  his  deity. 

Theoph.  'Twas  a  benefit, 
For  which  I  ever  owe  you. — Hail,  Jove's  flamen ! 
Have  these  my  daughters  reconciled  themselves, 
Abandoning  for  ever  the  Christian  way. 
To  your  opinion  ? 

Priest.  And  are  constant  in  it. 
They  teach  their  teachers  with  their  depth  of 

judgment, 
And  are  with  arguments  able  to  convert 
The  enemies  to  our  gods,  and  answer  all 
They  can  object  against  us. 

Theoph.  My  dear  daughters ! 

Cal.  We  dare  dispute  against  this  new-sprung 
sect. 
In  private  or  in  public. 

Harp.  My  best  lady, 
Persever  in  it. 

Chris.  And  what  we  maintain, 
We  will  seal  with  our  bloods. 

Harp.  Brave  resolution ! 
I  e'en  grow  fat  to  see  my  labours  prosper. 

Theoph.  I  young  again.    To  your  devotions. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


3S7 


Sai'p.  Do — 
My  prayers  be  present  with  you. 

l^Exeunt  Priest,  Oal.  and  Cupas. 

Tlieoph.  0  my  Harpax ! 
Thou  engine  of  my  wishes,  thou  that  steel'st 
My  bloody  resolutions,  thou  that  arm'st 
My  eyes  'gainst  womanish  tears  and  soft  compas- 
sion, 
Instructing  me,  without  a  sigh,  to  look  on 
Babes  torn  bj'  violence  from  their  mothei's'  breasts 
To  feed  the  fire,  and  with  them  make  one  flame  ; 
Old  men,  as  beasts,  in  beasts'  skins  torn  by  dogs ; 
Virgins  and  matrons  tire  the  executioners  ; 
Yet  I,  unsatisfied,  think  their  torments  easy — 

Harp.  And  in  that,  just,  not  cruel. 

Theopli.  Were  all  sceptres 
That  grace  the  hands  of  kings,*made  into  one, 
And  offer'd  me,  all  crowns  laid  at  my  feet, 
I  would  contemn  them  all, — thus  spit  at  them  ; 
So  I  to  all  j)0sterities  might  be  call'd 
The  strongest  champion  of  the  Pagan  gods, 
And  rooter  out  of  Christians. 

Harp.  Oh,  mine  own, 
Mine  own  dear  lord !  to  further  this  great  work, 
I  ever  live  thy  slave. 

Enter  Sapritius  and  SempeonIus. 

Theoph.  No  more. — The  governor. 

Sap.  Keep  the  ports  close,  and  let  the  guards 
be  doubled ; 
Disarm  the  Christians ;  call  it  death  in  any 
To  wear  a  sword,  or  in  his  house  to  have  one. 

Semp.  I  shall  be  careful,  sir. 

Sap.  'Twill  well  become  you. 
Such  as  refuse  to  offer  sacrifice 
To  any  of  our  gods,  put  to  the  torture. 
Grub  up  this  growing  mischief  by  the  roots ; 
And  know,  when  we  are  merciful  to  them, 
We  to  ourselves  are  cruel. 

Semp.  Ton  pour  oil 
On  fire  that  burns  already  at  the  height : 
I  know  the  emperor's  edict,  and  my  charge, 
And  they  shall  find  no  favour. 

Theoph.  My  good  lord, 
This  care  is  timely  for  the  entertainment 
Of  our  great  master,  who  this  night  in  person 
Comes  here  to  thank  you. 

Sap.  Who  !  the  emperor  ? 

Earp.  To  clear  your  doubts,  he  doth  return  in 
triumph. 
Kings  lackeying  ^  by  his  triumphant  chariot  ; 
And  in  this  glorious  victory,  my  lord, 
You  have  an  ample  share :  for  know,  your  son, 
The  ne'er  enough  commended  Antoninus, 
So  well  hath  flesh'd  his  maiden  sword,  and  dyed 
His  Snowy  plumes  so  deep  in  enemies'  blood, 
That,  besides  public  grace  beyond  his  hopes, 
There  are  rewards  propounded. 

Sap.  I  would  know 
No  mean  in  thine,  could  this  be  true. 

Harp.  My  head 
Answer  the  forfeit. 

Sap.  Of  his  victory 
There  was  some  rumour :  but  it  was  assured, 
The  army  pass'd  a  full  day's  journey  higher, 
Into  the  countiy. 

Harp.  It  was  so  determined ; 
But,  for  the  further  honour  of  your  son, 
And  to  observe  the  government  of  the  city. 
And  with  what  rigour,  or  remiss  indulgence, 
The  Christians  are  pursued,  he  makes  his  stay 
here :  [Trumpets. 

For  proof,  his  trumpets  speak  his  near  arrival. 


1  iaciej/jnjr— running  liy  the  side  of  it  like  lackeys.- 

GlFFOKD. 


Sap.  Haste,  good   Sempronius,   draw  up  our 
guards. 
And  with  all  ceremonious  pomp  receive 
The  conquering  army.     Let  our  garrison  speak 
Their  welcome  in  loud  shouts,  the  city  show 
Her  state  and  wealth. 

Semp.  I'm  gone.  [Exit. 

Sap.  Oh,  I  am  ravish'd 
With  this  great  honour!  cherish,  good  Theophilus, 
This  knowing  scholar.      Send   [for]   your  fair 

daughters ; 
I  will  present  them  to  the  emperor. 
And  in  their  sweet  conversion,  as  a  mirror, 
Express  your  zeal  and  duty. 

Theoph.  Fetch  them,  good  Harpax. 

[Exit  Harpax. 

Enter  Sejipronius,  at  the  head  of  the  guard, 
soldiers  leading  three  Kings  hound ;  Antoninus 
and  Macrinus  bearing  the  Emperor's  eagles; 
Dioclesian  with  a  gilt  laurel  on  his  head,  lead- 
ing in  Artejiia  ;  Sapritius  kisses  the  Empe- 
ror's hand,  then  embraces  his  Son  ;  Harpax 
brings  in  Calista  and  Christeta.    Loud  shouts. 

Diode.  So  :  at  all  parts  I  find  Csesarea 
Completely  govern'd  :  the  licentious  soldier 
Confined  in  modest  limits,  and  the  people 
Taught  to  obey,  and  not  compell'd  with  rigour : 
The  ancient  Roman  discipline  revived, 
Which  raised  Eome  to  her  greatness,  and  pro- 

claim'd  her 
The  glorious  mistress  of  the  conquer'd  world ; 
But,  above  all,  the  service  of  the  gods 
So  zealousl}^  observed,  that,  good  Sapritius, 
In  words  to  thank  you  for  your  care  and  duty, 
Were  much  unworthy  Dioclesian's  honour. 
Or  his  magnificence  to  his  loyal  servants. — 
But  I  shall  find  a  time  with  noble  titles 
To  recompense  your  merits. 

Sap.  Mightiest  Caesar, 
Whose  power  upon  this  globe  of  earth  is  equal 
To  Jove's  in  heaven  ;  whose  victorious  triumphs 
On  proud  rebellious  kings  that  stir  against  it, 
Are  perfect  figures  of  his  immortal  trophies 
Won  in  the   Giants'  war ;    whose   conquering 

sword. 
Guided  by  his  strong  arm,  as  deadly  kills 
As  did  his  thunder !  all  that  I  have  done, 
Or,  if  my  strength  were  centupled,  could  do. 
Comes  short  of  what  my  loyalty  must  challenge. 
But  if  in  anything  I  have  deserved 
Great  Cassar's  smile,  'tis  in  my  humble  care 
Still  to  isreserve  the  honour  of  those  gods. 
That  make  him  what  he  is  :  my  zeal  to  them 
I  ever  have  express'd  in  my  fell  hate 
Against  the  Christian  sect,  that  "t^dth  one  blow 
(Ascribing  all  things  to  an  unknown  Power) 
Would  strike  down  all  their  temples,  and  allows 

them 
Nor  sacrifice  nor  altars. 
Diode.  Thou,  in  this, 
Walk'st  hand  in  hand  with  me :  my  will  and 

power 
Shall  not  alone  confirm,  but  honour  all 
That  are  in  this  most  forward. 

Sap.  Sacred  Csesar, 
If  your  imxDerial  majesty  stand  pleased 
To  shower  j'our  favours  ujjon  such  as  are 
The  boldest  champions  of  our  religion  ; 
Look  on  this  reverend  man  [points  to  Theophi- 
lus], to  whom  the  power 
Of  searching  out,  and  punishing  such  delinquents, 
Was  by  your  choice  committed :  and,  for  proof, 
He  hath  deserv'd  the  grace  imposed  ugon  him, 
And  with  a  fair  and  even  hand  proceeded, 
Partial  to  none,  not  to  himself,  or  those 


388 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Of  equal  nearness  to  himself;  behold 
This  pair  of  virgins. 

Diode.  What  are  these  ? 

Sap.  His  daughters. 

Artem.  Now  by  your  sacred  fortune,  they  are 
fair  ones, 
Exceeding  fair  ones  :  -would  'twere  in  my  power 
To  make  them  mine ! 

Theoph.  They  are  the  gods',  great  lady, 
They  were  most  hapj^y  in  your  service  else : 
On  these,  when  they  fell  from  their  father's  faith, 
I  used  a  judge's  power,  entreaties  failing 
(They  being  seduced)  to  win  them  to  adore 
The  holy  Powers  we  worship ;  I  put  on 
The  scarlet  robe  of  bold  authority. 
And,  as  they  had  been  strangers  to  my  blood, 
Presented  them  in  the  most  horrid  form, 
All  kind  of  tortm-es ;  part  of  which  they  sufier'd 
With  Eoman  constancy. 

Artem.  And  could  you  endure. 
Being  a  father,  to  behold  their  limbs 
Extended  on  the  rack  ? 

Theoph.  I  did  ;  but  must 
Confess  there  was  a  strange  contention  in  me, 
Between  the  impartial  office  of  a  judge, 
And  pity  of  a  father ;  to  help  justice, 
Religion  stept  in,  under  which  odds 
Compassion  fell : — yet  still  I  was  a  father. 
For  e'en  then,  when  the  flinty  hangman's  whips 
Were  worn  with  stripes  spent  on  their  tender 

limbs, 
I  kneel'd,  and  wept,  and  begg'd  them,  though 

,  they  would 
Be  cruel  to  themselves,  they  would  take  pity 
On  my  grey  hairs ;  now  note  a  sudden  change. 
Which  I  with  joy  remember ;  those  whom  tor- 
ture 
Nor  fear  of  death  could  terrify,  were  o'ercome 
By  seeing  of  my  sufferings  ;  and  so  won, 
Eeturning  to  the  faith  that  they  were  born  in, 
I  gave  them  to  the  gods.     And  be  assured, 
I  that  used  justice  with  a  rigorous  hand 
Upon  such  beauteous  virgins,  and  mine  own. 
Will  use  no  favour,  where  the  cause  commands 

me, 
To  any  other ;  but,  as  rocks,  be  deaf 
To  all  entreaties. 

Diode.  Thou  deserv'st  thy  place  ; 
Still  hold  it,  and  with  honour.      Things  thus 

order'd 
Touching  the  gods,  'tis  lawful  to  descend 
To  human  cares,  and  exercise  that  power 
Heaven  has  conferr'd   upon  me  ; — which  that 

you, 

Eebels  and  traitors  to  the  power  of  Eome, 
Should  not  with  all  extremities  undergo. 
What  can  you  urge  to  qualify  your  crimes, 
Or  mitigate  my  anger  ? 

K.  of  Epire.  We  are  now 
Slaves  to  thy  power,  that  yesterday  were  kings. 
And  had  command  o'er  others  ;  we  confess 
Our  grandsires  paid  yours  tribute,  yet  left  us. 
As  their  forefathers  had,  desire  of  freedom. 
And,  if  you  Eomans  hold  it  glorious  honour 
Not  only  to  defend  what  is  your  own, 
But  to  enlarge  your  empire  (though  our  fortune 
Denies  that  happiness),  who  can  accuse 
The  famish'd  mouth,  if  it  attempt  to  feed  ? 
Or  such,  whose  fetters  eat  into  their  freedoms, 
If  they  desire  to  shake  them  off  ? 

K.  ofPontus.  We  stand 
The  last  examples,  to  prove  how  uncertain 
All  human  happiness  is  ;  and  are  prepared 
To  endure  the  worst. 

K.   of  31acedon.    That  spoke,  which  now  is 
highest 
In  Fortune's  wheel,  must,  when  she  turns  it  next, 


Decline  as  low  as  we  are.     This  consider'd. 
Taught  the  Egyptian  Hercules,  Sesostris, 
That  had  his  chariot  drawn  by  captive  kings. 
To  free  them  from  that  slavery  ; — but  to  lu^pe 
Such  mercy  from  a  Eoman,  were  mere  mudness: 
We  are  familiar  with  what  cruelty 
Eome,  since  her  infant  greatness,  ever  used 
Such  as  she  triumph'd  over  ;  age  nor  sex 
Exempted  from  her  tyranny  ;  sceptred  princes 
Kept  in  her  common  dungeons,  and  their  children, 
In  scorn  train'd  up  in  base  mechanic  arts. 
For  public  bondmen.     In  the  catalogue 
Of  those  unfortunate  men,  we  expect  to  have 
Our  names  remember'd. 

Diode.  In  all  growing  empires 
Even  cruelty  is  useful :  some  must  suffer. 
And  be  set  up  examples  to  strike  terror 
In  others,  though  far  off ;  but,  when  a  state 
Is  raised  to  her  perfection,  and  her  bases 
Too  firm  to  shrink,  or  yield,  we  may  use  mercy, 
And  do't  with  safety:  but  to  whom?  not  cowards, 
Or  such  whose  baseness  shames  the  conqiieror. 
And  robs  him  of  his  victory,  as  weak  Perseus 
Did  great  ^milius.     Know,  therefore,  kings 
Of  Epire,  Pontus,  and  of  Macedon, 
That  I  with  courtesy  can  use  my  prisoners. 
As  well  as  make  them  mine  by  force,  provided 
That  they  are  noble  enemies :  such  I  found  yun. 
Before  I  made  you  mine ;  and,  since  you  were 

so, 
Tou  have  not  lost  the  courages  of  princes. 
Although  the  fortune.     Had  you   borne  your- 
selves   - 
Dejectedly,  and  base,  no  slavery 
Had  been  too  easy  for  you ;  but  such  is 
The  power  of  noble  valour,  that  we  love  it 
Even  in  our  enemies,  and  taken  with  it. 
Desire  to  make  them  friends,  as  I  will  3'ou. 

K.  of  Epire.  Mock  us  not,  Cjesar. 

Diode.  By  the  gods,  I  do  not. 
Unloose  their  bonds : — I  now  as  friends  embrace 

you. 
Give  them  their  crowns  again. 

K.  of  Pontus.  We  are  twice  o'ercome  : 
By  courage,  and  by  courtesy. 

K.  of  Macedon.  But  this  latter 
Shall  teach  us  to  live  over  faithful  vassals 
To  Dioclesian,  and  the  power  of  Eome. 

K.  of  Epire.  All  kingdoms  fall  before  her ! 

K.  ofPontus.  And  all  kings 
Contend  to  honour  Ctesar ! 

Diode.  I  believe 
Your  tongues  are  the  true  trumpets  of    your 

hearts. 
And  in  it  I  most  happy.     Queen  of  fate. 
Imperious  Fortune  !  mix  some  light  disaster 
With  my  so  many  joys,  to  season  them. 
And  give  them  sweeter  relish :  I'm  girt  round 
AVith  true  felicity  ;  faithful  subjects  here. 
Here  bold    commanders,  here  with   new-mada 

friends : 
But,  what's  the  crown  of  all,  in  thee,  Artemia, 
My  only  child,  whose  love  to  me  and  duty. 
Strive  to  exceed  each  other! 

Artem.  I  make  payment 
But  of  a  debt,  which  I  stand  bound  to  tender 
As  a  daughter  and  a  subject. 

Diode.  Which  requires  yet 
A  retribution  from  me,  Artemia, 
Tied  by  a  father's  care,  how  to  bestow 
A  jewel,  of  all  things  to  me  most  precious  : 
Nor  will  I  therefore  longer  keep  thee  from 
The  chief  joys  of  creation,  marriage  rites  ; 
Which  that  thou  may'st  with  greater  pleasures 

taste  of, 
Thou  shalt  not  like  with  mine  eyes,  but  thine 
own. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


389 


Among  these  kings,  forgetting  they  were  cap- 
tives ; 
Or  those,  remembering  not  they  are  my  subjects. 
Make  choice  of  any.    By  Jove's  dreadful  thunder, 
My  will  shall  rank  with  thine. 

Ariem.  It  is  a  bounty 
The  daughters  of    great  princes  seldom  meet 

with ; 
For  they,  to  make  up  breaches  in  the  state, 
Or  for  some  other  public  ends,  aro  forced 
To  match  where  they  affect  not.     May  my  life 
Deserve  this  favour ! 

Diode.  Speak  ;  I  long  to  know 
The  man  thou  wilt  make  happy. 

A7-tein.  If  that  titles 
Or  the  adored  name  of  Queen  could  take  rae, 
Here  would  I  fix  mine  eyes,  and  look  no  further; 
But  these  are  baits  to  take  a  mean-born  lady. 
Not  her,  that  boldly  may  call  Caesar  father  : 
In  that  I  can  bring  honour  unto  any. 
But  from  no  king  that  lives  receive  addition  : 
To  raise  desert  and  virtue  by  my  fortune, 
Though  in  a  low  estate,  were  greater  glory, 
Than  to  mil  greatness  with  a  prince  that  owes 
No  worth  but  that  name  only. 

Diode.  I  commend  thee ; 
'Tis  like  myself. 

Artem.  If,  then,  of  men  beneath  me, 
My  choice  is  to  be  made,  where  shall  I  seek. 
But  among  those  that  best  deserve  from  you  ? 
That  have  served  you  most  faithfully;  that  in 

dangers 
Have  stood  next  to  you ;  that  have  interposed 
Their  breasts  as  shields  of  proof,  to   dull  the 

swords 
Aim'd  at  your  bosom  ;    that  have  spent  their 

blood 
To  crown  your  brows  with  laurel .' 

Macr.  Cytherea, 
Great  Queen  of  Love,  be  now  propitious  to  me  ! 
Harp,  [to  Sap."|  Now  mark  what  I  foretold. 
Anton.  Her  eye's  on  me. 
Fair  Venus'  son,  draw  forth  a  leaden  dart. 
And,  that  she  may  hate  me,  transfix  her  with  it ; 
Or,  if  thou  needs  wilt  use  a  golden  one, 
Shoot  it  in  the  behalf  of  any  other: 
Thou  know'st  I  am  thy  votary  elsewhere. 

[Aside. 
Artem.  [advances  to  Antox.]  Sir. 
Theoph.  How  he  blushes  ! 
Sap.  Welcome,  fool,  thy  fortune. 
Stand  like  a  block  when  such  an  angel  courts 
thee! 
Artem.  I  am  no  object  to  divert  your  eye 
From  the  beholding. 

Anton.  Eather  a  bright  sun, 
Too  glorious  for  him  to  gaze  upon. 
That  took  not  first  flight  from  the  eagle's  aerie. 
As  I  look  on  the  temples,  or  the  gods. 
And  with  that  reverence,  lady,  I  behold  you, 
And  shall  do  ever. 

Artem.  And  it  will  become  you, 
While  thus  we  stand  at  distance ;  but  if  love. 
Love  born  out  of  the  assurance  of  your  virtues, 
Teach  me  to  stoop  so  low — 

Anton.  Oh,  rather  take 
A  higher  flight. 

Artem.  Why,  fear  you  to  be  raised  ? 
Say  I  put  off  the  dreadful  awe  that  waits 
On  majesty,  or  with  you  share  my  beams, 
Nay,   make  you  to  outshine  me ;    change  the 

name 
Of  Subject  into  Lord,  rob  you  of  service 
That's  due  from  you  to  me  ;  and  in  me  make  it 
Duty  to  honour  you  ;  would  you  refuse  me  ? 
Anton.  Kef  use  you,  madam!  such  a  worm  as  I 
am. 


Kefuse  what  kings  upon  their  knees  would  sue 

for! 
Call  it,  great  lady,  by  another  name  ; 
An  humble  modesty,  that  would  not  match 
A  molehill  with  Olympus. 
Artem.  He  that's  famous 
For  honourable  actions  in  the  war, 
As  you  are,  Antoninus,  a  proved  soldier, 
Is  fellow  to  a  king. 

Anton.  If  you  love  valour, 
As  'tis  a  kingly  virtue,  seek  it  out," 
And  cherish  it  in  a  king;  there  it  shines  brightest, 
And  yields  the  bravest  lustre.    Look  on  Epire, 
A  prince  in  whom  it  is  incorporate  : 
And  let  it  not  disgrace  him  that  he  was 
O'ercome  by  Caesar ;  it  was  victory, 
To  stand  so  long  against  him:   had  you  seen 

him, 
How  in  one  bloody  scene  he  did  discharge 
The  parts  of  a  commander  and  a  soldier. 
Wise  in  direction,  bold  in  execution  ; 
You  would  have  said.  Great  Csesar's  self  ex- 
cepted, 
The  world  yields  not  his  equal. 

Artem.  Yet  I  have  heard. 
Encountering  him  alone  in  the  head  of  his  troop, 
You  took  him  prisouei-. 

K.  of  Epire.  'Tis  a  truth,  great  princess; 
I'll  not  detract  from  valoui\ 

Anton.  'Twas  mere  fortune; 
Courage  had  no  hand  in  it. 

Theoph.  Did  ever  man 
Strive  so  against  his  own  good  ? 

Sap.  Spiritless  villain  ! 
How  I  am  tortured  !     By  the  immortal  gods, 
I  now  could  kill  him. 

Diode.  Hold,  Sapiitius,  hold. 
On  our  displeasure  hold ! 

Harp.  Why,  this  would  make 
A  father  mad  ;  'tis  not  to  be  endured  ; 
Your  honour's  tainted  in't. 

Saj).  By  heaven,  it  is  : 
I  shall  think  of  it. 
Harp.  'Tis  not  to  be  forgotten. 
Artem.  Nay,  kneel  not,  sir,  I  am  no  ravisher, 
Nor  so  far  gone  in  fond  affection  to  you. 
But  that  I  can  retire,  my  honour  safe  :— 
Yet  say,  hereafter,  that  thou  hast  neglected 
What,  but  seen  in  possession  of  another, 
Will  make  thee  mad  with  envy. 

Anton.  In  her  looks 
Revenge  is  written. 

Mac.  As  you  love  your  life, 
Study  to  appease  her. 
Anton.  Gracious  madam,  hear  me. 
Artem,.  And  be  again  refused  ? 
Anton.  The  tender  of 
My  life,  my  service,  or,  since  you  vouchsafe  it. 
My  love,  my  heart,  my  all ;  and  pardon  me. 
Pardon,  dread  princess,  that  I  made  some  scruple 
To  leave  a  valley  of  security. 
To  mount  up  to  the  hill  of  majesty. 
On  which,  the  nearer  Jove,  the  nearer  lightning. 
What  knew  I,  but  your  grace  made  trial  of  me  ? 
Durst  I  presume  to  embrace,  where  but  to  touch 
With  an  unmanner'd  hand,  was  death?  The  fox, 
When  he  saw  first  the  forest's  king,  the  lion. 
Was  almost  dead  with  fear ;  the  second  view 
Only  a  little  daunted  him  ;  the  third. 
He  durst  salute  him  boldly :  pray  you  apply  this  ; 
And  you  shall  find  a  little  time  will  teach  me 
To  look  with  more  familiar  eyes  upon  you, 
Than  duty  yet  allows  me. 
Sap.  Well  excused. 
Artem.  You  may  redeem  all  yet. 
Diode.  And  that  he  may 
Have  means  and  opportunity  to  do  so, 


590 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Artemia,  I  leave  you  my  substitute 
In  fair  Ca3sarea. 

Sap.  And  here,  as  yourself, 
We  will  obey  and  serve  her. 

Diode.  Antoninus, 
So  you  prove  hers,  I  wish  no  other  heir ; 
Think  on't: — be  careful  of  your  charge,  Theo- 

philus ; 
Sapritius,  be  you  my  daughter's  guardian. 
Your  company  I  wish,  confederate  princes, 
In  our  Dalmatian  wars  ;  which  finished 
"With  victory,  I  hope,  and  JIaximinus, 
Our  brother  and  coi)artner  in  the  empire, 
At  my  request  won  to  confirm  as  much, 
The  kingdoms  I  took  from  you  well  restore, 
And  make  you  greater  than  you  were  before. 

\_Exeimt  all  hut  Antoninus  and  Macrinus. 
Anton.  Oh,  I  am  lost  forever!  lost,  Macrinus! 
The  anchor  of  the  wretched,  hope,  forsakes  me, 
And  with  one  blast  of  Fortune  all  my  light 
Of  happiness  is  put  out. 

Mac.  You  are  like  to  those 
That  ax-e  ill  only  'cause  they  are  too  well ; 
That,  surfeiting  in  the  excess  of  blessings. 
Call  their  abundance  want.     What  could  you 

wish, 
That  is  not  fall'n  upon  you .'  honour,  greatness, 
Eespect,  wealth,  favour,  the  whole  world  for  a 

dower ; 
And  with  a  princess,  whose  excelling  form 
Exceeds  her  fortune. 

Anton.  Yet  poison  still  is  poison. 
Though  drunk  in  gold  ;  and  all  these  flattering 

glories 
To  me,  ready  to  starve,  a  painted  banquet 
And  no  essential  food.     When  I  am  scorch'd 
With  fire,  can  flames  in  any  other  quench  me  ? 
What  is  her  love  to  me,  greatness  or  empire, 
That  am  slave  to  another,  who  alone 
Can  give  me  ease  or  freedom  ? 

3Iac.  Sir,  you  point  at 
Your  dotage  on  *  the  scornful  Dorothea : 
Is  she,  though  fair,  the  same  day  to  be  named 
With  best  Artemia  ?     In  all  their  courses, 
Wise    men    propose    their    ends :    with    sweet 

Artemia, 
There  comes  along  pleasure,  security, 
Usher'd  by  all  that  in  this  life  is  precious : 
With  Dorothea  (though  her  birth  be  noble. 
The  daughter  to  a  senator  of  Eome, 
By  him  left  rich,  yet  with  a  private  wealth, 
And  far  inferior  to  yours)  arrives 
The  emperor's  frown,  which,  like  a  mortal  plague, 
Speaks  death  is  near  ;  the  princess'  heavy  scorn, 
Under  which  you  will  shrink ;  your  father's  fury, 
Which  to  resist  even  piety  forbids  : — 
And  but  remember  that  she  stands  suspected 
A  favourer  of  the  Christian  sect ;  she  brings 
Not  danger,  but  assured  destruction  with  her. 
This  truly  weigh'd,  one  smile  of  great  Artemia 
Is  to  be  cherish'd,  and  pi-eferr'd  before 
All  joys  in  Dorothea :  therefore  leave  her. 
Anton.  In  what  thou  think'st  thou  art  mdst 

wise,  thou  art 
Grossly  abused,  Macrinus,  and  most  foolish. 
For  any  man  to  match  above  his  rank. 
Is  but  to  sell  his  liberty.     With  Artemia 
I  stiU  mxist  live  a  servant ;  but  enjoying 
Divinest  Dorothea,  I  shall  rule, 
Rule  as  becomes  a  husband :  for  the  danger, 
Or  call  it  if  you  wiU  assured  destruction, 
I  slight  it  thus — If  then  thou  art  my  friend. 
As  I  dare  swear  thou  art,  and  wilt  not  take 
A  governor's  place  upon  thee,  be  my  helper. 


'  dotage  on — excessive  fondness  for. 


Mac.  You  know  I  dare  and  will  do  anything ; 
Put  me  unto  the  test. 

Anton.  Go  then,  Macrinus, 
To  Dorothea ;  tell  her  I  have  worn. 
In  all  the  battles  I  have  fought,  her  figure, 
Her  figure  in  my  heart,  which  like  a  deity 
Hath  still  protected  me.  Thou  canst  speak  well; 
And  of  thy  choicest  language  spare  a  little. 
To  make  her  understand  how  much  I  love  her, 
And  how  I  languish  for  her.     Bear  these  jewels. 
Sent  iu  the  way  of  sacrifice,  not  service. 
As  to  my  goddess  :  all  lets '  thrown  behind  me. 
Or  fears  that  may  deter  me,  say,  this  morning 
I  mean  to  visit  her  by  the  name  of  friendship : — 
No  words  to  contradict  this. 

Mac.  I  am  yours  : 
And,  if  my  travail  this  way  bo  ill  spent, 
Judge  not  my  readier  will  by  the  event. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 
A  Room  in  Dorothea's  House. 
Enter  Spungius  and  Hircius. 

Spun.  Turn  Christian  !  ,  Woixld  he  that  first 
tempted  me  to  have  my  shoes  walk  upon  Chris- 
tian soles,  had  turn'd  me  into  a  capon ;  for  I  am 
sm'e  now,  the  stones  of  all  my  pleasure,  in  this 
fleshlj'  life,  are  cut  off. 

Hir.  So  then,  if  any  coxcomb  has  a  galloping 
desire  to  ride,  here's  a  gelding,  if  he  can  but  sit 
him. 

Spun.  I  kick,  for  all  that,  like  a  horse ;— look 
else. 

Hir.  But  tbat  is  a  kickish  jade,  fellow  Spun- 
gius. Have  not  I  as  much  cause  to  complain  as 
thou  hast  ?  When  I  was  a  pagan,  thei-e  was  an 
infidel  punk  of  mine,  would  have  let  me  come 
upon  trust  for  my  curvetting.  A  pox  on  your 
Christian  cockatrices  !  they  cry,  like  poulterers' 
wives.  No  money,  no  coney. 

Spun.  Bacchus,  the  god  of  brew'd  wine  and 
sugar,  grand  patron  of  rob-pots,  upsy-freesy-  tip- 
plers, and  super-naculum^  takers;  this  Bacchus, 
who  is  head  warden  of  Vintners'  Hall,  ale-con- 
ner,  *  mayor  of  all  victualling-houses,  the  sole 
liquid  benefactor  to  bawdy-houses  ;  lanceprezade* 
to  red  noses,  and  invincible  adelantado®  over  the 
armado  of  pimpled,  deep-scarleted,  rubified,  and 
carbuncled  faces — 

Hir.  What  of  all  this? 

Spun.  This  boon  Bacchanalian  skinker,  did  I 
make  legs  to. 

Hir.  Scurvy  ones,  when  thou  wert  drunk. 

Spun.  There  is  no  danger  of  losing  a  man's 
ears  by  making  these  indentures ;  he  that  will 
not  now  and  then  be  Calabingo,  is  worse  than  a 
Calamoothe.  When  I  was  a  pagan,  and  kneeled 
to  this  Bacchus,  I  durst  out-drink  a  lord ;  but 
youi-  Christian  lords  out-bowl  me.  I  was  in  hope 
to  lead  a  sober  life  when  I  was  converted ;  but 
now,  amongst  the  Christians,  I  can  no  sooner 
stagger  out  of  one  ale-house,  but  I  reel  into  an- 


1  lets — hindrances. 

-  upsy-freesy,  or  vpsee  Freeze.  See  note  1,  p.  170, 
col.  2. 

<*  super-nacultim—a,  kind  of  mock-Latin  term,  in- 
tended to  mean  upon  the  nail. — Nares. 

*  ale-conner — an  ofificial  formerly  appointed  by  the 
London  courts  to  look  to  the  assize  and  goodness  of 
bread,  ale,  and  beer. — Nakes. 

*  lanceprezade — the  lowest  officer  of  foot. 
''  adelantado — commander. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


391 


other;  they  have  whole  streets  of  nothing  but 
drinking-rooms  and  drabbing-chambers  jumbled 
together. 

Bir.  Since  I  left  Priapus  to  follow  a  scui-vy 
lady,  what  with  her  praying  and  our  fasting,  if 
now  I  come  to  a  wench,  she  presently  handles  me 
as  if  I  were  a  clove,  and  cleaves  me  with  disdain, 
as  if  I  were  a  calf's  head. 

Spun.  I  see  no  remedy,  fellow  Hircius,  but 
that  thou  and  I  must  be  half  pagans  and  half 
Christians;  for  we  know  very  fools  that  are 
Christians. 

Hir.  Eight ;  the  quarters  of  Christians  are  good 
for  nothing  but  to  feed  crows. 

Spun.  True.  Christian  brokers,  thou  know'st,_ 
are  made  up  of  the  quarters  of  Christians ;  par- 
boil one  of  these  rogues,  and  he  is  not  meat  for 
a  dog.  No,  no ;  I  am  resolved  to  have  an  in- 
fidel's heart,  though  in  show  I  carry  a  Christian's 
face. 

Hir.  Thy  last  shall  serve  my  foot :  so  will  I. 

Spun.  Our  whimpering  lady  and  mistress  sent 
me  with  two  great  baskets  full  of  beef,  mutton, 
veal,  and  goose,  fellow  Hircius — 

Hir.  And  woodcock,  fellow  Spungius. 

Spun.  Upon  the  poor  lean  ass-fellow,  on  which 
I  ride,  to  all  the  almswomen :  what  think'st  thou 
I  have  done  with  all  this  good  cheer  ? 

Hir.  Eat  it;  or  be  choked  else. 

Spun.  Would  my  ass,  basket  and  all,  were  in 
thy  maw,  if  I  did !  No,  as  I  am  a  demi-pagan, 
I  sold  the  victuals,  and  coined  tho  money  into 
pottle  pots  of  wine. 

Hir.  Therein  thou  showed'st  thyself  a  perfect 
demi-Christian  too,  to  let  the  poor  beg,  starve, 
and  hang^or  die  of  the  pip.  Our  puling,  snotty- 
nose  lady  sent  me  out  likewise  with  a  purse  of 
money,  to  relieve  and  release  pi'isoners.  Did  I 
so,  think  you  ? 

Spun.  Would  thy  ribs  were  turned  into  grates 
of  iron  then. 

Hir.  As  I  am  a  total  pagan,  I  swore  they 
should  be  hanged  first :  for,  sirrah  SiDungius,  I 
cried,  a  pox  on  your  twopenny-wards  !  and  so  I 
took  scurvy  common  flesh  for  the  money. 

Spun.  And  wisely  done  ;  for  our  lady,  sending 
it  to  prisoners,  had  bestowed  it  out  upon  lousy 
knaves. 

Hir.  All  my  fear  is  of  that  pink-an-eye  jack- 
an-apes  boy,  her  page. 

Spun.  As  I  am  a  pagan  from  my  cod-piece 
downward,  that  white-faced  monkey  frights  me 
too.  I  stole  but  a  dirty  pudding,  last  day,  out  of 
an  almsbasket,  to  give  my  dog  when  he  was 
hungry,  and  the  peaking  chitty-face  page  hit  me 
in  the  teeth  with  it. 

Hir.  With  the  dirty  pudding !  so  he  did  me 
once  with  a  cow-turd,  which  in  knavery  I  would 
have  cmmb'd  into  one's  porridge,  who  was  half 
a  pagan  too.  The  smug  daudiprat  smells  us  out 
whatsoever  we  are  doing. 

Spun.  Does  he  ?  let  him  take  heed  I  prove  not 
his  back-friend.  I'll  make  him  curse  his  smelling 
what  I  do. 

Hir.  'Tis  my  lady  spoils  the  boy;  for  he  is 
ever  at  her  tail,  and  she  is  never  well  but  in  his 
company. 

Enter  Angelo  xoith  a  booh,  and  a  taper  ligMed; 
seeing  him,  they  counterfeit  devotion. 

Ang.  Oh !  now  your  hearts  make  ladders  of 

your  eyes, 
In  show  to  climb  to  heaven,  when  your  devotion 
Walks  upon   crutches.    Where   did  you  waste 

your  time, 
When  the  religious  man  was  on  his  knees, 
Speaking  the  heavenly  language  ? 


Spun.  Why,  fellow  Angelo,  we  were  speaking 
in  pedlar's  French,  I  hope. 

Hir.  We  have  not  been  idle,  take  it  upon  my 
word. 
Ang.  Have  you  the  baskets  emptied,  which 
your  lady 
Sent,  from  her  charitable  hands,  to  women 
That  dwell  upon  her  pity  ? 

Spun.  Emptied  them  ?  yes.  I'd  be  loth  to  have 
my  belly  so  empty :  yet,  I  am  sure,  I  munched 
not  one  bit  x>f  them  neither. 

Ang.  And  went  your  money  to  the  prisoners  ? 
Hir.  Went  ?  no.     I  carried  it,  and  with  these 
fingers  paid  it  away. 
Ang.  What  way  ?  the  devil's  way ;  tho  way  of 
sin; 
The  way  of  hot  damnation ;  way  of  lust  ? 
And  you,  to  wash  away  the  poor  man's  bread, 
In  bowls  of  drunkenness  ? 

Spun.  Drunkenness!      Tes,  yes,   I  use   to  be 
drunk.   Our  next  neighbour's  man,  called  Chris- 
topher, hath  often  seen  me  drunk,  hath  he  not  ? 
Hir.  Or  me  given  so  to  the  flesh.     My  cheeks 
speak  my  doings. 

Ang.  Avaunt,  ye  thieves  and  hollow  hypocrites! 
Your  hearts  to  mo  lie  open,  like  black  books, 
And  there  I  read  your  doings. 
Spun.  And  what  do  you  read  in  my  heart  ? 
Hir.  Or  in  mine .'  Come,  amiable  Angelo,  beat 
the  flint  of  your  brains. 

Spun.  And  let's  see  what  sparks  of  wit  fly  out 
to  kindle  your  cerebrum. 

Ang.  Your  names  even  brand  you ;    you  are 
Spungius  call'd. 
And,  like  a  spunge,  you  suck  up  lickerish  wines, 
Till  your  soul  reels  to  hell. 

Spun.  To  hell!  Can  any  drunkard's  legs  carry 
him  so  far  ? 

Ang.  For  blood  of  grapes  you  sold  the  widows' 
food. 
And,  starving  them,  'tis  murder ;  what's  this  but 

hell  ?— 
Hircius  ^  your  name,  and  goatish  is  your  nature  ; 
You  snatch  the  meat  out  of  the  prisoner's  mouth, 
To  fatten  harlots  :  is  not  this  hell  too  ? 
No  angel,  but  the  devil,  waits  on  you. 
Spun.  Shall  I  cut  his  throat  ? 
Hir.  No  ;  better  burn  him,  for  I  think  he  is  a 
witch  :  but  soothe,  soothe  him. 

Spun.  Fellow  Angelo,  true  it  is  that  falling 
into  the  company  of  wicked  he-Chi'istians,  for  my 
part — 

Hir.  And  she-ones,  for  mine, — we  have  them 
swim  in  shoals  hard  by — 

Spun.  We  must  confess,  I  took  too  much  out 
of  the  pot ;  and  he  of  t'other  hollow  commodity. 
Hir.  Yes,  indeed,  we  laid  Jill  on  both  of  us; 
we  cozen'd  the  poor ;  but  'tis  a  common  thing : 
many  a  one,  that  counts  himself  a  better  Chris- 
tian than  we  two,  has  done  it,  by  this  light ! 

Spun.  But  pray,  sweet  Angelo,  play  not  the 
tell-tale  to  my  lady ;  and,  if  you  take  us  creeping 
into  any  of  these  mouse-holes  of  sin  any  more, 
let  cats  flay  off  our  skins. 

Hir.  And  put  nothing  but  the  poison'd  tails  of 
rats  into  those  skins. 

Ang.  Will  you  dishonour  her  sweet  charity, 
Who  saved  you  from  the  tree  of  death  and  shame  ? 
Hir.  Would  I  were  hang'd,  rather  than  thus  be 
told  of  my  faults ! 

Spun.  She  took  us,  'tis  true,  from  the  gallows ; 
yet  I  hope  she  will  not  bar  yeoman  sprats  to  have 
their  swing. 


1  Hircius  in  Latin  means  a  he-goat. 


392 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Ang.  She  comes, — beware,  aud  mend. 

Hit.  Let's  break  his  neck,  and  bid  him  mend. 

Enter  Doeothea. 

Dor.  Have  you  my  messages  sent  to  the  poor, 
Deliver'd  with  good  hands,  not  robbing  them 
Of  any  jot  was  theirs.? 

Spun.  Eob  them,  lady !  I  hope  neither  my  fel- 
low nor  I  am  thieves. 

Hir.  Delivered  with  good  hands,  madam!  else 
let  me  never  lick  my  lingers  more  when  I  eat 
butter'd  fish. 

Dor.  Who  cheat  the  poor,  and  from  them  pluck 
their  alms, 
Pilfer  from  heaven  ;  and  there  are  thunderbolts. 
From  thence  to  beat  them  ever.     Do  not  lie ; 
Were  you  both  faithful,  true  distributors  ? 

Spun.  Lie,  madam !  what  grief  is  it  to  see  you 
turn  swaggerer,  aud  give  your  poor-minded  ras- 
cally servants  the  lie ! 

Dor.  I'm  glad  you  do  not ;  if  those  wretched 
people 
Tell  you  they  pine  for  want  of  anything, 
Whisper  but  to  mine  ear,  and  you  shall  furnish 
them. 

Eir.  Whisper !  nay,  lady,  for  my  part  I'll  cry 
whoop. 

Ang.  Play  no  more,  villains,  with  so  good  a 
Por,  if  you  do —  [lady  ; 

Spun.  Are  we  Christians  ? 

Hir.  The  foul  fiend  snap  all  pagans  for  me  ! 

Ang.  Away,  and,  once  more,  meud. 

Spun.  'Takes  us  for  botchers. 

Hir.  A  patch,  a  patch  !  > 

[Exeunt  Spun,  and  Hir. 

Dor.  My  book  and  taper. 

Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor.  Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that 
I  never 
Was  ravish'd  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  theo, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art ;  get  thee  to  rest, 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest. 

Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady,  I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven. 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company : 
Therefore,  my  most  loved  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence, 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still,  then  : 
In  golden  letters  down  I'll  set  that  day, 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself. 
This  little,  pretty  bodj' ;  when  I,  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy. 
My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms 
Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand! — 
And,  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste 

bosom, 
Methought,  was  fill'd  with  no  hot  wanton  fire. 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher. 
On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

Ang.  Proud  am  I,  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Dor.  I  have  offer'd 
Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some. 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father  ;  for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence. 


'  a  patch— a.  fool. 


He  that  begot  him  must  do't  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 
Know  who  my  mother  was ;  but,  by  yon  palace, 
Pill'd  with   bright    heavenly  courtiers,   I  dara 

assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand. 
My  father  is  in  heaven  :  and,  pretty  mistress, 
If  your  illustrious  hourglass  spend  his  sand. 
No  worse  than  yet  it  does ;  upon  my  life. 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 

Dor.  A  blessed,  day !  - 
We  all  long  to  be  there,  but  lose  the  way. 

[_Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IL 

A  Street  near  Dorothea's  House. 

Enter  Macrinus,  met  hy  Theopiulus  and 
Harpax. 

Theoph.  The  Sun,  god  of  the  day,  guide  thee, 
Macrinus ! 

Mac  And  thee,  Theophilus  ! 

Theoph.  Glad'st  thou  in  such  scorn  .?  i 
I  call  my  wish  back. 

Mac.  I'm  in  haste. 

Theoph.  One  word. 
Take  the  least  hand  of  time  up  : — stay. 

Mac.  Be  brief. 

Theoph.  As  thought     I  pr'ythee  tell  me,  good 
Macrinus, 
How  health  aud  our  fair  princess  lay  together 
This  night,  for  you  can  tell ;  courtiers  have  flies,  * 
That  buzz  all  news  unto  them. 

Mac.  She  slept  but  ill. 

Theoph.  Double  thy  courtesy ;  how  does  An- 
toninus ? 

Mac.  Ill,  well,  straight,  crooked, — I  know  not 

Theoph.  Once  more  ;  [how. 

— Thy  head  is  full  of  windmills : — when  doth  the 

princess 
Fill  a  bed  full  of  beauty,  and  bestow  it 
On  Antoninus,  on  the  wedding-night  ? 

Mac.  I  know  not. 

Theoph.  No  !  thou  art  the  manuscript 
Where  Antoninus  writes  down  all  his  secrets  : 
Honest  Macrinus,  tell  me. 

Mac.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  \_Exlt. 

Harp.  Honesty  is  some  fiend,  and  frights  him 
A  many  courtiers  love  it  not.  [hence ; 

Theoph.  What  piece 
Of  this  state-wheel,  which  winds  up  Antoninus. 
Is  broke,  it  runs  so  jarringly .'  the  man 
Is  from  himself  divided  :  0  thou,  the  eye. 
By  which  I  wonders  see,  tell  me,  my  Harpax, 
What  gad-fly  tickles  this  Macrinus  so. 
That,  flinging  up  the  tail,  he  breaks  thus  from 
me. 

Haip.  Oh,  sir,  his  brain-pan  is  a  bed  of  snakes. 
Whose  stings  shoot  through  his  eyeballs,  whose 

poisonous  spawn 
Ingenders  such  a  fry  of  speckled  villanies, 
That,  unless  charms  more  strong  than  adamant 
Be  used,  the  Eoman  angel's  ^  wings  shall  melt, 


1  Glad'st  thou,  &c. — Theophilus,  who  is  represented  as 
a  furious  zealot  for  paganism,  is  mortified  at  the  indif- 
ference with  -which  Macrinus  returns  the  happiness  he 
had  wished  him  by  his  god. — Giffoed. 

-flies — familiars. 

3  angel,  according  to  Gifford,  was  frequently  used  as 
meaning  bird  by  old  authors ;  here,  he  says,  it  no  doubt 
means  eagle. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


And  Caesar's  diadem  be  from  liis  head 

Spurn'd  by  base  feet ;  the  laurel  which  he  wears, 

Keturniug  victor,  be  enforced  to  kiss 

That  which  it  hates,  the  fire.     And  can  this 

ram, 
This  Antoninns-Engine,  being  made  ready 
To  so  much  mischief,  keep  a  steady  motion  ? — 
His  eyes  and  feet,  you  see,  give  strange  assaults. 
Theoph.  I'm  turn'd  a  marble  statue  at  thy  lan- 
guage, 
Which  printed  is  in  such  crabb'd  characters, 
It  puzzles  all  my  reading :  what,  in  the  name 
Of  Pluto,  now  is  hatching  ? 

Harp.  This  Macrinus, 
The  line  i  is,  upon  which  love-errands  run 
'Twixt  Antoninus  and  that  ghost  of  women, 
The  bloodless  Dorothea  ;  who  in  praj-er 
And  meditation,  mocking  all  your  gods, 
Drinks  up  her  ruby  colour  :  yet  Antoninus 
Plays  the  Endymion  to  this  pale-faced  Moon, 
Courts,  seeks  to  catch  her  eyes — 
Theoph.  And  wliat  of  this  ? 
Harp.  These  are  but  creeping  billows, 
Not  got  to  shore  yet :  but  if  Dorothea 
Fall  on  his  bosom,  and  be  fired  with  love 
(Your  coldest  women  do  so), — had  you  ink 
Brew'd  from  the  infernal  Styx,  not  all  that  black- 
ness 
Can  make  a  thing  so  foul,  as  the  dishonours, 
Disgraces,  buffetiugs,  and  most  base  affronts 
Upon  the  bright  Artemia,  stai?  o'  the  court, 
Great  Ctesar's  daughter. 

Theoph.  I  now  conster  ^  thee. 
Harp.  Nay,  more;  a  firmament  of  clouds,  being 
fill'd 
With  Jove's  artillery,  shot  down  at  once. 
To  pash^  your  gods  in  pieces,  cannot  give. 
With  all  those  thunderbolts,  so  deep  a  blow 
To  the  religion  there,  and  pagan  lore. 
As  this  ;  for  Dorothea  hates  your  gods. 
And,  if  she  once  blast  Antoninus'  soul, 
Making  it  foul  like  hers,  oh  !  the  example — 
Theoph.    Eats  through    Cassarea's   heart    like 
liquid  poison. 
Have  I  invented  tortures  to  tear  Christians, 
To  see  but  which,  could  all  that  feel  hell's  tor- 
ments 
Have    leave    to    stand    aloof    here    on    earth's 

stage, 
They  woixld  be  mad  till  they  again  descended, 
Holding  the  pains  most  horrid  of  such  souls. 
May-games  to  those  of  mine  ;  has  this  my  hand 
Set  down  a  Christian's  execution 
In  such  dire  postures,  that  the  very  hangman 
Fell  at  my  foot  dead,  hearing  but  their  figures  ; 
And  shall  Macrinus  and  his  fellow-masquer 
Strangle  me  in  a  dance  1 

Harp.  No  : — on  ;  I  hug  thee, 
For  drilling  thy  quick  brains  in  this  rich  plot 
Of  tortures  'gainst  these  Christians :  on ;  I  hug 
thee ! 
Theoph.  Both  hug  and  holy  me :  to  this  Doro- 
thea 
Fly  thou  and  I  in  thunder. 
Harp.  Not  for  kingdoms 
Piled  upon  kingdoms :  there's  a  villain  page 
Waits  on  her,  whom  I  would  not  for  the  world 
Hold  traffic  with  ;  I  do  so  hate  his  sight. 
That,  should  I  look  on  him,  I  must  sink  down. 


1  line.  The  allusion  here  is,  according  to  Gifford,  to 
the  rude  fireworks  of  our  ancestors,  which  seem  to  have 
been  made  to  run  in  lines. 

^  conster — construe,  understand. 

^  pasfi — strike  violently.  Bash  is  still  vulgarly  used  In 
the  same  sense. 


Theoph.  I  will  not  lose  thee  then,  har  to  con- 
found: 
None  but  this  head  with  glories  shall  be  crown'd. 
Harp.  Oh !  mine  own  as  I  would  wish  thee  ! 

l_Excwit. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  Dorothea's  House. 

Enter  Dorothea,  Macrinus,  and  Axgelo. 

Dor.  My  trusty  Angelo,  with  that  curious  eye 

Of  thine,  which  ever  waits  upon  my  business, 

I  pr'y  thee  watch  those  my  still-negligent  servants, 

That  they  perform  my  will,  in  what's  enjoin'd 

them 
To  the  good  of  others ;  else  will  you  find  them 

flies, 
Not  lying  still,  yet  in  them  no  good  lies  : 
Be  careful,  dear  boy. 
Anrj.  Yes,  my  sweetest  mistress.  [Exit. 

Dor.  Now,  sir,  you  may  go  on. 
Mac.  1  then  must  study 
A  new  arithmetic,  to  sum  up  the  virtues 
Which  Antoninus  gracefully  become. 
There  is  in  him  so  much  man,  so  much  goodness, 
So  much  of  honour,  and  of  all  things  else. 
Which  make  our  being  excellent,  that  from  his 

store 
He  can  enough  lend  others :   yet,  much  ta'en 

from  him, 
The  want  shall  be  as  little,  as  when  seas 
Lend  from  their  bounty,  to  fill  up  the  poorness 
Of  needy  rivers. 

Dor.  Sir,  he  is  more  indebted 
To  you  for  praise,  than  you  to  him  that  pwes  it. 
Mac.  If  queens,  viewing  his  pi-esents  paid  to 
the  whiteness 
Of  your  chaste  hand  alone,  should  be  ambitious 
But  to  be  parted '  in  their  numerous  shares ; 
This  he   counts  nothing:   could  you  see  main 

armies 
Make  battles  in  the  quarrel  of  his  valour. 
That  'tis  the  best,  the  truest ;  this  were  nothing  : 
The  greatness  of  his  state,  his  father's  voice 
And  arm,  awing  Csesarea,  he  ne'er  boasts  of ; 
The  sunbeams  which  the  emperor  throws  upon 

him. 
Shine  there  but  as  in  water,  and  gild  hini 
Not  with  one  spot  of  pride  :  no,  dearest  beauty, 
All  these,  heap'd  up  together  in  one  scale, 
Cannot  weigh  down  the  love  he  bears  to  you 
Being  put  into  the  other. 

Doi:  Could  gold  buy  you 
To  speak  thus  for  a  friend,  you,  sir,  are  worthy 
Of  more  than  I  will  number ;  and  this  your  lan- 
guage 
Hath  power  to  win  upon  another  woman, 
'Top  of  whose  heart  the  feathers  of  this  world 
Are  gaily  stuck :  but  all  which  first  you  named, 
And  now  this  last,  his  love,  to  me  are  nothing. 
Mac.   Y'ou  make  nie  a  sad  messenger; — but 
himself 

E7iter  Antoninus. 
Being  come  in  person,  shall,  I  hope,  hear  from  you 
Music  more  pleasing.  i 

Anton.  Has  your  ear,  Macrinus, 
Heard  none,  then  ? 
3fac.  None  I  like. 
Anton.  But  can  there  be 
In  such  a  noble  casket,  wherein  lie 
Beauty  and  chastity  in  their  full  perfections, 
A  rocky  heart,  killing  with  cruelty 
A  life  that's  prostrated  beneath  your  feet  ? 


'  ^arierf— favoured  or  endowed  with  a  part.— Giffobd. 


394 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Dor.  I  am  guilty  of  a  shame  I  yet  ne'er  knew, 
Thus  to  hold  parley  with  you ; — pray,  sir,  pardon. 

\_Goiiig. 

Anton.  Good  sweetness,  you  now  have  it,  and 
shall  go : 
Be  but  so  merciful,  before  your  wounding  me 
With  such  a  mortal  weapon  as  ITarewell, 
To  let  me  murmur  to  your  virgin  ear, 
What  I  was  loath  to  lay  on  any  tongue 
But  this  mine  own. 

Dor.  If  one  immodest  accent 
Fly  out,  I  hate  you  everlastingly. 

Anton.  My  true  love  dares  not  do  it. 

Mac.  Hermes  inspire  thee  ! 

Enter  above,  Artemia,  Sapritius,  Theophilus, 
Spungius,  and  HiRCius. 

Spun.  So,  now,  do  you  see.' — Our  work  is 
done;  the  fish  you  angle  for  is  nibbling  at  the 
hook,  and  thei-efore  nntruss  the  cod-piece-point 
of  our  reward,  no  matter  if  the  breeches  of  con- 
science fall  about  our  heels. 

Theoph.  The  gold  you  earn  is  here;  dam  up 
And  no  words  of  it.  [your  mouths, 

Hir.  No ;  nor  no  words  from  you  of  too  much 
damning  neither.  I  know  women  sell  themselves 
daily,  and  are  hackneyed  out  for  silver ;  why  may 
not  we,  then,  betray  a  scurvy  mistress  for  gold  ? 

Spun.  She  saved  us  from  the  gallows,  and, 
only  to  keep  one  proverb  from  breaking  his  neck, 
we'll  hang  her. 

Theoph.  'Tis  well  done ;  go,  go,  you're  my  fine 
white  1  boys. 

Spun.  If  your  red  boys,  'tis  well  known  more 
ill-favoured  faces  than  ours  are  painted. 

Sap.  Those  fellows  trouble  us. 

Theoph.  Away,  away ! 

Eir.  I  to  my  sweet  placket.  - 

Spun.  And  I  to  my  full  pot. 

\_Exeunt  Hircius  and  Spungius. 

Anton.  Come,  let  me  tune  you : — glaze  not  thus 
your  eyes 
With  self-love  of  a  vow'd  virginity, 
Make  every  man  your  glass ;  you  see  our  sex 
Do  never  murder  jpropagation ; 
We  all  desire  your  sweet  society. 
But  if  you  bar  me  from  it,  you  do  kill  me, 
And  of  my  blood  are  guilty. 

Artem.  Oh  base  villain ! 

Sap.  Bridle  your  rage,  sweet  princess. 

Anton.  Could  not  my  fortunes, 
Rear'd  higher  far  than  yours,  be  worthy  of  you, 
Methinks  my  dear  affection  makes  you  mine. 

Dor.  Sir,  for  your  fortunes,  were  they  mines 
of  gold, 
He  that  I  love  is  richer ;  and  for  worth, 
Tou  are  to  him  lower  than  any  slave 
Is  to  a  monarch. 

Sap.  So  insolent,  base  Christian ! 

Dor.  Can  I,  with  wearing  out  my  knees  before 
him, 
Get  you  but  be  his  servant,  you  shall  boast 
You're  equal  to  a  king. 

Sap.  Confusion  on  thee, 
For  playing  thus  the  lying  sorceress. 

Anton.  Your  mocks  are  great  ones;  none  be- 
neath the  sun 
Will  I  be  servant  to. — On  my  knees  I  beg  it, 
Pity  me,  wondrous  maid. 

Sap.  I  curse  thy  baseness. 

Theoph.  Listen  to  more. 

Dor.  Oh  kneel  not,  sir,  to  me. 


'  white — then  a  tenn  of  endearment. 
2  placket.    See  note  2,  p.  79,  col.  1 ;  here  it  evidently 
means  'woman. 


Anton.  This  knee  is  emblem  of  an  humbled 
heart : 
That  heart  which  tortured  is  with  your  disdain, 
Justly  for  scorning  others,  even  this  heart, 
To  which  for  pity  such  a  princess  sues, 
As  in  her  hand  offers  me  all  the  world, 
Great  CaBsar's  daughter. 

Artem.  Slave,  thouliest. 

Anton.  Yet  this 
Is  adamant  to  her,  that  melts  to  you 
In  drops  of  blood. 

Theoph.  A  very  dog ! 

Anton.  Perhaps 
'Tis  my  religion  makes  you  Imit  the  brow; 
Yet  be  you  mine,  and  ever  be  your  own : 
I   ne'er  will  screw  your  conscience  from  that 
On  which  you  Christians  lean.  [Power 

Sap.  I  can  no  longer 
Fret  out  my  life  with  weeping  at  thee,  villain. 
Sirrah !  \_Aloud. 

Would,  when  I  got  thee,  the  high  Thunderer's 
Had  struck  thee  in  the  womb !  [hand 

Mac.  We  are  betray'd. 

Artem.  Is  that  the  idol,   traitor,  which  thou 
Trampling  upon  my  beauty  ?  [kneel'st  to, 

Theoph.  Sirrah,  bandog!  * 
Wilt  thou  in  pieces  tear  our  Jupiter 
For  her?  our  Mars  for  her.'  our  Sol  for  her  ? — 
A  whore !  a  hell-hound !  In  this  globe  of  brains, 
Where  a  whole  world  of  furies  for  such  tortures 
Have  fought,  as  in  a  chaos,  which  should  exceed, 
These  nails  shall  grubbing  lie  from  skull  to  skull, 
To  find  one  horrider  than  all,  for.you, 
You  three ! 

Artem.   Threaten  not,  but  strike:  quick  ven- 
geance flies 
[nto  my  bosom ;  caitiff !  here  all  love  dies. 

[Exeunt  above. 

Anton.  Oh!  I  am  thunderstruck  I  We  are  both 
o'erwhelm'd — 

Mac.  With  one  high-raging  billow. 

Dor.  You  a  soldier. 
And  sink  beneath  the  violence  of  a  woman ! 

Anton.  A  woman !  a  wrong'd  princess.    From 
such  a  star, 
Blazing  with  fires  of  hate,  what  can  be  look'd  for 
But  tragical  events  ?  My  life  is  now 
The  subject  of  her  tyranny. 

Dor.  That  fear  is  base, 
Of  death,  when  that  death  doth  but  life  displace 
-Out  of  her  house  of  earth ;  you  only  dread 
The  stroke,  and  not  what  follows  when  you're 

dead ; 
There's  the  great  fear,  indeed:  come,  let  your 

eyes 
Dwell  where  mine  do,  you'll  scorn  their  tyrannies. 

Re-enter  below,  Artemia,  Sapritius,  Theo- 
philus, a  guard;  Angelo  comes  and  stands 
close  by  Dorothea. 

Artem.  My  father's  nerves  put  vigour  in  mine 

ai-m. 
And  I  his  strength  must  use.     Because  I  once 
Shed  beams  of  favour  on  thee,  and,  with  the  lion, 
Play'd  with  thee  gently,  when  thou  struck'st  my 

heart, 
I'll  not  insult  on  a  base,  humbled  prey. 
By  lingering  out  thy  terrors ;  but,  with  one_ frown, 
Kill  thee.     Hence  with  them  all  to  execution. 
Seize  him ;  but  let  even  death  itself  be  weary 
In   torturing  her.     I'll  change  those  smiles  to 

shrieks ; 


1  bandog — i.e.  hand  or  bound-dog,  a  dog  so  fierce  as  to 
require  to  be  tied  up.  It  was  used  for  baiting  bears, 
and  Gifford  thinks  was  a  kind  of  majtiff,  but  Nares,  a 
bull-dog. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


395 


Give  Ihe  fool  what  slie's  proud  of — martyrdom: 
In  pieces  rack  that  bawd  too. 

\Po%nts  to  ILacr. 

Sap.  Albeit  the  reverence 
I  owe  our  gods  and  you,  are,  in  my  bosom. 
Torrents  so  stroDg,  that  pit}'  quite  lies  drown'd 
From  saving  this  young  man  ;  yet,  when  I  see 
What  face  death  gives  him,  and  that  a  thing 

within  me 
Says,  'tis  my  son,  I  am  forced  to  be  a  man. 
And  grow  fond  of  his  life,  which  thus  I  beg. 

Artem.  And  I  deny. 

Anton.  Sir,  you  dishonour  me, 
To  sue  for  that  which  I  disclaim  to  have. 
I  shall  more  glory. in  my  sufferings  gain, 
Than  you  in  giving  judgment,  since  I  offer 
My  blood  up  to  your  anger ;  nor  do  I  kneel 
To  keep  a  wretched  life  of  mine  from  ruiu  ; 
Preserve  this  temple,  builded  fair  as  yours  is, 
And  Ceesar  never  went  in  greater  triumph, 
Than  I  shall  to  the  scaffold. 

Artem.  Are  you  so  brave,  sir .' 
Set  forward  to  his  triumph,  and  let  those  two 
Go  cursing  along  with  him. 

Dor.  No,  but  pitying, 
For  my  part,  I,  that  you  lose  ten  times  more 
By  torturing  me,  than  I  that  dare  your  tortures : 
Through  all  the  army  of  my  sins,  I  have  even 
Labour'd  to  brealc,  and  cope  with  death  to  th'  face. 
The  visage  of  a  hangman  frights  not  me  ; 
The  sight  of  whips,  racks,  gibbets,  axes,  fires, 
Are  scaffoldings  by  which  my  soul  climbs  up 
To  an  eternal  habitation. 

Theoph.  Ctesar's  imperial  daughter!   Lear  me 


Let  not  this  Christian  thing,  in  this  her  page- 
antry 
Of  proud  deriding  both  our  gods  and  C^sar, 
BuUd  to  herself  a  kingdom  in  her  death. 
Going  laughing  from  us :  no ;  her  bitterest  toi-- 

ment 
Shall  be,  to  feel  her  constancy  beaten  down! 
The  bravery  of  her  resolution  He 
Batter'd,  by  argument,  into  such  pieces. 
That  she  again  shall,  on  her  belly,  creep 
To  kiss  the  pavements  of  our  payuim  gods. 
Artem.  How  to  be  done  ? 
Theoph.  I'll  send  my  daughters  to  her, 
And  they  shall  turn  her  rocky  faith  to  wax ; 
Else  spit  at  me,  let  me  be  made  your  slave. 
And  meet  no  Koman's  but  a  villain's  grave. 
Artem.   Thy  prisoner  let  her  be,  then ;  and, 
Sapritius, 
Tour  sou  and  that  i  be  yours :  death  shall  be  sent 
To  him  that  suffers  them,  by  voice  or  letters, 
To  greet  each  other.    Eifie  her  estate ; 
Christians  to  beggary  brought,  grow  desperate. 
Dor.  Still  on  the  bread  of  poverty  let  me  feed. 
Ang.  Oh !  my  admired  mistress,  quench  not  out 
The  holy  fires  within  you,  though  temptations 
Shower  down  upon  you.    Clasp  thine  armour  on, 
Fight  well,  and  thou  shalt  see,  after  these  wars, 
Thy  head  wear  sunbeams,  aud  thy  feet  touch 
stars.  [_Exeunt  all  but  Angelo. 

Enter  Hircius  and  Spungius. 

nir.  How  now,  Angelo  ;  how  is  it,  how  is  it  ? 
What  thread  spins  that  whore  Fortune  upon  her 
■wheel  now  ? 

Spun.  Com'  esta,  com'  esfa,  poor  knave  ? 

Hie.  Comment  poriez-vous,  comment  portez- 
voits,  mon  petit  garqon  ? 

Spun.  My  pretty  wee  comrade,  my  half-inch  of 


*  that — JIacrinus. 


man's  flesh,  how  run  the  dice  of  this  cheating 
world,  ha.? 

Ang.  Too  well  on  your  sides;  you  are  hid  ia 
gold  o'er  head  and  ears. 

Eir.  We  thank  our  fates,  the  sign  of  the  gingle-     | 
boys  hangs  at  the  doors  of  our  pockets. 

Spun.  Who  would  think  that  we,  coming  forth 
of  the  a — ,  as  it  were,  or  fag-end  of  the  woi-ld, 
should  yet  see  the  golden  age,  when  so  little 
silver  is  stirring  ? 

Ill):  Nay,  who  can  say  any  citizen  is  an  ass, 
for  loading  his  own  back  with  monej'  till  his  soul 
cracks  again,  only  to  leave  his  son  like  a  gilded 
coxcomb  behind  him?  Will  not  any  fool  take 
me  for  a  wise  man  now,  seeing  me  draw  out  of 
the  pit  of  my  treasury  this  little  god  with  his 
belly  full  of  gold  ? 

Spun.  And  this,  full  of  the  same  meat,  out  of 
my  ambry  ? 

Ang.  That  gold  will  melt  to  poison. 

Spun.  Poison  I  would  it  would!  whole  pints 
for  healths  should  down  my  throat. 

Jiir.  Gold  poison!  There  is  never  a  she- 
thrasher  in  Cajsarea,  that  lives  on  the  flail  of 
money,  will  call  it  so. 

Ang.  Like  slaves  you  sold  your  souls  for  golden 
dross, 
Bewraying  her  to  death,  who  stept  between 
You  and  the  gallows. 

Spun.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to  save  us,  she 
being  so  v^ell  back'd. 

Hir.  The  gallows  and  we  fell  out:  so  she  did 
but  part  us. 

Ang.  The  misery  of  that  mistress  is  mine  own ; 
She  beggar'd,  I  left  wretched. 

Eir.  1  can  but  let  my  nose  drop  in  sorrow, 
with  wet  eyes  for  her. 

.  Spun.  The  petticoat  of  her  estate  is  unlaced,  I 
confess. 

Eir.  Yes,  and  the  smock  of  her  charity  is  now 
all  to  pieces. 

Ang.  For  love  you  bear  to  her,  for  some  good 
turns 
Done  you  by  me,  give  me  one  piece  of  silver. 

Eir.  How  !  a  piece  of  silver !  If  thou  wert  an 
angel  of  gold,  I  would  not  put  thee  into  white 
money  unless  I  weighed  thee ;  and  I  weigh  thee 
not  a  rush. 

Spun.  A  piece  of  silver !  I  never  had  but  two 
calves  in  my  life,  and  those  my  mother  left  me ; 
I  will  rather  part  from  the  fat  of  them,  than  from 
a  mustard-token's  worth  of  argent. 

Eir.  And  so,  sweet  nit,  we  crawl  from  thee. 

Sjjun.  Adieu,  demi-dandiprat,^  adieu ! 

Ang.  Stay, — oue  word  yet;  you  now  are  full 
of  gold. 

Eir.  I  would  be  sorry  my  dog  were  so  full  of 
the  pox. 

Spun.  Or  any  sow  of  mine  of  the  measles  either. 

Ang.  Go,  go !   you're  beggars  both ;   you  are 
not  worth 
That  leather  on  your  feet. 

Eir.  Away,  away,  boy  ! 

Spun.  Page,  you  do  nothing  but  set  patches  on 
the  soles  of  your  jests. 

Ang.  I  am  glad  I  tried  yom-  love,  which,  seo ! 
I  want  not, 
So  long  as  this  is  full. 

Both.  And  so  long  as  this,  so  long  as  this. 

Eir.  Spungius,  you  are  a  pickpocket. 

Spun.  Hircius,  thou  hast  nimm'd  :  - — So  long 
as! — not  so  much  money  is  left  as  will  buy  a 
louse. 


•  derni-dandiprat—hali  clwai'f. 

*  nimm'd — stolen. 


Hir.  Thou  art  a  tbief,  and  tliou  liest  in  that 
gut  through  which  thy  wine  runs,  if  thou  de- 
niest  it. 

Spun.  Thou  liest  deeper  than  the  bottom  of 
mine  em*aged  pocket,  if  thou  affrontest  it. 

Ang.  No  blows,  no  bitter  language  ;— all  your 
gold  done ! 

Spun.  Can  the  devil  creep  into  one's  breeches  ? 

Hir.  Yes,  if  his  horns  once  get  into  the  cod- 
piece. 

Ang.  Come,  sigh  not ;  I  so  little  am  in  love 
With  that  whose  loss  kills  you,  that,  see!   'tis 

yours, 
All  yours :  divide  the  heap  in  equal  share, 
So  you  will  go  along  with  me  to  prison. 
And  in  our  mistress'  sorrows  bear  a  part ; 
Say,  will  you .'' 

Both.  Will  we ! 

Sinin.  If  she  were  going  to  hanging,  no  gallows 
should  part  us. 

Hir.  Let  us  both  be  turn'd  into  a  rope  of  onions, 
if  we  do  not. 

Ang.  Follow  me,  then ;  repair  your  bad  deeds 
past ; 
Happy  are  men,  when  their  best  days  are  last ! 

Spun.  True,  Master  Angelo;  pi'ay,  sir,  lead 
the  way.  \_Exit  Angelo. 

Hb:  Let  him  lead  that  way,  but  follow  thou 
me  this  way. 

Spun.  I  live  in  a  gaol ! 

Hir.  Away,  and  shift  for  ourselves : — She'll  do 
well  enough  there ;  for  prisoners  are  more  hungry 
after  mutton,  than  catchpoles  after  prisoners. 

Spun.  Let  her  starve,  then,  if  a  whole  gaol  will 
not  fill  her  belly.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  L 

A  Room  in  Dorothea's  House. 

Enter  Sapkitius,  Theophilus,  Priest,  Calista, 
and  Chkisteta. 

Sap.  Sick  to  the  death,  I  fear. 

Theoph.  I  meet  j'our  sorrow, 
With  my  true  feeling  of  it. 

Sap).  She's  a  witch, 
A  sorceress,  Theophilus ;  my  son 
Is  charm'd  by  her  enchanting  eyes,  and,  like 
An  image  made  of  wax,  her  beams  of  beauty 
Melt  him  to  nothing :  all  my  hopes  in  him, 
And  all  his  gotten  honours,  find  their  grave 
In  his  strange   dotage  on   her.     Would,  when 

first 
He  saw  and  loved  her,  that  the  earth  had  open'd. 
And  swallow'd  both  alive ! 

Theoph.  There's  hope  left  3'et. 

Sap).  Not  any :  though  the  princess  were  ap- 
peased, 
All  title  in  her  love  surrender'd  up  ; 
Yet  this  coy  Christian  is  so  transported 
AVith  her  religion,  that  unless  my  son 
(But  let  him  perish  first !)  drink  the  same  potion. 
And  be  of  her  belief,  she'll  not  vouchsafe 
To  be  his  lawful  wife. 

Priest.  But,  once  removed 
Fi'om  her  opinion,  as  I  rest  assured 
The  reasons  of  these  holy  maids  will  win  her, 
You'll  find  her  tractable  to  anything, 
For  your  content  or  his. 

Theoph.  If  she  refuse  it, 
The  Stygian  damps,  breeding  infectious  airs, 
The  mandrake's  shrieks,  the  basilisk's  killing  eye. 
The  dreadful  lightning  that  does  crush  the  bones. 
And  never  singe  tlie  skin,  shall  not  appear 
Less  fatal  to  her,  than  my  zeal  made  hot 


With  love  unto  my  gods.     I  have  deferr'd  it. 
In  hopes  to  draw  back  this  apostata. 
Which  will  be  greater  honour  than  her  death, 
Unto  her  father's  faith  ;  and,  to  that  end, 
Have  brought  my  daughters  hither. 

Cal.  And,  we  doubt  not, 
To  do  what  you  desire. 

Sap.  Let  her  be  sent  for. 
Prosper  in  your  good  work  ;  and  were  I  not 
To  attend  the  princess,  I  would  see  and  hear 
How  you  succeed. 

Theoph.  I  am  commanded  too, 
I'll  bear  you  company. 

Sap.  Give  them  your  ring, 
To  lead  her  as  in  triumph,  if  they  win  her, 
Before  her  highness.  \Exil. 

Theoph.  Spare  no  promises. 
Persuasions,  or  threats,  I  do  conjure  you  : 
If  you  prevail,  'tis  the  most  glorious  work 
You  ever  undertook. 

Enter  Doeothea  and  Angelo. 

Priest.  She  comes. 

Theoph.  We  leave  you  ; 
Be  constant,  and  be  careful. 

[Exeunt  Theoph.  and  Priest. 

Cal.  We  are  sorry 
To  meet  you  under  guard. 

Dor.  But  I  more  grieved 
You  are  at  liberty.     So  well  I  love  you. 
That  I  could  wish,  for  such  a  cause  as  mine. 
You  were  my  fellow-prisoners.  Pi-'ythee,  Angelo, 
Fieach  us  some  chairs.    Please  you  sit — 

Cal.  AVe  thank  you  : 
Our  visit  is  for  love,  love  to  your  safety. 

Christ.  Our  conference  must  be  private  ;  pray 
you,  therefore. 
Command  your  boy  to  leave  us. 

Dor.  You  may  trust  him 
With  any  secret  that  concerns  my  life, 
Falsehood  and  he  are  strangers.   Had  you,  ladies, 
Been  bless'd  with  such  a  servant,  you  had  never 
Forsook  that  way,  your  journey  even  half  ended, 
That  leads  to  joys  eternal.     In  the  place 
Of  loose  lascivious  mirth,  he  would  have  stirr'd 

you 
To  holy  meditations ;  and  so  far 
He  is  from  flattery,  that  he  would  have  told  you, 
Your  pride  being  at  the  height,  how  miserable 
And  wretched  things  you  were,  that,  for  an  hour 
Of  pleasure  here,  have  made  a  desperate  sale 
Of  all  your  right  in  happiness  hereafter. 
He  must  not  leave  me  ;  without  him  I  fall : 
In  this  life  he's  my  servant,  in  the  other 
A  wish'd  companion. 

Ang.  'Tis  not  in  the  devil, 
Nor  all  his  wicked  arts,  to  shake  such  goodness. 

Dor.  But  you  were  speaking,  lady. 

Cal.  As  a  friend 
And  lover  of  your  safety,  and  I  pray  you 
So  to  receive  it ;  and,  if  you  remember 
How  near  in  love  our  parents  were,  that  we, 
Even  from  the  cradle,  were  brought  up  together, 
Our  amity  increasing  with  our  years, 
We  cannot  stand  suspected. 

Dor.  To  the  purpose. 

Cal.  We  come,  then,  as  good  angels,  Dorothea, 
To  make  you  happy ;  and  the  means  so  easy. 
That,  be  not  you  an  enemy  to  yourself, 
Already  you  enjoy  it. 

Christ.  Look  on  us, 
Euin'd  as  you  are,  once,  and  brought  unto  it, 
By  your  persuasion. 

Cal.  But  what  followed,  lady  ? 
Leaving  those   blessings  which  our  gods  gave 

freely. 
And  shower'd  upon  us  with  a  prodigal  hand, 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


597 


As  to  be  noble  boru,  j'outh,  beauty,  wealth, 
And  tlie  free  use  of  these  without  control. 
Check,  curb,  or  stop,  such  is  our  law's  indul- 
gence ! 
All  happiness  forsook  us  ;  bonds  and  fetters. 
For  amorous  twines;    the  rack  and  hangman's 

whips, 
In  place  of  choice  delights  ?  our  parents'  curses 
Instead  of  blessings ;  scorn,  neglect,  contempt, 
Fell  thick  upon  us. 

Christ.  This  consider'd  wisely, 
We  made  a  fair  retreat ;  and  reconciled 
To  our  forsaken  gods,  we  live  again 
In  all  prosperity. 

Cal.  By  our  example. 
Bequeathing  misery  to  such  as  love  it, 
Learn  to  be  happy.     The  Christian's  yoke's  too 

heavy 
For  such  a  dainty  neck ;  it  was  framed  rather 
To  be  the  shrine  of  Venus,  or  a  pillar, 
More  precious  than  crj-stal,  to  sujaport 
Our  Cupid's  image :  our  religion,  lady, 
Is  but  a  varied  pleasure  ;  yours  a  toil 
Slaves  would  shrink  under. 

Dor.  Have  you  not  cloven  feet .'  are  you  not 
devils .' 
Dare  any  say  so  much,  or  dare  I  hear  it 
Without  a  virtuous  and  religious  anger  ? 
Now  to  piit  on  a  virgin  modesty, 
Or  maiden  silence,  when  his  power  is  question'd 
That  is  omnipotent,  were  a  greater  crime, 
Than  in  a  bad  cause  to  be  impudent. 
Your  gods  !  your  temples !  brothel-houses  rather. 
Or  wicked  actions  of  the  worst  of  men, 
Pursued  and  practised.     Your  religious  rites  ! 
Oh  !  call  them  rather  juggling  mysteries, 
The  baits  and  nets  of  hell :  your  souls  the  prey 
For  which  the  devil  angles ;  your  false  pleasures 
A  steep  descent,  by  which  you  headlong  fall 
Into  eternal  torments. 

Cal.  Do  not  tempt 
Our  powerful  gods. 

Dor.  Which  of  your  powerful  gods  ? 
Your  gold,  your  silver,  brass,  or  wooden  ones, 
That  can  nor  do  me  hurt,  nor  protect  you  ? 
Most  pitied  women !  will  you  sacrifice 
To  such, — or  call  them  gods  or  goddesses. 
Your  parents  would  disdain  to  be  the  same, 
Or  you  yourselves  ?     Oh  blinded  ignorance  ! 
Tell  me,  Calista,  by  the  truth,  I  charge  you, 
Or  anything  you  hold  more  dear,  would  you, 
To  have  him  deified  to  posterity, 
Desire  your  father  an  adulterer, 
A  ravisher,  almost  a  parricide, 
A  vile  incestuous  wretch  ? 

Cal.  That,  piety 
And  duty  answer  for  me. 

Dor.  Or  you,  Christeta, 
To  be  hereafter  register'd  a  goddess, 
Give  yoiu"  chaste  body  up  to  the  embraces 
Of  goatish  lust  ?  have  it  writ  on  your  forehead, 
'  This  is  the  common  whore,  the  prostitute, 
The  mistress  in  the  art  of  wantonness. 
Knows  every  trick,  and  labyrinth  of  desires 
j    That  are  immodest  ? ' 
i        Christ.  You  judge  better  of  me. 
Or  my  affection  is  ill  placed  on  you ; 
Shall  I  turn  strumpet .' 

Dor.  No,  I  think  you  would  not. 
Yet  Venus,  whom  you  worship,  was  a  whore  ; 
Flora,  the  foundress  of  the  public  stews. 
And  has,  for  that,  her  sacrifice  ;  your  great  god. 
Your  Jupiter,  a  loose  adulterer, 
Incestuous  with  his  sister :  read  but  those 
That  have  canonized  them,  you'll  find  them  worse 
Than,  in  chaste  language,  I  can  speak  them  to 
you. 


Are  they  immortal  then,  that  did  partake 
Of  human  weakness,  and  had  ample  share 
In  men's  most  base  affections ;  subject  to 
Unchaste  loves,  anger,  bondage,  wounds,  as  men 

are? 
Here,  Jupiter,  to  serve  his  lust,  turn'd  bull, 
The  shape,  indeed,  in  which  he  stole  Eui-opa  ; 
Neptune,  for  gain,  builds  up  the  walls  of  Troy 
As  a  day-labourer;  Apollo  keeps 
Admetus'  sheep  for  bread  ;  the  Lemnian  smith 
Sweats  at  the  forge  for  liire;  Pi-ometheus  here, 
With  his  still-growing  liver,  feeds  the  vulture ; 
Saturn  bound  fast  in  hell  with  adamant  chains  : 
And  thousands  more,  on  whom  abused  error 
Bestows  a  deity.     Will  you  then,  dear  sisters:. 
For  I  would  have  you  such,  pay  your  devotions 
To  things  of  less  power  than  yom-selves  ? 

Cal.  We  worship 
Their  good  deeds  in  their  images. 

Dol.  By  whom  fashion'd  .' 
By  sinful  men.     I'll  tell  you  a  short  tale, 
Nor  can  you  but  confess  it  is  a  true  one: 
A  king  of  Egypt,  being  to  erect 
The  image  of  Osiris,  whom  they  honour. 
Took  from  the  matrons'  neck  the  richest  jewels. 
And  purest  gold,  as  the  materials. 
To  finish  up  his  work ;  which  perfected, 
With  all  solemnity  he  set  it  up. 
To  be  adored,  and  served  himself  his  idol; 
Desiring  it  to  give  him  victory 
Against  his  enemies :  but,  being  overthrown, 
Enraged  against  his  god   (these  are  fine  gods, 
Subject  to  human  fury !),  he  took  down 
The  senseless  thing,  and  melting  it  again. 
He  made  a  bason,  in  which  eunuchs  wash'd 
His  concubine's  feet;  and  for  this  sordid  use, 
Some  months  it  served :  his  mistress  proving  false, 
As  most  indeed  do  so,  and  grace  concluded 
Between  him  and  the  priests,  of  the  same  bason 
He  made  his  god  again  ! — Think,  think  of  this. 
And  then  consider  if  all  worldly  honours. 
Or  pleasures  that  do  leave  sharp  stings  behind 

them. 
Have  power  to  win  such  as  have  reasonable  sotUs 
To  put  their  trust  in  dross. 

Cal.  Oh  that  I  had  been  bora 
Without  a  father ! 

Christ.  Piety  to  him 
Hath  ruin'd  us  for  ever. 

Dor.  Think  not  so ; 
You  may  repair  all  yet :  the  attribute 
That  speaks  his  Godhead  most,  is  merciful ; 
Eevenge  is  proper  to  the  fiends  you  worship, 
Yet    cannot    strike  without    his    leave.  —  You 

weep, — 
Oh,  'tis  a  heavenly  shower !  celestial  balm 
To  cure  your  wounded  conscience  !  let  it  fall. 
Fall  thick  upon  it ;  and,  when  that  is  spent, 
I'll  help  it  with  another  of  my  tears  : 
And  may  your  true  repentance  prove  the  child 
Of  my  true  sorrow,  never  mother  had 
A  birth  so  happy  ! 

Cal.  We  are  caught  ourselves, 
That  came  to  take  you  ;  and  assured  of  conquest. 
We  are  your  captives. 

Dor.  And  in  that  you  triumph : 
Your  victory  had  been  eternal  loss. 
And  this  your  loss  immortal  gain. — Fix  here, 
And  you  shall  feel  yourselves  inwardly  arm'd 
'Gainst    tortures,    death,    and    hell : — but,   take 

heed,  sisters. 
That,   or  through  weakness,   threats,   or  mild 

persuasions, 
Though  of  a  father,  you  fall  not  into 
A  second  and  a  worse  apostasy. 

Cal.  Never,  oh  never !  steel'd  by  your  example, 
We  dare  the  worst  of  tyranny 


398 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Christ.  Here's  our  warrant, 
Tou  shall  along  and  witness  it. 

Dor.  Be  confirni'd  then ; 
And  rest  assured  the  more  you  suffer  here, 
The  more  your  glory,  you  to  heaven  more  dear. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 
The  Governor's  Palace. 

Entei-  AB.TEMIA,  Sapritius,  Theophilus,  and 
Hakpax. 

Artem.  Sapritius,  though  your  son  deserve  no 
pity, 
We  grieve  his  sickness :  his  contempt  of  us 
We  cast  behind  us,  and  look  back  upon 
His  service  done  to  Caesar,  that  weighs  down 
Our  just  displeasure.     If  his  malady 
Have   growth  from  his  restraint,   or  that  you 

think 
His  liberty  can  cure  him,  let  him  have  it ; 
Say,  we  forgive  him  freely. 

Sap.  Your  grace  binds  us, 
Ever  your  humblest  vassals. 

Artem.  Use  all  means 
For  his  recovery  ;  though  yet  I  love  him, 
I  will  not  force  affection.     If  the  Christian, 
Whose  beauty  hath  out-rivall'd  me,  be  won 
To  be  of  our  belief,  let  him  enjoy  her : 
That  all  may  know,  when  the  cause  wills,  I  can 
Command  my  own  desii-es. 

Theoph.  Be  happy  then. 
My  lord  Sapritius  :  I  am  confident. 
Such  eloquence  and  sweet  persuasion  dwell 
Upon  my   daughters'  tongues,   that    they   will 

work  her 
To  anything  they  please. 

Sap.  I  wish  they  may  ! 
Yet  'tis  no  easy  task  to  undertake, 
To  alter  a  perverse  and  obstinate  woman. 

[A  shout  within :  loud  music. 

Artem.  What  means  this  shout .' 

Sap.  'Tis  seconded  with  music, 
Triumphant  music. — Ha ! 

Enter  Sesipronius. 

Semp.  My  lord,  your  daughters. 
The  pillars  of  our  faith,  have  converted, 
For  so  report  gives  out,  the  Christian  lady ; 
The  image  of  great  Jupiter  borne  before  them, 
Sue  for  access. 

Theoph.  My  soul  divined  as  much. 
Blest  be  the  time  when  first  they  saw  this  light ! 
Their  mother,  when  she  bore  them  to  support 
My  feeble  age,  filled  not  my  longing  heart 
With  so  much  joy  as  they  in  this  good  work 
Have  thrown  upon  me. 

Enter  Priest  with  the  image  of  Jupiter^  incense 
and  censers ;  followed  hy  Calista  and  Ohkis- 
TETA,  leading  Dorothea. 

Welcome,  oh,  thrice  welcome. 

Daughters  both  of  my  body  and  my  mind ! 

Let  me  embrace  in  you  my  bliss,  my  comfort ; 

And,  Dorothea,  now  more  welcome  too, 

Than  if  you  never  had  fallen  off !     I  am  ravish'd 

With  the  excess  of  joy. — Speak,  happy  daughters, 

The  blest  event. 

Cal.  We  never  gaiii'd  so  much 
By  any  undertaking. 

Theoph.  Oh,  my  dear  girl, 
Our  gods  reward  thee. 

Dor.  Nor  was  ever  time 
On  my  part  better  spent. 


Christ.  '\¥e  are  aU  now 
Of  one  opinion. 

Theoph.  My  best  Christeta  ! 
Madam,  if  ever  you  did  grace  to  worth, 
Vouchsafe  your  princely  hands. 

Artem.  Most  willingly — 
Do  you  refuse  it  ? 

Cal.  Let  us  first  deserve  it. 

Theoph.  My  own  child  still!     Here   set  our 
god ;  prepare 
The  incense  quickly :  come,  fair  Dorothea, 
I  will  myself  support  you :  now  kneel  down, 
And  pay  your  vows  to  Jupiter. 

Dor.  I  shall  do  it 
Better  by  their  example. 

Theoph.  They  shall  guide  you; 
They  are  familiar  with  the  sacrifice. 
Forward,  my  twins  of  comfort,  and,  to  teach  her, 
Make  a  joint  offering 

Christ.  Thus —       [They  both  spit  at  the  image. 

Cal.  And  thus —    [Throw  it  down,  and  spurn  it. 

Harp.  Profane, 
And  impious !  stand  you  now  like  a  statue  ? 
Are  you  the  chamioion  of  the  gods.'  where  is 
Your  holy  zeal,  your  anger  ? 

Theoph.  I  am  blasted ; 
And,  as  my  feet  were  rooted  here,  I  find 
I  have  no  motion :  I  would  I  had  no  sight  too 
Or  if  my  eyes  can  serve  to  any  use. 
Give  me,  thou  injured  Power,  a  sea  of  tears 
To  expiate  this  madness  in  my  daughters ; 
For,  being  themselves,  they  would  have  trembled 

at 
So  blasphemous  a  deed  in  any  other. 
For  my  sake,  hold  awhile  thy  dreadful  thunder, 
And  give  me  patience  to  demand  a  reason 
For  this  accursed  act. 

Doi:  'Twas  bravely  done. 

Theoph.  Peace,  damn'd  enchantress,  peace !     I 
should  look  on  you 
With  eyes  made  red  with  fury,  and  my  hand. 
That  shakes  with  rage,  should  much  outstrip  my 

tongue. 
And  seal  my  vengeance   on   your  hearts ; — but 

nature, 
To  you  that  have  fallen  once,  bids  me  again 
To  be  a  father.     Oh !  how  dui'st  you  tempt 
The  anger  of  great  Jove  ? 

Dor.  Alack,  poor  Jove  ! 
He  is  no  swaggerer ;  how  smug  ho  stands ! 
He'll  take  a  kick  or  anything. 

Sup.  Stop  her  mouth. 

Dor.  It  is  the  patieut'st  godling !  do  not  fear 
him ; 
He  would  not  hurt  the  thief  that  stole  away 
Two  of  his  golden  locks ;  indeed  he  could  not: 
And  still  'tis  the  same  quiet  thing. 

Theoph.  Blasphemer  ! 
Ingenious  cnielty  shall  punish  this : 
Thou  art  past  hope ;    but  for    you   yet,   dear 

daughters, 
Again  bewitch'd,  the  dew  of  mild  forgiveness 
May  gently  fall,  provided  you  deserve  it. 
With  ti-ue  contrition :  be  yourselves  again ; 
Sue  to  the  offended  deity. 

Christ.  Not  to  be 
The  mistress  of  the  earth. 

Cal.  I  will  not  offer 
A  grain  of  incense  to  it,  much  less  Imeel, 
Nor  look  on  it  but  with  coatempt  and  scorn. 
To  have  a  thousand  years  conferred  upon  me 
Of  worldly  blessings.     We  profess  ourselves 
To  be,  like  Dorothea,  Christians ; 
And  owe  her  for  that  happiness. 

Theoph.  My  ears 
Eeceive,  in  hearing  this,  all  deadly  charms 
Powerful  to  make  man  wretched. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


399 


Arfem.  Ave  these  tbey 
Tou  bragg'd could  convert  others? 

Sap.  That  want  strength 
To  stand  themselves ! 

Harp.  Your  honour  is  engaged, 
The  credit  of  your  cause  depends  upon  it ; 
Something  you  must  do  suddenly. 

Theoph.  And  I  will. 

Harp.  They  merit  death ;  but,  falling  by  your 
hand, 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  just  revenge, 
And  holy  fury  in  you. 

Theoph.  Do  not  blow 
The  furnace  of  a  wrath  thrice  hot  already ; 
.ffitna  is  my  breast,  wild  fixe  burns  here, 
Which    only    blood    must    quench.      Incensed 

Power ! 
Which  from  my  infancy  I  have  adored, 
Look  down  with  favourable  beams  upon 
The  sacrifice,  though  not  allow'd  thy  priest, 
Which  I  will  offer  to  thee ;  and  be  pleased, 
My  fiery  zeal  inciting  me  to  act. 
To  call  that  justice  others  may  style  murder. 
Come,  you  accurs'd,  thus  by  the  hair  I  drag  you 
Before  this  holy  altar ;  thus  look  on  you. 
Less  pitiful  than  tigers  to  their  prey : 
And  thus,  with  mine  own  hand,  I  take  that  life 
Which  I  gave  to  you.  \KiUs  them. 

Dor.  0  most  cruel  butcher  ! 

Theoph.    My    anger    ends    not   here.      Hell's 
dreadful  porter, 
Keceive  into  thy  ever-open  gates 
Their  damned  souls,  and  let  the  Furies'  whips 
On  them  alone  be  wasted ;  and,  when  death 
Closes  these  eyes,  'twUl  be  Elysium  to  me 
To  hear  their  shrieks  and  bowlings.     Make  me, 

Pluto, 
Thy  instrument  to  furnish  thee  with  souls 
Of  that  accursed  sect ;  nor  let  me  fall 
Till  my  fell  vengeance  hath  consumed  them  all. 
[Exit,  with  Harpax. 

Artem.  'Tis  a  brave  zeal. 

Enter  Angelo,  smiling. 

Dor.  Oh,  call  him  back  again, 
CaU  back  your  hangman  !  here's  one  prisoner  left 
To  be  the  subject  of  his  knife. 

Artem.  Not  so ; 
We  are  not  so  near  reconciled  unto  thee ; 
Thou  shalt  not  perish  such  an  easy  way. 
Be  she  your  charge,  Sapritius,  now ;  and  suffer 
None  to  come  near  her,  till  we  have  found  out 
Some  torments  worthy  of  her. 

Ang.  Courage,  mistress  : 
These  martyrs  but  prepare  your  glorious  fate  ; 
You  shall  exceed  them,  and  not  imitate. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IIL 

A  Room  in  Dorothea's  House. 

Enter  Spungius  and  Hircius,  ragged,  at  opposite 
doors. 

Hir.  Spimgius! 

Spun.  Sly  fine  rogue,  how  is  it?  How  goes 
this  tattered  woi'ld  ? 

Hir.  Hast  any  money  ? 

Spun.  Money?  no.  The  tavern-ivy'  clings 
about  my  money,  and  kills  it.  Hast  thou  any 
money  ? 


1  tavern-ivy.    See  note  5,  p.  47,  coL  1. 


Hir.  No.  My  money  is  a  mad  bull ;  and  find- 
ing any  gap  opened,  away  it  runs. 

Spun.  I  see  then  a  tavern  and  a  bawdy-house 
have  faces  much  alike ;  to  neither  can  you  cry, 
Drawer,  you  rogue !  or,  Keep  door !  without  a 
silver  whistle.  We  are  justly  plagued,  therefore, 
for  running  from  our  mistress. 

Hir.  Thou  didst;  I  did  not.  Yet  I  had  run 
too,  but  that  one  gave  me  turpentine  pills,  and 
that  stay'd  my  running. 

Spun.  Well!  the  thread  of  my  life  is  drawn 
through  the  needle  of  necessity,  whose  eye,  look- 
ing upon  my  lousy  breeches,  cries  out  it  cannot 
mend  them ;  which  so  pricks  the  linings  of  my 
body  (and  those  are,  heart,  lights,  lungs,  guts, 
and  midriff),  that  I  beg,  on  my  knees,  to  have 
Atropos,  the  tailor  to  the  Destinies,  to  take  her 
sheers,  and  cut  my  thread  in  two ;  or  to  heat 
the  iron  goose  of  mortality,  and  so  press  me  to 
death. 

Hir.  Sure  thy  father  was  some  botcher,  and 
thy  hungry  tongue  bit  off  these  shreds  of  com- 
plaints, to  patch  up  the  elbows  of  thy  nitty  ' 
eloquence. 

Sp)un.  And  what  was  thy  father  ? 
Hir.' A.  low-minded  cobbler,  a  cobbler  whose^zeal 
set  many  a  woman  upright ;  the  remembrance  of 
whose  awl  (I  now  having  nothing)  thrusts  such 
scurvy  stitches  into  my  soul,  that  the  heel  of  my 
happiness  is  gone  awry. 
Spun.  Pity  that  e'er  thou  trod'st  thy  shoe  awry. 
Hir.  Long  I  cannot  last ;  for  all  souterly  wax 
of  comfort  melting  away,  and  misery  taking  the 
length  of  my  foot,  it  boots  not  me  to  sue  for  life, 
when  all  my  hopes  are  seam-rent,  and  go  wet- 
shod. 

Spun.  This  shows  thou  art  a  cobbler's  son,  by 
going  through  stitch.  0  Hircius,  would  thou  and 
1  were  so  hapi^y  to  be  cobblers ! 

Hir.  So  would  I ;  for  both  of  us  being  weary 
of  our  lives,  should  then  be  sure  of  shoemakers' 
ends. 

Spun.  1  see  the  beginning  of  my  end,  for  I  am 
almost  starved. 

Hir.  So  am  not  I;  but  I  am  more  than 
famished. 

Spun.  All  the  members  in  my  body  are  in  a 
rebellion  one  against  another. 

Hir.  So  are  mine ;  and  nothing  but  a  cook, 
being  a  constable,  can  appease  them,  presenting 
to  my  nose,  instead  of  his  painted  staff,  a  spit 
full  of  roast  meat. 

Spun.  But  in  this  rebellion,  what  uproars  do 
they  make!  my  belly  cries  to  my  mouth.  Why 
dost  not  gape  and  feed  me  ? 

Hir.  And  my  mouth  sets  out  a  throat  to  my 
hand,  Why  dost  not  thou  lift  up  meat,  and  cram 
my  chops  with  it  ? 

Spun.  Then  my  hand  hath  a  fling  at  mine 
eyes,  because  they  look  not  out,  and  shark  for 
victuals. 

Hir.  Which  mine  eyes  seeing,  full  of  tears, 
cry  aloud,  and  curse  my  feet,  for  not  ambling  up 
and  down  to  feed  colon :  since  if  good  meat  be 
in  any  place,  'tis  known  my  feet  can  smell. 

Spun.  But  then  my  feet,  like  lazy  rogues,  lie 
stni,  and  had  rather  do  nothing,  than  run  to  and 
fro  to  purchase  anything. 

Hir.  Why,  among  so  many  millions  of  people, 
should  thou  and  I  only  be  miserable  tatterdemal- 
lions,  ragamuffins,  and  lousy  desperates  ? 

Spun.  Thou  art  a  mere  I-am-an-o,  I-am-an-as: 
consider  the  whole  world,  and  'tis  as  we  are. 

Hir.  Lousy,  beggarly!  thou  whoreson  assa- 
foetida  ? 

■  nitty — ^lousy. 


400 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Spun.  Worse;  all  tottering,  all  out  of  frame, 
thou  f ooliamini ! 

Hir.  As  how,  arsenic  ?  come,  make  the  world 
smart. 

Spun.  Old  honour  goes  on  crutches,  beggary- 
rides  caroched ;  ^  honest  men  make  feasts,  knaves 
sit  at  tables,  cowards  are  lapp'd  in  velvet,  soldiers 
(as  we)  in  rags ;  why,  then,  when  all  the  world 
stumbles,  should  thou  and  I  walk  upright  ? 

Hir.  Stop,  look !  who's  yonder  ? 

Entei'  Angelo. 

Spun.  Fellow  Angelo!  how  does  my  little  man? 
well? 

Any.  Yes ; 
And  would  you  did  so  too!    Where  are  your 
clothes  ? 

Hir.  Clothes!  You  see  every  woman  almost 
go  in  her  loose  gown,  and  why  should  not  we 
have  our  clothes  loose  ? 

Spun.  Would  they  were  loose ! 

Ang.  Why,  where  are  they  ? 

Spun.  Where  many  a  velvet  cloak,  I  warrant, 
at  this  hour,  keeps  them  company ;  they  are 
pawned  to  a  broker. 

Ang.  Why  pawn'd  ?  where's  all  the  gold  I  left 
with  you  ? 

Eir.  The  gold!  we  put  that  into  a  scrivener's 
hands,  and  he  hath  cozen'd  us. 

Spun.  And  therefore,  I  pr'ythee,  Angelo,  if 
thou  hast  another  purse,  let  it  be  confiscate,  and 
brought  to  devastation. 

Ang.  Are  you  made  all  of  lies  ?    I  know  which 
way 
Your  guilt-wing'd  pieces  flew.     I  will  no  more 
Be  mock'd  by  you :  be  sorry  for  your  riots, 
Tame  your  wild  flesh  by  labour ;  eat  the  broad 
Got  with  hard  hands ;  let  sorrow  be  your  whip. 
To  draw  drops  of  repentance  from  your  heart : 
When  I  read  this  amendment  in  your  eyes, 
You  shall  not  want ;  till  then,  my  pity  dies. 

[Exit- 
Spun.  Is  it  not  a  shame,  that  this  scurvy  puerilis 
should  give  us  lessons  ? 

Hir.  I  have  dwelt,  thou  know'st,  a  long  time 
in  the  suburbs  of  conscience,  and  they  are  ever 
bawdy ;  but  now  my  heart  shall  take  a  house 
within  the  walls  of  honesty. 

Enter  Hakpax  heJiind. 

Spun.  Oh  you  drawers  of  wine,  draw  me  no  more 
to  the  bar  of  beggary  ;  the  sound  of  /Store  a  pottle 
of  sack  is  worse  than  the  noise  of  a  scolding 
oyster  wench,  or  two  cats  incorporating. 

Harp.  This  must  not  be — I  do  not  like  when 

conscience 
Thaws ;  keep  her  frozen  still.  [Comes  foi'ward.'] 

How  now,  my  masters ! 
Dejected  ?  drooping  ?  drown'd  in  tears  ?  clothes 

torn  ? 
Lean,  and  ill  colour'd  ?   sighing  ?   where's   the 

whirlwind 
Which  raises  all  these  mischiefs  ?   I  have  seen 

you 
Drawn  better  on't.     Oh,  but  a  spirit  told  me 
You  both  would  come  to  this,  when  in  you  thrust 
Yourselves  into  the  service  of  that  lady. 
Who  shortly  now  must  die.     Where's  now  her 

praying  ? 
What  good  got  you  by  wearing  out  your  feet, 
To  run  on  scurvy  en-ands  to  the  poor. 
And  to  bear  money  to  a  sort  ^  of  rogues, 
And  lousy  prisoners  ? 


*  caroched — in  a  caroche  or  coach. 

*  sort — lot,  company. 


Hir.  Pox  on  them!  I  never  prospered  since  I 
did  it. 

Spun.  Had  I  been  a  pagan  still,  I  should  not 
have  spit  white  for  want  of  drink ;  but  come  to 
any  vintner  now,  and  bid  him  trust  me,  because 
I  turned  Christian,  and  he  cries,  Poh ! 
Harp.  You're    rightly    served  ;     before    that 
peevish  •  lady 
Had  to  do  with  you,  women,  wine,  and  money 
Flow'd  in  abundance  with  you,  did  it  not  ? 
Hir.  Oh,  those  days !  those  days ! 
Harp.  Beat  not  your  breasts,  tear  not  your  hoar 
in  madness ; 
Those  days  shall  come  again,  be  ruled  by  me ; 
And  better,  mark  me,  better. 

Spun.  I  have  seen  you,  sir,  as  I  take  it,  an  at- 
tendant on  the  lord  Theophilus. 
Harp.  Yes,  yes ;    in  show  his  servant :  but — • 
hark,  hither ! — 
Take  heed  nobody  listens. 
Spun.  Not  a  mouse  stirs. 
Harp.  I  am  a  prince  disguised. 
Hir.  Disguised !  how  ?  drunk  ? 
Harp.  Yes,  my  fine  boy !  I'll  drink  too,  and  bo 
drunk ; 
I  am  a  prince,  and  any  man  by  me, 
Let  him  but  keep  my  rules,  shall  soon  grow  rich, 
Exceeding  rich,  most  infinitely  rich : 
He  that  shall  serve  me,  is  not  starved  from  plea- 
sures 
As  other  poor  knaves  are ;  no,  take  their  fill. 
Spun.  But  that,  sir,  we're  so  ragged — 
Harp.  You'll  say,  you'd  serve  me  ? 
Hir.  Before  any  master  under  the  zodiac. 
Harp.  For  clothes  no  matter ;  I've  a  mind  to 
both. 
And  one  thing  I  like  in  you ;  now  that  you  see 
The  bonfire  of  your  lady's  state  burnt  out, 
You  give  it  over,  do  you  not  ? 
Hir.  Let  her  be  hang'd ! 
Spun.  And  pox'd ! 
Harp.  Why,  now  you're  mine ; 
Come,  let  my  bosom  touch  you. 
Spun.  We  have  bugs,  sir. 
Harp.  There's  money,  fetch  your  clothes  home ; 

there's  for  you. 
Hir.  Avoid,  vermin!  give  over  our  misti-ess; 
a  man  cannot  prosper  worse  if  he  serve  the  devil. 
Harp.  How !  the  devil  ?  I'll  tell  you  what  now 
of  the  devil, 
He's  no  such  horrid  creature ;  cloven-footed. 
Black,  saucer-eyed,  his  nostrils  breathing  fire, 
As  these  lying  Christians  make  him. 
Both.  No! 

Harp.  He's  more  loving 
To  man,  than  man  to  man  is. 

Hir.  Is  he  so?  Would  we  two  might  come 
acquainted  with  him ! 

Harp.  You  shall :  he's  a  wondrous  good  fellow, 
loves  a  cup  of  wine,  a  whore,  anything;  if  you 
have  money,  it's  ten  to  one  but  I'll  bring  him  to 
some  tavern  to  you  or  other. 

Spun.  I'll  bespeak  the  best  room  in  the  house 
for  him. 

Harp.  Some  people  he  cannot  endure 
Hir.  We'll  give  him  no  such  cause. 
Harp.  He  hates  a  civil  lawyer,  as  a  soldier 
does  peace. 
Spun.  How  a  commoner  ?  2 
Harp,  Loves  him  from  the  teeth  outward. 
Spun.  Pray,  my  lord  and  prince,  let  me  en- 
counter you  with  one  foolish  question :  does  the 
devil  eat  any  mace  in  his  broth  ? 


1  peevish — foolish. 

2  commoner — a  common  lawyer. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


401 


Harp.  Exceeding  much,  wbeu  his  burning  fever 
takes  him;  and  then  he  has  the  knuckles  of  a 
bailiff  boiled  to  his  breakfast. 

Hir.  Then,  my  lord,  he  loves  a  catchpole,'  does 
he  not  ? 

Harp.  As  a  bearward  "  doth  a  dog.  A  catch- 
pole  !  he  hath  sworn,  if  ever  he  dies,  to  make  a 
serjeaut  his  heir,  and  a  yeoman  his  overseer. 

iSpun.  How  if  he  come  to  any  great  man's  gate, 
will  the  porter  let  him  come  in,  sir  ? 

Harp.  Oh !  he  loves  porters  of  great  men's 
gates,  because  they  are  ever  so  near  the  wicket. 

Hir.  Do  not  they  whom  he  makes  mtich  on, 
for  all  his  stroking  their  cheeks,  lead  hellish 
lives  under  him .' 

Harp.  No,  no,  no,  no ;  he  will  be  damn'd  be- 
fore he  hurts  any  man :  do  but  you  (when  you 
are  throughly  acquainted  with  him)  ask  for  any- 
thing, see  if  it  does  not  come. 

Spun.  Anything ! 

Hir.  Oh!  my  elbow  itches.  "Will  the  devil 
keep  the  door .' 

Harp.  Be  drunk  as  a  beggar,  he  helps  j'ou  home. 

Spun.  Oh  my  fine  devil !  some  watchman,  I 
warrant ;  I  wonder  who  is  his  constable. 

Harp.  Will  you  swear,  roar,  swagger?  he 
claps  you — 

Hir.  How  ?  on  the  chaps  ? 

Haip.  No,  on  the  shoulder ;  and  cries,  Oh,  my 
brave  boys !  Will  any  of  you  kill  a  man  ? 

Spun.  Yes,  yes  ;  I,  I. 

Harp.  What  is  his  word?  Hang!  hang!  'tis 
nothing. — Or  stab  a  woman? 

Hir.  Yes,  yes ;  I,  I. 

Harp.  Here  is  the  worst  word  he  gives  you : 
A  pox  on't,  go  on  ! 

Hir.  Oh  inveigling  rascal!— I  am  ravish'd. 

Harp.  Go,  get  your  clothes;  turn  up  j-our  glass 
of  youth. 
And  let  the  sands  run  merrily :  nor  do  I  care 
From  what  a  lavish  hand  your  money  flies, 
So  you  give  none  away  to  beggars — 

Hir.  Hang  them ! 

Harp.  And  to  the  scrubbing  poor. 

Hir.  I'll  see  them  hang'd  first. 

Harp.  One  service  you  must  do  me. 

Both.  Anything. 

Harp.  Your  mistress,  Dorothea,  ere  she  suffers. 
Is  to  be  put  to  tortures  :  have  you  hearts 
To  tear  her  into  shrieks,  to  fetch  her  soul 
Up  in  the  pangs  of  death,  yet  not  to  die  ? 

Hir.  Suppose  this  she,  and  that  I  had  no  hands, 
here's  my  teeth. 

Spun.  Suppose  this  she,  and  that  I  had  no  teeth, 
here's  my  nails. 

Hir.  But  will  not  you  be  there,  sir  ? 

Harp.  No,  not  for  hills  of  diamonds ;  the  grand 
master, 
Who  schools  her  in  the  Christian  discipline. 
Abhors  my  company  :  should  I  be  there, 
You'd  think  all  hell  broke  loose,  we  should  so 

quarrel. 
Ply  you  this  business  ;  he  her  flesh  who  spares. 
Is  lost,  and  in  my  love  never  more  shares.     [_Exit. 

Spun.  Here's  a  master,  you  rogue  ! 

Hir.  Sure  he  cannot  choose  but  have  a  horrible 
number  of  servants.  \_Exeunt. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

The  Governor^  Palace. 

Antoninus  on  a  couch,  asleep,  with  Doctors  about 

him;  SAPRrrius  a?ic/ Macrinus. 

Sap.  Oh  you,  that  are  half  gods,  lengthen  that  life 

1  catchpole — a  bailiff's  assistant. 

2  bearward — ward  or  keeper  of  a  bear  for  baiting. 


Their  deities  lend  us ;  turn  o'er  all  the  volumes 
Of  your  mysterious  JSsculapian  science, 
T'increase  the  nimiber  of  this  young  man's  days : 
And,  for  each  minute  of  his  time  prolong'd, 
Your  fee  shall  be  a  piece  of  Eoman  gold 
With  Caesar's  stamp,  such  as  he  sends  his  cap- 
tains 
When  in  the  wars  they  earn  well :  do  but  save 

him, 
And,  as  he's  half  himself,  be  you  all  mine. 

1  Boat.  What  art  can  do,  we  promise  ;  physic's 
hand 
As  apt  is  to  destroy  as  to  preserve, 
If  heaven  make  not  the  med'cino  :  all  this  while, 
Our  skill  hath  combat  held  with  his  disease  ; 
But  'tis  so  arm'd,  and  a  deep  melancholy, 
To  be  such  in  part  with  death,  we  are  in  fear 
The  grave  must  mock  our  labours. 

Mac.  I  have  been 
His  keeper  in  this  sickness,  with  such  eyes 
As  I  have  seen  my  mother  watch  o'er  me ; 
And,  from  that  observation,  sure  I  find 
It  is  a  midwife  must  deliver  him. 

Sap.  Is  he  with  child  ?     A  midwife  ! 

3Iac.  Yes,  with  child  ; 
And  will,  I  fear,  lose  life,  if  by  a  woman 
He  is  not  brought  to  bed.     Stand  by  his  pillow 
Some  little  while,  and,  iu  his  broken  slumbers, 
Him  shall  you  hear  cry  out  on  Dorothea ; 
And,  when  his  arms  fly  open  to  catch  her, 
Closing  together,  he  falls  fast  asleep. 
Pleased  with  embracings  of  her  airy  form. 
Physicians  but  torment  him,  his  disease 
Laughs  at   their  gibberish  language  ;    let   him 

hear 
The  voice  of  Dorothea,  nay,  but  the  name, 
He  starts  up  with  high  colour  in  his  face : 
She,  or  none,  cures  him  ;  and  how  that  can  be, 
The  princess'  strict  command  barring  that  happi- 
ness. 
To  me  impossible  seems. 

Sap.  To  me  it  shall  not ; 
I'll  be  no  subject  to  the  greatest  Csesar 
Was  ever  crown'd  with  laurel,  rather  than  cease 
To  be  a  father.  \_Exit. 

Mac.  Silence,  sir,  he  wakes. 

Anton.  Thou  kill'st  me,  Dorothea ;  oh,  Doro- 
thea! 

Mac.  She's  here : — enjoy  her. 

Anton.  Whei'e  ?     Why  do  you  mock  me  ? 
Age  on  my  head  hath  stuck  no  white  hairs  yet, 
Yet  I'm  an  old  man,  a  fond  doting  fool 
Upon  a  woman.     I,  to  buy  her  beauty 
(In  truth  I  am  bewitch'd),  offer  my  life. 
And  she,  for  my  acquaintance,  hazards  hers  : 
Yet,  for  our  equal  sufferings,  none  holds  out 
A  hand  of  pity. 

1  Doct.  Let  him  have  some  music. 

Anton.  Hell  on  your  fiddling  ! 

[Starting  from  his  couch. 

1  Doct.  Take  again  your  bed,  sir ; 
Sleep  is  a  sovereign  physic. 

Anton.  Take  an  ass's  head,  sir  : 
Confusion  on  your  fooleries,  your  charms  ! — 
Thou  stinking  clyster-pipe,  where's  the'  god  of 

rest. 
Thy  pills  and  base  apothecary  drugs 
Threaten'd  to  bring  unto  me?      Out,  you  im- 
postors ! 
Quacksalving,  cheating  mountebanks  !  your  skill 
Is  to  make  sound  men  sick,  and  sick  men  kill. 

Mac.  Oh,  be  yoiu-self,  dear  friend. 

Anton.  Mj'self,  Macrinus ! 
How  can  I  be  myself,  when  I  am  mangled 
Into  a  thousand  pieces  ?     Here  moves  my  head, 
But  where's  my  heart  ?      Wherever — that  lies 
dead. 


2o 


402 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Re-enter  Sapritius,  dragging  in  Dorothea  hy 
the  hair,  Angelo  jollowing. 

Sap.  Follow  me,  thou  damn'd  sorceress !     Call 
up  thy  spu'its, 
And,  if  they  can,  now  let  them  from  my  hand 
Untwine  these  witching  hairs. 

Anton.  I  am  that  spirit : 
Or,  if  I  be  not,  were  you  not  my  father, 
One   made  of    iron   should  hew  that  hand  in 

pieces. 
That  so  defaces  this  sweet  monument 
Of  my  love's  beauty. 

Sap.  Art  thou  sick  ? 

Anton.  To  death. 

Sap.  Wouldst  thou  recover  ? 

Anton.  "Would  I  live  in  bliss ! 

Sap.  And  do  thine  eyes  shoot  daggers  at  that 
man 
That  brings  thee  health  ? 

Anton.  It  is  not  in  the  world. 

Sap.  It's  here. 

Anton.  To  treasure,  by  enchantment  lock'd 
In  caves  as  deep  as  hell,  am  I  as  near. 

Sap.  Break  that  enchanted  cave  :  enter,  and 
rifle 
The  spoils  thy  lust  hunts  after ;  I  descend 
To  a  base  office,  and  become  thy  pander. 
In  bringing  thee  this  proud  thing :  make  her  thy 

whore. 
Thy  health  lies  here  ;  if  she  deny  to  give  it, 
Force  it :  imagine  thou  assault'st  a  town's 
Weak  wall ;    to't,  'tis  thine  own,  but  beat  this 

down. 
Come,  and,  unseen,  be  witness  to  this  battery. 
How  the  coy  strumpet  yields. 

1  Doct.  Shall  the  boy  stay,  sir? 

Sap.  No  matter  for  the  boy  : — pages  are  used 
To  these  odd  bawdy  shufflings ;  and,  indeed,  are 
Those  little  young  snakes  in  a  Fury's  head, 
Will  sting  worse  than  the  great  ones. — 
Let  the  pimp  stay. 

\_Exeunt  Sap.,  Mac,  and  Doct. 

Dor,  Oh,  guard  me,  angels  ! 
What  tragedy  must  begin  now  ? 

Anton.  When  a  tiger 
Leaps  into  a  timorous  herd,  with  ravenous  jaws, 
Being  hunger-starv'd,  what  ta-agedy  then  begins  ? 

Dor.  Death  ;  I  am  happy  so  ;  you,  hitherto, 
Have   still  had  goodness   sphered  within  your 

eyes, 
Let  not  that  orb  be  broken. 

Ang.  Fear  not,  mistress  ; 
If  he  daretjffer  violence,  we  two 
Are  strong  enough  for  such  a  sickly  man. 

Dor.  What  is  your  horrid  purpose,  sir  ?    Your 
eye 
Bears  danger  in  it. 

Anton.  I  must — 

Dor.  Whait? 

Sap.  \_within.']  Speak  it  out. 

Anton.  Climb  that  sweet  virgin  tree. 

Sap.  \within.']  Plague  o'  your  trees ! 

Anton.  And  pluck   that  fruit  which   none,  I 
think,  e'er  tasted. 

Sap.  [within.']  A  soldier,  and  stand  fumbling 
so! 

Dor.  Oh,  kiU  me,  [Kneels. 

And  Heaven  will  take  it  as  a  sacrifice ; 
But,  if  you  play  the  ravisher,  there  is 
A  hell  to  swallow  you. 

Sap.  [within.']  Let  her  swallow  thee ! 

Anton.  Bise: — for  the  Koman  empire,  Doro- 
thea, 
I  would  not  wound  thine  honour.     Pleasures 
forced. 


Are  unripe  apples,  sour,  not  worth  the  pluck- 
ing: 
Yet,  let  me  tell  you,  'tis  my  father's  will, 
That  I  should  seize  upon  you  as  my  prey ; 
Which  I  abhor,  as  much  as  the  blackest  sin 
The  viUany  of  man  did  ever  act. 

[Sapritius  breaks  in  ivith  Macres'us. 
Dor.  Die  happy  for  this  language ! 
Sap.  Die  a  slave, 
A  blockish  idiot ! 
3Iac.  Dear  sir,  vex  him  not. 
Sap.  Yes,  and  vex  thee  too ;  both,  I  think,  are 
geldings; 
Cold,    phlegmatic   bastard,    thou'i-t   no    brat   of 

mine; 
One  spai-k  of  me,  when  I  had  heat  like  thine, 
By  this  had  made  a  bonfire :  a  tempting  whore, 
For  whom  thou'rt  mad,  thrust   e'en  into  thine 

arms, 
And  stand'st  thou  puling !    Had  a  tailor  seen  her 
At  this  advantage,  he,  with  his  cross  capers. 
Had  ruffled  her  by  this  :  but  thou  shalt  curse 
Thy  dalliance,  and  here,  before  her  eyes. 
Tear  thy  own  flesh  in  pieces,  when  a  slave 
In  hot  lust  bathes  himself,  and  gluts  those  plea- 
sures 
Thy  niceness  durst  not  touch.     Call  out  a  slave ; 
You,  captain,  of  our  guard,  fetch  a  slave  hither. 
Anton.  What  will  you  do,  dear  sir  ? 
Sap.  Teach  her  a  trade,  which  many  a  one 
would  learn 
In  less  than  half  an  hour, — to  play  the  whore. 

Enter  Soldiers  with  a  Slave. 

il/ac.  A  slave  is  come ;  what  now  ? 

Sap.  Thou  hast  bones  and  flesh 
Enough  to  ply  thy  labour ;  from  what  couutiy 
Wert  thou  ta'eu  prisoner,  here  to  be  our  slave  .' 

Slave.  From  Britain. 

Sap.  In  the  West  Ocean  ? 

Slave.  Yes. 

Sap.  An  island  ? 

Slave.  Yes. 

Sap.  I'm  fitted.i — Sirrah  fellow. 
What  wouldst  thou  do  to  gaiu  thy  liberty  ? 

Slave.  Do !  liberty !  fight  naked  with  a  Uon, 
Venture  to  pluck  a  standard  from  the  heart 
Of  an  arm'd  legion.    Liberty  !  I'd  thus 
Bestride  a  rampire,  and  defiance  spit 
I'  the  face  of  death,  then,  when  the  battering-ram 
Was  fetching  his  career  backward,  to  pash 
Me  with  his   horns  in   pieces.     To  shake  my 

chains  off, 
And  that  I  could  not  do't  but  by  thy  death, 
Stoodst  thou  on  this  dry  shore,  I  on  a  rock 
Ten  pyi'amids  high,  down  would  I  leap  to  kill 

thee. 
Or  die  myself :  what  is  for  man  to  do, 
I'll  venture  on,  to  be  no  more  a  slave. 

Sap.  Thou  shalt,  then,  be  no  slave,  for  I  will 
set  thee 
Upon  a  piece  of  work  is  fit  for  man ; 
Brave  for  a  Briton  : — drag  that  thing  aside. 
And  ravish  her. 

Slave.   And  ravish  her!   is  this  your  manly 
service  ?  ; 

A  devil  scorns  to  do  it ;  'tis  for  a  beast, 
A  villain,  not  a  man :  I  am,  as  yet. 
But  half  a  slave  ;  but,  when  that  work  is  past, 
A  damned  whole  one,  a  black  ugly  slave. 
The    slave    of    aU    base    slaves:— do't   thyself, 

Eoman, 
'Tis  drudgery  fit  for  thee. 


i^Wed— suited. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


403 


8a-p.  He's  bewitcli'd  too  : 
Bind  him,  and  with  a  bastinado  give  him, 
Upon  his  naked  belly,  two  hundred  blows. 
Slam.  Thou  art  more  slave  than  I. 

\TIe  is  earned  in. 
Dor.   That  Power  supernal,  on  whom,  waits 
my  soul, 
Is  captain  o'er  my  chastity. 

Anton.  Good  sir,  give  o'er : 
The  more  you  wrong  her,  yourself's  vex'd  the 
more. 
Sap.  Plagues  light  on  her  and  thee  ! — ^thus 
down  1  throw. 
Thy  harlot,  thus  by  the  hair  nail  her  to  earth. 
Call  in  ten  slaves,  let  every  one  discover 
What  lust  desires,  and  surfeit  here  his  fill. 
Call  in  ten  slaves. 

Enter  Slaves. 

3fac.  They  are  come,  sir,  at  your  call. 
/Saj>.  Oh,  oh !  IFalls  down- 

Enter  Theophilus. 

Tkeoph.  Where  is  the  governor  ? 
Anton.  There's  my  wretched  father. 
Tlieoph.  My  lord  Sapritius — he's  not  dead! — 
my  lord ! 
That  witch  there — 

Anton.  'Tis  no  Eoman  gods  can  strike 
These  fearful  terrors.     Oh,  thou  happy  maid, 
Forgive  this  wicked  purpose  of  my  father. 
Dor.  I  do. 

Theoph.  Gone,  gone ;  he's  pepper'd.     It  is  thou 
Hast  done  this  act  infernal. 

Dor.  Heaven  pardon  you ! 
And  if  my  wrongs  from  thence  pull  vengeance 

down 
(I  can  no  miracles  work),  yet,  from  my  soul. 
Pray  to  those  Powers  I  serve,  he  may  recover. 
Theojih.  He  stirs,  —  help,  raise  him  up, — my 

lord! 
Sap.  Where  am  I  ? 
Tkeoph.  One  cheek  is  blasted. 
Sap.  Blasted!  where's  the  lamia  1 
That  tears  my  entrails?     I'm  bewitch'd!  seize 
on  her. 
Dor.  I'm  here ;  do  what  you  please. 
Theoph.  Spurn  her  to  the  bar. 
D07:   Come,  boy,  being  there,    moi'e  near  to 

heaven  we  are. 
Sap.  Kick  harder ;  go  out,  witch ! 

[^Exeunt. 
Anton.  Oh  bloody  hangmen !    Thine  o^vn  gods 
give  thee  breath ! 
Each  of  thy  tortures  is  my  several  death. 

[Exit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  11. 

A  Public  Square. 
Enter  Haepax,  Hikcius,  and  Spungics. 

Harp.  Do  you  like  my  service  now  ?    Say,  am 
not  I 
A  master  worth  attendance  ? 

Spun.  Attendance  !  I  had  rather  lick  clean  the 
soles  of  your  dirty  boots,  than  wear  the  richest 
suit  of  any  infected  lord,  whose  rotten  life  hangs 
between  the  two  poles. 

Eir.  A  lord's  suit!  I  would  not  give  up  the 
cloak  of  your  service,  to  meet  the  splayfoot  estate 


*  Zamjo— Greek  for  sorceress,  hag. 


of  any  left-eyed  knight  above  the  antipodes ;  be- 
cause they  are  unlucky  to  meet. 

Harp.  This  day  I'll  tiy  your  loves  to  me ;  'tis 
only 
But  well  to  use  the  agility  of  yoiar  arms. 

Spun.  Or  legs,  I  am  lusty  at  them. 

Eir.  Or  any  other  member  that  has  no  legs. 

Spun.  Thou'lt  run  into  some  hole. 

Eir.  If  I  meet  one  that's  more  than  my  match, 
and  that  I  cannot  stand  in  their  hands,  I  must 
and  will  creep  on  my  knees. 

Earp.  Hear  me,    my  little  team  of  villains, 
hear  me ; 
I  cannot  teach  you  fencing  with  these  cudgels. 
Yet  you  must    use   them;    lay    them    on    but 

soundly ; 
That's  all. 

Eir.  Nay,  if  we  come  to  mauling  once,  pah  ! 

Spu7i.    But  what  walnut  tree  is  it  we  must 
beat? 

Earp.  Your  mistress. 

Eir.  How!  my  mistress?  I  begin  to  have  a 
Christian's  heart  made  of  sweet  butter,  I  melt ;  I 
cannot  strike  a  woman. 

Spun.  Nor   I,    unless    she   scratch;   bum  my 
mistress ! 

Earp.  You're  coxcombs,  silly  animals. 

Eir.  What's  that? 

Earp.  Drones,  asses,  blinded  moles,  that  dare 
not  thrust 
Your  arms  out  to  catch  fortune :  say,  you  fall  off, 
It  must  be  done.     You  are  converted  rascals, 
And,  that  once  spread  abroad,  why  every  slave 
Will  kick  you,  call  you  motley  Christians, 
And  half-faced  Christians. 

Spun.  The  guts  of  my  conscience  begin  to  be 
of  whitleather.' 

Eir.  I  doubt  me,  I  shall  have  no  sweet  butter 
in  me. 

Earp.  Deny  this,  and  each  pagan  whom  you 
meet, 
Shall  forked  fingers  thrust  into  your  eyes — 

Eir.  If  we  be  cuckolds. 

Earp.    Do  this,  and  every  god  the   Gentiles 
bow  to. 
Shall  add  a  fathom  to  your  line  of  years. 

Spun.  A  hundred  fathom,  I  desire  no  more. 

Eir.  I  desire  but  one  inch  longer. 

Earp.  The  senators  will,  as  you  pass  along, 
Clap  you  upon  your  shoulders  with  this  hand, 
And  with  this  give  you  gold.     When  you  are 

dead, 
Happy  that  man  shall  be  can  get  anail. 
The  paring,  nay,  the  dirt  under  the  nail, 
Of  any  of  you  both,  to  say,  this  dirt 
Belonged  to  Spungius  or  Hircius. 

Spun.  They  shall  not  want  dirt  under  my 
nails,  I  will  keep  them  long  of  purpose,  for  now 
my  fingers  itch  to  be  at  her. 

Eir.  The  first  thing  I  do,  I'll  take  her  ovei; 
the  lips. 

Spun.  And  I  the  hips, — we  may  strike  any- 
where ? 

Earp.  Yes,  anywhere. 

Eir.  Then  I  know  where  I'll  hit  her. 

Earp.  Prosper,  and  be  mine  own ;  stand  by,  I 
must  not 
To  see  this  done,  great  business  calls  me  hence: 
He's  made  can  make  her  curse  his  violence. 

[_Exit. 

Spun.  Fear  it  not,  sir ;  her  ribs  shall  be  basted. 

Eir.  I'll  come  upon  her  with  rounce,  robble- 
hobble,  and  thwick-thwack-thirleiy  bouncing. 

1  whUleaiher—lsa.t'hev  made  very  rough  by  peculiar 
di'esslDg. 


404 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Enter  Dorothea,  ledprisoner ;  Sapritius,  Theo- 
PHiLUs,  Angelo,  and  a  Hangman,  who  sets 
up  a  Pillar.  Sapritius  and  Theophilus 
sit;  Angelo  stoHc/s  Jy  Dorothea.  ^  Guard 
attending. 

Sap.  According  to  our  Roman  customs,  bind 
That  Christian  to  a  pillar. 

Theoph.  Infernal  Furies, 
Could  they  into  my  hand  thrust  all  their  whips 
To  tear  thy  flesh,  thy  soul,  'tis  not  a  torture 
Fit  to  the  vengeance  I  should  heap  on  thee, 
For  wrongs  done  me ;  me !  for  flagitious  facts, 
By  thee  done  to  our  gods :  yet,  so  it  stand 
To  great  Cgesai-ea's  governor's  high  pleasure, 
Bow  but  thy  knee  to  Jupiter,  and  offer 
Any  slight  sacrifice ;  or  do  but  swear 
By  Csesar's  fortune,  and — be  free. 

Sap.  Thou  shalt. 

Dor.    Not  for  all  CsBsar's   fortune,    were   it 
chain'd 
To  more  worlds  than  are  kingdoms  in  the  world. 
And  all  those  worlds  drawn  after  him.     I  defy 
Your  hangmen;  you  now  show  me  whither  to 

fly- 

Sap.  Are  her  tormentors  ready  ? 
Ang.  Shrink  not,  dear  mistress. 
Spun,  and  Hlr.  My  lord,  we  are  ready  for  the 
business. 

Dor.  You  two !   whom  I  liko  f oster'd  children 
fed. 
And  lengthen'd  out  your  starved  life  with  bread. 
You    be   my   hangmen !    whom,    when  up   the 

ladder 
Death  haled  you  to  be  strangled,  I  fetch'd  down, 
Clothed  you,  aud  warm'd  you,  you  two  my  tor- 
mentors ! 
Both.  Yes,  we. 

Dor.  Divine  Powers  pardon  you ! 
Sap.  Strike. 

[They  strike  at  her:  Angelo, 
kneeling,  holds  her  fast. 
Theoph.  Beat  out  her  brains. 
Dor.  Eeceive  me,  you  bright  angels ! 
Sap.  Faster,  slaves. 

Spun.  Faster !  I  am  out  of  breath,  I  am  sure ; 
if  I  were  to  beat  a  buck, '  I  can  strike  no  harder. 
Hir.  Oh  mine  arms !  I  cannot  lift  them  to  my 
head. 
Dor.    Joy   above  joys!     are    my    tormentors 
weary 
In  torturing  me,  and,  in  my  sufferings, 
I  fainting  in  no  limb  !  tj'rants,  strike  home, 
And  feast  your  fury  full. 

Theoph.  These  dogs  are  curs, 

[Comes  from  his  seat. 
Which  snarl,  yet  bite  not.     See,  my  lord,  her 

face 
Has  more  bewitching  beauty  than  before : 
Proud  whore,  it  smiles !  cannot  an  eye  start  out, 
With  these  ? 

Hir.  No,  sir,  nor  the  bridge  of  her  nose  fall ; 
'tis  full  of  ironwork. 
Sap.    Let's  view  the    cudgels,  are  they  not 

counterfeit  ? 
Ang.  There  fix  thine  eye  still; — thy  glorious 
crown  must  come 
Not  from  soft  pleasure,  but  by  martyrdom. 
There  fix  thine  eye  still; — when  we  next  do 

meet. 
Not  thorns,  but  roses,  shall  bear  up  thy  feet : 
There  fix  thine  eye  still.  [Exit. 

Doi:  Ever,  ever,  ever! 

>  heat  a  buck.  To  buck  is  to  wash  clothes  by  laying 
them  on  a  smooth  plank  or  stone,  and  beating  them 
with  a  pole  flattened  at  the  sides. 


Enter  Hakpax,  sneaking. 

Theoph.  We're  mock'd ;  these  bats  have  power 
to  fell  down  giants, 
Yet  her  skin  is  not  scarr'd. 
Sap.  What  rogues  are  these  ? 
Theoph.  Cannot  these  force  a  shriek  ? 

[Beats  Spungius. 
Spun.  Oh !  a  woman  has  one  of  my  ribs,  and 
now  five  more  are  broken. 

Theoph.  Cannot  this  make  her  roar  ? 

[Beats  HiRcius ;  he  roars. 
Sap.  Who  hired  these  slaves  ?  what  are  they .' 
Spun.  We  serve  that  noble  gentleman  there ; 
he  enticed  us  to  this  dry  beating.     Oh  for  one 
half  pot! 
Harp).    My  servants!    two  base   rogues,   and 
sometime  servants 
To  her,  and  for  that  cause  forbear  to  hurt  her. 
Sap.  Unbind  her ;  hang  up  these. 
Theoph.  Hang  the  two  hounds  on  the  next 
tree. 

Hir.  Hang  us !  Master  Harpax,  what  a  devil, 
shall  we  be  thus  used  ? 
Harp.  What  bandogs  but  you  two  would  worry 
a  woman .' 
Your  mistress.'  I  but  clapt  you,  you  flew  on. 
Say  I  should  get  your  lives,  each  rascal  beggar 
Would,  when  he  met  you,  cry  out.  Hell-hounds! 

traitors ! 
Spit  at  you,  fling  dirt  at  you ;  and  no  woman 
Ever  endure  your  sight :  'tis  your  best  course 
Now,    had  you    secret  knives,    to    stab    your- 
selves ; — 
But,  since  you  have  not,  go  and  be  hang'd. 
Hir.  I  thank  you. 
Haip.  'Tis  your  best  course. 
■  Theoph.  Why  stay  they  trifling  here  ? 
To  the  gallows  drag  them  by  the  heels ; — away ! 
Sp)un.  By  the  heels !  no,  sir,  we  have  legs  to 
do  us  that  service. 

Hir.  Ay,  ay,  if  no  woman  can  endure  my  sight, 
away  with  me. 
Haip.  Despatch  them. 
Sjmn.  The  devil  despatch  thee  ! 

[Exeunt  Guard  with  Spungius  and  Hircius. 
Saj}.  Death  this  day  rides  in  triumph,  Theo- 
philus. 
See  this  witch  made  away  too. 

Theoph.  My  soul  thirsts  for  it ; 
Come,  I  myself  the  hangman's  part  could  play. 
Dor.  Oh  haste  me  to  my  coronation  day ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 
The  Place  of  Execution.     A  Scaffold,  Block,  ^c. 

Enter  Antoninus,  supported  hy  Macrinus,  and 
Servants. 

Anton.  Is  this  the  place,  where  virtue  is  to 
suffer. 
And  heavenly  beauty,  leaving  this  base  earth. 
To  make  a  glad  return  from  whence  it  came  ? 
Is  it,  Macrinus.' 

Mac.  By  this  preparation. 
You  well  may  rest  assured  that  Dorothea 
This  hour  is  to  die  here. 

Anton.  Then  with  her  dies 
The  abstract  of  all  sweetness  that's  in  woman ! 
Set  me  down,  friend,  that,  ere  the  iron  hand 
Of  death  close  up  mine  eyes,  they  may  at  once 
Take  my  last  leave  both  of  this  light  and  her : 
For,  she  being  gone,  the  glorious  sun  himself 
To  me's  Cimmerian  darkness. 

Mac.  Strange  affection! 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


405 


Cupid  once  more  hath  changed  his  shafts  with 

Death, 
And  kills,  instead  of  giving  life. 

Anton.  Nay,  weep  not ; 
Though  tears  of  friendship  be  a  sovereign  balm, 
On  me  they're  cast  away.     It  is  decreed 
That  I  must  die  with  her ;  our  clue  of  life 
Was  spun  together. 

Mac.  Yet,  sir,  'tis  my  wonder. 
That  you,  who,  hearing  only  what  she  suffers, 
Partake  of  all  her  tortures,  yet  will  be. 
To  add  to  your  calamity,  an  eye-witness 
Of  her  last  tragic  scene,   which    must    pierce 

deeper. 
And  make  the  wound  more  desperate. 

Anton.  Oh,  Macrinus ! 
'Twould  linger  out  my  torments  else,;not  kill  me, 
Which  is  the  end  I  aim  at :  being  to  die  too, 
What  instrument  more  gloi'ious  can  I  wish  for, 
Than  what  is  made  sharp  by  my  constant  love 
And  true  affection .'     It  may  be,  the  duty 
And  loyal  service,  with  which  I  pursued  her. 
And  seal'd  it  with  my  death,  will  be  remember'd 
Among  her  blessed  actions :  and  what  honour 
Can  I  desire  beyond  it  ? 

Enter  a  Guard  bringing  in  Dorothea,  a  Heads- 
man before  her;  followed  by  Theuphilus, 
Safritius,  and  Harpax. 

See,  she  comes ; 
How  sweet  her  innocence  appears !  more  like 
To  heaven  itself,  than  any  sacrifice 
That  can  be  offer'd  to  it.     By  my  hopes 
Of  joys  hereafter,  the  sight  makes  me  doubtful 
In  my  belief ;  nor  can  I  think  our  gods 
Are  good,  or  to  be  served,  that  take  delight 
In  offerings  of  this  kind :  that,  to  maintain 
Their  power,  deface  the  masterpiece  of  nature. 
Which   they  themselves   come   short   of.      She 

ascends. 
And  every  step  raises  her  nearer  heaven. 
What  god  soe'er  thou  art,  that  must  enjoy  her, 
Eeceive  in  her  a  boundless  happiness! 

Sap.  You  are  to  blame 
To  let  him  come  abroad. 
Mac.  It  was  his  will ; 
And  we  were  left  to  serve  him,  not  command 

him. 
Anton.  Good  sir,  be  not  offended ;  nor  deny 
My  last  of  pleasures  in  this  happy  object, 
That  I  shall  e'er  be  blest  with. 

Theoph.  Now,  proud  contemner 
Of  us,  and  of  our  gods,  tremble  to  think 
It  is  not  in  the  Power  thou  serv'st  to  save  thee. 
Not  all  the  riches  of  the  sea,  increased 
By  violent  shipwrecks,  nor  the  unsearch'd  mines 
(Mammon's  unknown  exchequer)  shall  redeem 

thee: 
And,  therefore,  having  first  with  horror  weigh'd 
What  'tis  to  die,  and  to  die  young;  to  part  with 
All  pleasures  and  delights;  lastly  to  go 
Where  all  antipathies  to  comfort  dwell, 
Furies  behind,  about  thee,  and  before  thee ; 
And,  to  add  to  affliction,  the  remembrance 
Of  the  Elysian  joys  thou  might'st  have  tasted, 
Hadst  thou  turn'd  apostata  to  those  gods 
That  so  reward  their  servants;  let  despair 
Prevent    the    hangman's    sword,    and    on    this 

scaffold 
Make  thy  first  entrance  into  heU. 

Anton.  She  smiles, 
Unmoved,  by  Mars !  as  if  she  were  assured 
Death,  looking  on  her  constancy,  would  forget 
The  use  of  his  inevitable  hand. 

Theoph.  Derided  too!  despatch,  I  say. 
Dor.  Thou  fool ! 
That  gloriest  in  having  power  to  ravish 


A  ti-ifle  from  me  I  am  weary  of. 
What  is  this  life  to  me  ?  not  worth  a  thought ; 
Or,  if  it  be  esteem'd,  'tis  that  I  lose  it 
To  win  a  better :  even  thy  malice  serves 
To  me  but  as  a  ladder  to  mount  up 
To  such  a  height  of  happiness,  where  I  shall 
Look  down  with  scorn  on  thee,  and  on  the  world; 
AVhere,  circled  with  true  pleasures,  placed  above 
The  reach  of  death  or  time,  'twill  be  my  glory 
To  think  at  what  an  easy  price  I  bought  it. 
There's  a  perpetual  spring,  perpetual  youth : 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  or  scorching  heat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  thei'e. 
Forget,  for  shame,  your  Tempe ;  bury  in 
Oblivion  your  feign'd  Hesperian  orchards : — 
The  golden  fruit,  kept  by  the  watchful  dragon, 
Which  did  require  a  Hercules  to  get  it, 
Compared  with  what  grows  in  all  plenty  there. 
Deserves  not  to  be  named.     The  Power  I  serve, 
Laughs  at  your  happy  Araby,  or  the 
Elysian  shades ;  for  he  hath  made  his  bowers 
Better  indeed  than  you  can  fancy  yours. 

Anton.  Oh,  take  me  thither  with  you ! 

Dor.  Trace  my  steps. 
And  be  assured  you  shall. 

Sap.  With  my  own  hands 
I'll  rather  stop  that  little  breath  is  left  thee, 
And  rob  thy  killing  fever. 

Thioph.  By  no  means ; 
Let  him  go  with  her :  do,  seduced  young  man. 
And  wait  upon  thy  saint  in  death ;  do,  do  : 
And,  when  you  come  to  that  imagined  place, — 
That  place  of  all  delights, — pray  you,  observe  me. 
And    meet  those   cursed  things  I    once   call'd 

Daughters, 
Whom  I  have  sent  as  harbingers  before  you ; 
If  there  be  any  truth  in  your  religion. 
In  thankfulness  to  me,  that  with  care  hasten 
Your  journey  thithei-,  pray  you  send  me  some 
Small  pittance  of  that  curious  fruit  you  boast  of. 

Anton.  Grant  that  I  may  go  with  her,  and  I 
will. 

Sap.  Wilt  thou  in  thy  last  minute  damn  thy- 
self.' 

Theopih.  The  gates  to  hell  are  open. 

Dor.  Know,  thou  tyrant, 
Thou  agent  for  the  devil,  thy  great  master, 
Though  thou  art  most  unworthy  to  taste  of  it, 
I  can,  and  will. 

Enter  Angelo,  in  the  AngeVs  habit.  1 

Harp.  Oh!  mountains  fall  upon  me. 
Or  hid  me  in  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  light  may  never  find  me ! 
Theoph.  What's  the  matter  ? 
Sap.    This  is   prodigious,   and   confirms   her 

witchcraft. 
Theoph.  Hai-pax,  my  Harpax,  speak ! 
Harp.  I  dare  not  stay : 
Should  I  but  hear  her  once  more,  I  were  lost. 
Some  whirlwind  snatch  me  from  this   cursed 

place. 
To   which   compared  (and  with   what    now   I 

suffer), 
Hell's  torments  are  but  sweet  slumbers ! 

[Exit. 
Sap.  Follow  him. 

Theoph.  He  is  disti-acted,  and  I  must  not  lose 
hirn. 
Thy  charms  upon  my  servant,  cursed  witch. 
Give  thee  a  short  reprieve.     Let  her  not  die, 
Till  my  return. 

[Exeunt  Sap.  anfi  Theoph. 

'  It  appears  that  Angelo  was  not  meant  to  be  seen  or 
heard  by  any  of  the  people  present  but  Dorothea. — 

GlFFOKD. 


4o6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Anton.  She  minds  him  not :  what  object 
Is  her  eye  fix'd  on  ? 

Mac.  I  see  nothing. 

Anton.  Mark  her. 

Bor.  Thou  glorious  minister  of  the  Power  I 
serve ! 
(For  thou  art  more  than  mortal),  is't  for  me, 
Poor  sinner,  thou  art  pleased  awhile  to  leave 
Thy  heavenly  habitation,  and  vouchsafest. 
Though  glorified,  to  take  my  servant's  habit  ? — 
Por,  put  off  thy  divinity,  so  look'd 
My  lovely  Angelo. 

Aug.  Know  I  am  the  same; 
And  still  the  servant  to  your  piety. 
Tour  zealous  prayers,  and  pious  deeds  first  won 

me 
(But  'twas  by  his  command  to  whom  you  sent 

them), 
To  guide  your  steps.     I  tried  your  charity, 
When  in  a  beggar's  shape  you  took  me  up, 
And  clothed  my  naked  limbs,  and  after  fed, 
As  you  believed,  my  faraish'd  mouth.    Learn  all, 
By  your  example,  to  look  on  the  poor 
With  gentle  eyes ;  for  in  such  habits,  often 
Angels  desire  an  alms.     I  never  left  you. 
Nor  will  I  now ;  for  I  am  sent  to  cany 
Tour  pure  and  innocent  soul  to  joys  eternal. 
Tour  martyrdom  once  suffer'd ;  and  before  it, 
Ask  anj'thing  from  me,  and  rest  assm-ed, 
Tou  shaU  obtain  it. 

Dor.  I  am  largely  paid 
For  all  my  torments.     Since  I  find  such  grace, 
Grant  that  the  love  of  this  young  man  to  me. 
In  which  he  languisheth  to  death,  may  ba 
Changed  to  the  love  of  heaven. 

Ang.  I  will  perform  it ; 
And  in  that  instant  when  the  sword  sets  free 
Tour  happy  soul,  his  shall  have  liberty. 
Is  there  aught  else  ? 

Dor.  For  proof  that  I  foi-give 
My  persecutor,  who  in  scorn  desired 
To  taste  of  that  most  sacred  fruit  I  go  to ; 
After  my  death,  as  sent  from  me,  be  pleased 
To  give  him  of  it. 

Ang.  Willingly,  dear  mistress. 

Mac.  I  am  amazed. 

Anton.  I  feel  a  holy  fire, 
That  yields  a  comfortable  heat  within  me ; 
I  am  quite  alter'd  from  the  thing  I  was. 
See !  I  can  stand,  and  go  alone ;  thus  kneel 
To  heavenly  Dorothea,  touch  her  hand 
With  a  religious  kiss.  \Kne,th. 

Re-enter  SapkitiCts  and  Theophilus. 

Sap.  He  is  well  now, 
But  will  not  be  drawn  back. 

Theoph.  It  matters  not. 
We  can  discharge  this  work  without  his  help. 
But  see  your  son. 

Sap.  Villain ! 

Anton.  Sir,  I  beseech  you, 
Being  so  near  our  ends,  divorce  us  not. 

Theoph.    rU    quickly  make  a    separation  of 
them: 
Hast  thou  aught  else  to  say  ? 

Dor.  Nothing,  but  to  blame 
Thy  tardiness  in  sending  me  to  rest ; 
My  peace  is  made  with  heaven,  to  which  my  soul 
Begins  to  take  her  flight.     Strike,    oh!   strike 

quickly ; 
And,  though  you  are  unmoved  to  see  my  death, 
Hereafter,  when  my  story  shall  be  read. 
As  they  were  present  now,  the  hearers  shall 
Say  this  of  Dorothea,  with  wet  eyes, 
'  She  lived  a  virgin,  and  a  virgin  dies.' 

[Her  head  is  sbnick  off. 


Anton.   Oh,  take  my  soul  along,  to  wait  on 

thine  ! 
Mac.  Tour  son  sinks  too. 

[Antoninus  falls. 
Sap.  Already  dead! 
Theoph.  Die  all 
That  are,  or  favour  this  accursed  sect : 
I  triumph  in  their  ends,  and  will  raise  up 
A  hill  of  their  dead  carcases,  to  o'erlook 
The  Pyrenean  hills,  but  I'll  root  out 
These  superstitious  fools,  and  leave  the  world 
No  name  of  Christian. 

\Loud  music.    Exit  Angelo,  having  first 
laidhis'lhand  upon  the  mouths  o/Anton. 
and  DoK. 
Sap.  Ha !  heavenly  music ! 
3Iac.  'Tis  in  the  air. 
Theoph.  Illusions  of  the  devil. 
Wrought  by  some  witch  of  her  religion, 
That  fain  would  make  her  death  a  miracle; 
It  frights  not  me.     Because  he  is  your  son, 
Let  him  have  burial ;  but  let  her  body 
Be  cast  forth  with  contempt  in  some  highway, 
And  be  to  vultures  and  to  dogs  a  prey. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  L 

Theophilus  discovered  sitting  in  his  Study: 
boohs  about  him. 

Theoph.   Is't  holiday,  0  CiBsar,  that  thy  ser- 
vant, 
Thy  provost,  to  see  execution  done 
Ou  these  base  Christians  in  Csesarea, 
Should  now  want  work?     Sleep  these  idolaters, 
That  none  are  stirring? — As  a  curious  paiuter, 
When  he  has  made  some  honourable  piece. 
Stands  off,  and  with  a  searching  eye  examines 
Each  colour,  how  'tis  sweeten'd ;  and  then  hugs 
Himself  for  his  rare  woi'kmanship — so  here 
Will  I  my  drolleries,  and  bloody  landscapes. 
Long  past  wrapt  up,  unfold,  to  make  me  merry 
With  shadows,  now  I  want  the  substances, 
My  muster-book  of  hellhounds.    Were  the  Chris- 
tians, 
Whose  names  stand  here,  alive  and  arm'd,  not 

Eome 
Could  move  upon  her  hinges.     What  I've  done, 
Or  shall  hereafter,  is  not  out  of  hate 
To  poor  tormented  wretches ;  no,  I'm  carried 
With  violence  of  zeal,  and  streams  of  service 
I  owe  our  Koman  gods.    Great  Britain, ' — what  ? 

[Beads. 
A  thousand  wives,  with  brats  sucJcing  fheir  breasts, 
Had  hot  irons  pinch  them  off,  and  thrown  to  swine ; 
And   then    their   fleshy    bach-parts,    hew'd   with 

hatchets. 
Were  minced,  and  hahed  in  pies,  to  feed  starv'd 

Christians. 
Ha!  ha! 

Again,  again, — East  Angles, — oh.  East  Angles: 
Bandogs,  hept  three  days  hungry,  worried 
A  thousand  British  rascals,  stied  up  fat 
Of  purpose,  stripped  naked  and  disarmed. 
I  could  outstare  a  year  of  suns  and  moons, 
To  sit  at  these  sweet  bull-baitings,  so  I 
Could  thereby  but  one  Christian  win  to  fall 
In  adoration  to  my  Jupiter. — Twelve  hundred 
Eyes  bored  with  augers  out — Oh !  Eleven  thousand 


1  Great  Britain  is  a  curious  anachronism,  but  this  our 
old  dramatic  -writers  were  little  solicitous  to  avoid.— 

GiFFOKD. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


407 


Torn  hy  wild  heasts :  two  hundred  ramrrCd  in  the 

earth 
To  the  armpits,  and  full  platters  round  about  them. 
But  far  enough  for  reaching.    Eat,  dogs,  ha!  ha! 

ha !  [He  rises. 

Tush,  all  these  tortures  are  but  fillipings, 
Fleabitings ;  I,  before  the  Destinies 

Enter  Angelo  with  a  hashet  filled  with  fruit 
and  flowers. 

My  bottom  did  wind  up,  would  flesh  myself 

Ouce  more  upon  some  one  remarkable 

Above  all  these.     This  Christian  slut  was  well, 

A  pretty  one  ;  but  let  such  horror  follow 

The  next  I  feed  with  torments,  that  when  Rome 

Shall  hear  it,  her  foundation-  at  the  sound 

May  feel  an  earthquake.     How  now  ? 

\_Music. 

Ang.  Are  you  amazed,  sir .' 
So  great  a  Eoman  spirit — and  doth  it  tremble ! 

Theoph.   How  cam'st  thou  in?   to  whom  thy 
business  ? 

Ang.  To  you  : 
I  had  a  mistress,  late  sent  hence  by  you 
Upon  a  bloody  errand ;  you  entreated 
That,  when  she  came  into  that  blessed  garden 
Whither  she  knew  she  went,  and  where,  now 

happy, 
She  feeds  upon  all  joy,  she  would  send  to  you 
Some  of  that  garden  fruit  and  flowers;  which 

here, 
To  have  her  promise  saved,  are  brought  by  me. 

Theoph.  Cannot  I  see  this  garden  ?  % 

Ang.  Yes,  if  the  master 
Will  give  you  entrance.  \JIe  vanishes. 

Theoph.  'Tis  a  tempting  fruit, 
And  the  most  bright-cheek'd  child  I  ever  view'd  ; 
Sweet-smelling,  goodly  fruit.     What  flowers  are 

these ! 
In  Dioclesian's  gardens,  the  most  beauteous. 
Compared    with    these,   are  weeds:    is    it    not 

February, 
The  second  day  she  died  ?  frost,  ice,  and  snow 
Hang  on  the  beard  of  winter  :  where's  the  sun 
That  gilds  this  summer  ?  Pretty,  sweet  boy,  say. 
In  what  country  shall  a  man  find  this  garden  ? — 
My  delicate  boy — gone !  vanish'd !    Within  there, 
Julianus!  Geta! — 

Enter  Jull\nus  and  Geta. 

Both.  My  lord. 

Theoph.  Are  my  gates  shut  ? 

Geta.  And  guarded. 

Theoph.  Saw  you  not 
A  boy  ? 

Jul.  Where? 

Theoph.  Here  he  enter'd ;  a  young  lad  ; 
A  thousand  blessings  danced  iipon  his  eyes ; 
A  smoothfaced,  glorious  thing,  that  brought  this 
basket. 

Geta.  No,  sir! 

Theoph.  Away — but  be  in  reach,  if  my  voice 
calls  you.  [_Exeunt  Jul.  and  Geta. 

No ! — ^vanish'd  and  not  seen ! — Be  thou  a  spirit, 
Sent  from  that  witch  to  mock  me,  I  am  sure 
This  is  essential,  ^  and  howe'er  it  grows. 
Will  taste  it.  [^Eats  of  the  fruit. 

Harp,  [within.']  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  , 

Theoph.  So  good !  I'll  have  some  more^  sure. 

Harp.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  great  liquorish  fool ! 

Theoph.  What  art  thou? 

Eaip.  A  fisherman. 

Theoph.  What  dost  thou  catch? 


1  essential — pure,  exquisite. 


ffarp.  Souls,  souls ;  a  fish  cail'd  souls. 
Theoph.  Geta! 

Re-enter  Geta. 

Geta.  My  lord. 

Haip.  [Within.']  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 
Theoph.   What  insolent  slave  is  this,    dares 
laugh  at  me  ? 
Or  what  is't  the  dog  grins  at  so  ? 

Geta.  I  neither  know,  my  lord,  at  what,  nor 
whom ;  for  there  is  none  without,  but  my  fellow 
Julianus,  and  he  is  making  a  garland  for  Jupiter. 

Theoph.  Jupiter !  all  within  me  is  not  well ; 
And  yet  not  sick. 
Harp.  \within.'\  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Theoph.  What's  thy  name,  slave  ? 
Harp.  \at  one  end  of  the  room.']  Go  look. 
Geta.  'Tis  Harpax'  voice. 
Theoph.   Harpax!  go,  drag  the  caitiff  to  my 
foot, 
That  I  may  stamp  upon  him. 
Harp,  [at  the  other  end.]  Fool,  thou  liest ! 
Geta.  He's  yonder,  now,  ray  loi'd. 
Theoph.  Watch  thou  that  end, 
Whilst  I  make  good  tliis. 
Harp,  [in  the  middle.]  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Theoph.  He  is  at  barley-break,  ^  and  the  last 
couple 
Are  now  in  hell. 
Search  for  him.  [Exit  Geta.]  All  this  ground, 

methinks,  is  bloody. 
And  paved  with  thousands  of  those  Christians' 

eyes 
Whom  I  have  tortured  ;  and  they  stare  upon  me. 
What  was  this  apparition  ?  sure  it  had 
A  shape  angelical.    Mine  eyes,  though  dazzled, 
And  daunted  at  first  sight,  tell  me,  it  wore 
A  pair  of  glorious  wings  ;  yes,  they  were  wings ; 
Aud  hence  he  flew : — 'tis  vanish'd !    Jupiter, 
For  all  my  sacrifices  done  to  him, 
Never  once   gave  me   smile. — How  can    stone 

smile  ? 
Or  wooden  image  laugh  ?   [Music.]     Ha !  I  re- 
member. 
Such  music  gave  a  welcome  to  mine  ear. 
When  the  fair  youth  came  to  me  : — 'tis  in  the  air, 
Or  from  some  better  place ;  a  Power  divine. 
Through  my  dark  ignorance,  on  my  soul  does 

shine, 
And  makes  me  see  a  conscience  all  stain'd  o'er. 
Nay,  drown'd,  and  danin'd  for  ever  in  Christian 
gore. 
Harp,  [within.]  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Theoph.  Again  ! — What  dainty  relish  on  my 
tongue 
This  fruit  hath  left !  some  angel  hath  me  fed  ; 
If  so  toothful,"  I  will  be  banqueted. 

[Eats  again. 

Enter  Harpax  in  a  fearful  shape,  fire  flashing  out 
of  the  Study. 

Harp.  Hold! 

Theoph.  Not  for  Caesar. 
Harp.  But  for  me  thou  shalt. 


1  barJey-hreak  was  a  game  played  by  six  people,  three 
of  each  sex,  coupled  by  lot.  A  piece  of  ground  was  then, 
chosen,  and  divided  into  three  compartments,  of  which 
the  middle  one  was  called  hell.  It  was  the  object  of  the 
couple  condemned  to  this  division,  to  catch  the  others, 
who  advance  from  the  two  extremities ;  in  which  case 
a  change  of  situation  took  place,  and  hell  was  filled  by 
the  couple  who  wei-e  excluded  by  pre-occupation,  from 
the  other  place  .  .  .  When  all  had  been  taken  in  turn, 
tlie  last  couple  was  said  to  be  in  hell,  and  the  game 
ended. — Gifford. 

-  toothful.  Probably  this  should  be  toothsome— i.e. 
palatable. 


4o8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Theoph.  Thou  art  no  twin  to  him.  that  last  was 
here. 
Te  powers,  whom  my  soul  bids   me  reverence, 

guard  me ! 
"What  art  thou  ? 

Harp.  I  am  thy  master. 
Theoph.  Mine! 

Harp.  And  thou  my  everlasting  slave :   that 
Harpax, 
"Who  hand  in  hand  hath  led  thee  to  thy  hell, 
Ami. 

Theoph.  Avaunt! 
Emp.  I  will  not ;  cast  thou  down 
That  basket  with  the  things  iu't,  and  fetch  up 
"What  thou  hast  swallow'd,  and  then  take  a  drink, 
Which  I  shall  give  thee,  and  I'm  gone. 

Theoph.  My  fruit ! 
Does  this  offend  thee  ?  see  !  [Eats  again. 

Harp.  Spit  it  to  the  earth, 
And  tread  upon  it,  or  I'll  piecemeal  tear  thee. 
Theoph.  Art  thou  with  this  affrighted !     See, 
here's  more.      [Pulls  out  a  handful  of  flowers. 
Haip.   Fling  them  away,  I'll  take  thee  else, 
and  hang  thee 
In  a  contorted  chain  of  icicles, 
In  the  frigid  zone  :  down  with  them ! 

Theoph.  At  the  bottom 
One  thing  I  found  not  yet.     See ! 

[Holds  up  a  cross  of  flowers. 
Harp.  Oh !  I  am  tortured. 
Theoph.  Can  this  do't?     Hence,  thou  fiend  in- 
fernal, hence ! 
Harp.  Clasp  Jupiter's  image,  and  away  with 

that. 
Theoph.    At  thee  I'll  fling  that  Jupiter;   for, 
me  thinks, 
I  serve  a  better  master :  he  now  checks  me 
For  murdering  my  two  daughters,  put  on*  by 

thee. — 
By  thy  damn'd  rhetoric  did  I  hunt  the  life 
Of  Dorothea,  the  holy  virgin-martyr. 
She  is  not  angry  with  the  axe,  nor  me. 
But  sends  these  presents  to  me  ;  and  I'll  travel 
O'er  worlds  to  find  her,_and  from  her  white  hand 
Beg  a  forgiveness. 
Harp.  No  ;  I'll  bind  thee  here. 
Theoph.  I  serve  a  strength  above  thine ;  this 
small  weapon, 
Methinks,  is  armour  hard  enough. 

Harp.  Keep  from  me.  [Sliilcs  a  little. 

Theoph.    Art   posting  to   thy   centre  ?    down, 
hellhound !  down  ! 
Me  thou  hast  lost.     That  arm,  which  hurls  thee 
hence,  [Haupax  disappears. 

Save  me,  and  set  me  ujd,  the  strong  defence, 
In  the  fair  Christian's  quarrel ! 

Enter  Angelo. 

Ang.  Fix  thy  foot  there, 
Nor  be  thou  shaken  with  a  Cjesar's  voice, 
Though  thousand  deaths  were  in  it ;  and  I  then 
Will  bring  thee  to  a  river,  that  shall  wash 
Thy  bloody  hands  clean  and  more  Avhite  than 

snow ; 
And  to  that  garden  where  these  blest  things  grow. 
And  to  that  martyr'd  virgin,  who  hath  sent 
That  heavenly  token  to  thee  :  spread  this  brave 

wing. 
And  serve,  than  Ca3sar,  a  far  greater  king. 

[Exit. 
Theoph.    It  is,  it  is,   some   angel.     Vanish'd 

again ! 
Oh,  come  back,  ravishing  boy !  bright  messenger ! 
Thou  hast,  by  these  mine  eyes  fix'd  on  thy  beauty. 


'  put  on — urged,  instigated. 


Illumined  all  my  soul.    Now  look  I  back 
On  my  black  tyrannies,  which,  as  they  did 
Outdare  the   bloodiest,   thou,   blest  spirit,   that 

lead'st  me. 
Teach  me  what  I  must  to  do,  and  to  do  well. 
That  my  last  act  the  best  may  parallel. 

[Exit. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 

Dioclesian's  Palace. 

Enter  Dioclesian,  Maximinus,  the  kings  of 
Epire,  Pontus,  and  Macedon,  meeting  Arte- 
mia;  Attendants. 

Artem.  Glory  and  conquest  still  attend  upon 
Triumphant  Csesar ! 

Diode.  Let  thy  wish,  fair  daughter, 
Bo  equally  divided  ;  and  hereafter 
Learn  thou  to  know  and  reverence  Maximinus, 
Whose  power,    with   mine   united,    makes    one 
Csesar. 

Max.  But  that  I  fear  'twould  be  held  flattery, 
The  bonds  consider'd  in  which  we  stand  tied, 
As  love  and  empire,  I  should  say,  till  now 
I  ne'er  had  seen  a  lady  I  thought  worthy 
To  be  my  misti-ess. 

Artem.  Sir,  you  show  yourself 
Both  courtier  and  soldier  ;  but  take  heed, 
Take   heed,   my  lord,   though  my  dull -pointed 

beauty, 
Stain'd  by  a  harsh  refusal  in  my  servant. 
Cannot  dart  forth  such  beams  as  may  inflame 

you. 
You  may  encounter  such  a  powerful  one. 
That  with  a  pleasing  heat  will  thaw  your  heart, 
Though  bound  in  ribs  of  ice.    Love  still  is  Love  ; 
His  bow  and  arrows  are  the  same  :  Great  Julius, 
That  to  his  successors  left  the  name  of  Cassar, 
Whom  war  could  never  tame,  that  with  dry  eyes 
Beheld  the  large  plains  of  Pharsalia  cover'd 
With  the  dead  carcases  of  senators, 
And  citizens  of  Kome  ;  when  the  world  knew 
No  other  lord  but  him,  struck  deep  in  years  too 
(And  men  grey-hair'd  forget  the  lusts  of  youth). 
After  all  this,  meeting  fair  Cleopatra, 
A  suppliant  too,  the  magic  of  her  eye, 
Even  in  his  pride  of  conquest,  took  him  captive  : 
Nor  are  you  more  secure. 

Max.  Were  you  deform'd 
(But,  by  the  gods,  you  are  most  excellent), 
"Your  gravity  and  discretion  would  o'ercome  me  ; 
And  I  should  be  moi'e  proud  in  being  prisoner 
To  your  fair  virtues,  than  of  all  the  honours, 
Wealth,  title,  empire,  that  my  sword  hath  pur- 
chased. 

Diode.  This  meets  my  wishes.     Welcome  it, 
Artemia, 
With  outstretch'd  arms,  and  study  to  forget 
That  Antoninus  ever  was:  thj'  fate 
Beserved  thee  for  this  better  choice ;  embrace  it. 

Max.  This  happy  match  brings  new  nerves  to 
give  strength 
To  our  continued  league. 

Diode.  Hymen  himself 
Will  bless  this  marriage,  which  we'll  solemnize 
In  the  presence  of  these  kings. 

K.  of  Pontus.  Who  rest  most  happy, 
To  be  eye-witnesses  of  a  match  that  brings 
Peace  to  the  empire. 

Diode.  We  much  thank  your  loves. — 
But  Where's  Sapritius,  our  governor. 
And  our  most  zealous  provost,  good  Theophilus  ? 
If  ever  prince  were  blest  in  a  true  servant. 
Or  could  the  gods  be  debtors  to  a  man, 
Both  they  and  we  stand  far  engaged  to  cherish 
His  piety  and  service. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


409 


Artem.  Sir,  the  governor 
Bi'ooks  sadly  his  son's  loss,  although  he  turu'd 
Apostate  in  death ;  but  bold  Theophilus, 
Who,  for  the  same  cause,  in  my  presence  seal'd 
His  holy, anger  on  his  daughtei-s'  hearts  ; 
Having  with  tortures  first  tried  to  convert  her, 
Dragg'd  the  bewitching  Christian  to  the  scaffold, 
And  saw  her  lose  her  head. 

Diode.  He  is  all  worthy : 
And  from  his  own  mouth  I  would  gladly  hear 
The  manner  how  she  suffer'd. 

Artem.  'Twill  be  deliver'd 
"With  such  contempt  and  scorn  (I    know  his 

nature), 
That  rather  'twill  beget  your  highness'  laughter. 
Than  the  least  pity. 

Diode.  To  that  end  I  would  hear  it. 

Enter  Theophilus,  Sapritius,  atid  Macrixus. 

Artem.  He  comes ;  with  him  the  governor. 

Diode.  Oh,  Sapritius, 
I  am  to  chide  you  for  your  tenderness  ; 
But  yet  remembei'ing  that  you  are  a  father, 
I  will  forget  it.     Good  Theophilus, 
I'll  speak  with  you  anon. — Nearer,  your  ear. 

[2'o  Sapkitius. 

Theoph.  \aside  to  Macrinus.]   By  Antoninus' 
soul,  I  do  conjure  you, 
And  though  not  for  religion,  for  his  friendship. 
Without  demanding  what's  the  cause  that  moves 

me, 
Eeceive  my  signet : — By  the  power  of  this. 
Go  to  my  prisons,  and  release  all  Christians, 
That  are  in  fetters  there  by  ray  command. 

Mac.  But  what  shall  follow  .' 

Theoph.  Haste  then  to  the  port ; 
You  there  shall  find  two  tall '  ships  ready  rigg'd. 
In  which  embark  the  poor  distressed  souls. 
And  bear  them  from  the  reach  of  tyranny. 
Enquire  not  whither  you  are  bound :  the  Deity 
That  they  adore  will  give  you  prosperous  winds, 
And  make  your  voyage  such,  and  largelj'  pay  for 
Your  hazard,  and  your  travail.     Leave  me  here ; 
There  is  a  scene  that  I  must  act  alone  : 
Haste,  good  Macriuus ;  and  the  great  God  guide 
you! 

Mac.     I'll    imdertake't ;     there's     something 
prompts  me  to  it ; 
'Tis  to  save  innocent  blood,  a  saint-like  act 
And  to  be  merciful  has  never  been 
By  mortal  men  themselves  esteem'd  a  sin. 

[Exit. 

Diode.  You  know  your  charge  ? 

Sap.  And  will  with  care  observe  it. 

Diode.  For  I  profess  he  is  not  Cassar's  friend. 
That  sheds  a  tear  for  any  torture  that 
A  Christian  suffers. — Welcome,  my  best  servant, 
My  careful,  zealous  provost !  thou  hast  toil'd 
To  satisfy  my  will,  though  in  extremes  : 
I  love  thee  f or't ;  thou  art  firm  rock,  no  change- 
ling. 
Pr'ythee  deliver,  and  for  my  sake  do  it, 
Without  excess  of  bitterness  or  scoffs. 
Before  my  brother  and  these  kings,  how  took 
The  Christian  her  death .'' 

Theoph.  And  such  a  presence 
Though  every  private  head  in  this  large  room 
Were  circled  round  with  an  imperial  crown, 
Her  story  will  deserve,  it  is  so  full 
Of  excellence  and  wonder. 

Diode.  Ha !  how  is  this  ? 

Theoph.  Oh,  mark  it,  therefore,  and  with  that 
attention. 
As  you  would  hear  an  embassy  from  heaven 


1  tall — stout. 


By  a  wing'd  legate ;  for  the  truth  deliver'd. 
Both  how,  and  what,  this  blessed  virgin  suffer'd, 
And  Dorothea  but  hei-eafter  named, 
You  will  rise  uj)  with  reverence,  and  no  more. 
As  things  unworthy  of  your  thoughts,  remember 
What  the  canonized  Spartan  ladies  were. 
Which  lying  Greece  so  boasts   of.     Your  own 

matrons, 
Your  Eoman  dames,  whose  figures  you  yet  keep 
As  holy  relics,  in  her  history 
AVill  find  a  second  urn  ;  Gracchus'  Coi-nelia, 
Paulina,  that  in  death  desired  to  follow 
Her  husband  Seneca,  nor  Brutus'  Portia, 
That  swallow'd  burning  coals  to  overtake  him, 
Though  all  their  several  worths  were  given  to 

one. 
With  this  is  to  be  mention'd. 
Max.  Is  he  mad  .' 
Diode.  Why,  they  did  die,    Theophilus,   and 

boldly ; 
This  did  no  more. 

Theoph.  The}',  out  of  desperation, 
Or  for  vainglorj'  of  an  after  name. 
Parted  with  life  :  this  had  not  mutinous  sons, 
As  the  rash  Gracchi  were  ;  nor  was  this  saint 
A  doting  mother,  as  Cornelia  was. 
This  lost  no  husband,  in  whose  overthrow 
Her  wealth  and  honour  sunk ;  no  fear  of  want 
Did  make  her  being  tedious  ;  but,  aiming 
At  an  immortal  crown,  and  in  his  cause 
Who  only  can  bestow  it ;  who  sent  down 
Legions  of  ministering  angels  to  bear  up 
Her  spotless  soul  to  heaven,  who  entertain'd  it 
With  choice  celestial  music,  equal  to 
The  motion  of  the  spheres ;  she,  uncompell'd. 
Changed  this  life  for  a  better.    My  lord  Sapritius, 
You  were  present  at  her  death:  did  you  e'er  hear 
Such  ravishing  sounds  ? 

Sap.  Yet  you  said  then  'twas  witchcraft, 
And  devilish  illusions. 

Theoph.  I  then  heard  it 
With  sinful  ears,  and  belch'd  out  blasphemous 

words 
Against  his  Deity,'  which  then  I  knew  not, 
Nor  did  believe  in  him. 

Diode.  Why,  dost  thou  now  ? 
Or  dar'st  thou,  in  our  hearing — 

Theoph.  Were  my  voice 
As  loud  as  his  thunder,  to  be  heard 
Through  all  the  wox'ld,  all  potentates  on  ea-.'th 
Keady    to   burst   with    rage,    should   they   but 

hear  it ; 
Though  hell,  to  aid  their  malice,  lent  her  furies, 
Yet  I  would  speak,  and  speak  again,  and  boldly, 
I  am  a  Christian,  and  the  Powers  you  worship, 
But  dreams  of  fools  and  madmen. 
Max.  Lay  hands  on  him. 
Diode.  Thou  twice  a  child !  for  doting  age  so 

makes  thee, 
Thou  couldst  not  else,  thy  pilgrimage  of  life 
Being  almost  passed  through,  in  this  last  moment 
Destroy  whate'er  thou  hast  done  good  or  great — 
Thy  youth  did  promise  much  ;     and,  grown  a 

man, 
Thou  mad'st  it  good,  and,  with  increase  of  years, 
Thy  actions  still  better'd  :  as  the  sun. 
Thou  didst  rise   gloriously,  kept'st  a  constant 

course 
In  all  thy  journey  ;  and  now,  in  the  evening, 
When  thou  shouldst  pass  with  honour  to  thy 

rest, 
Wilt  thou  fall  like  a  meteor  ? 

Sap.  Yet  confess 
That  thou  art  mad,  and  that  thy  tongue  and  heart 
Had  no  agreement. 

Max.  Do  ;  no  way  is  left,  else, 
To  save  thy  life,  Theophilus. 


4IO 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Diode.  But,  refuse  it, 
Destruction  as  horrid,  and  as  sudden, 
Shall  fall  upon  thee,  as  if  hell  stood  open, 
Aad  thou  wert  sinking  thither. 

Theoph.  Hear  me,  yet ; 
Hear,  for  my  service  past. 

Artem.  What  will  he  say  ? 

Theoph.  As  ever  I  deserved  your  favour,  hoar 
me, 
And  grant  one  boon :  'tis  not  for  life  I  sue  for  j 
Nor  is  it  fit  that  I,  that  ne'er  knew  pity 
To  any  Christian,  being  one  myself. 
Should  look  for  any ;  no,  I  rather  beg 
The  utmost  of  your  cruelty.     I  stand 
Accountable  for  thousand  Christians'  deaths ; 
And,  were  it  possible  that  I  could  die 
A  day  for  every  one,  then  live  again 
To  be  again  tormented,  'twere  to  me 
An  easy  penance,  and  I  should  pass  through 
A  gentle  cleansing  fire :  but,  that  denied  me, 
It  being  beyond  the  strength  of  feeble  nature. 
My  suit  is  you  would  have  no  pity  on  me. 
In  mine  own  house  there  are  a  thousand  engines 
Of  studied  cruelty,  which  I  did  prepare 
For  miserable  Christians ;  let  me  feel 
As  the  Sicilian  did  his  brazen  bull. 
The  horrid'st  you  can  find  ;  and  I  will  say, 
In  death,  that  you  ai-e  merciful. 
■     Diode.  Despair  not ; 

In  this  thou  shalt  prevail.   Go  fetch  them  hither : 
[^Exeunt  some  of  the  Guard. 
Death  ehall  put  on  a  thousand  shapes  at  once. 
And  so  appear  before  thee;  racks,  and  whips  ! — ■ 
Thy  flesh,  with  burning  pincers  torn,  shall  feed 
The  fire  that  heats  them ;  and  what's  wanting 
To  the  torture  of  thy  body,  I'll  supply 
In  punishing  thy  mind.   Fetch  all  the  Christians 
That  are  in  hold  ;  and  here,  before  his  face, 
Gut  them  in  pieces. 

Theoph.  'Tis  not  in  thy  power: 
It  was  the  first  good  deed  I  ever  did. 
They  are  removed  out  of  thy  reach  ;  howe'er, 
I  was  determined  for  my  sins  to  die, 
I  first  took  order  for  their  liberty  ; 
And  still  I  dare  thy  worst. 

Re-enter  Guard  iclth  racks  and  other  instruments 
of  torture. 

Diode.  Bind  him,  I  say ; 
Make  every  artery  and  sinew  crack : 
The  slave  that  makes  him  give  the  loudest  shriek, 
Shall  have  ten  thousand  drachmas.    Wretch !  I'll 

force  thee 
To  curse  the  Power  thou  worship'st. 

Theoph.  Never,  never: 
No  breath  of  mine  shall  e'er  be  spent  on  him, 

f  They  torment  kim. 


But  what  shall  speak  his  majesty  or  mercy. 
I'm  honour'din  my  sufferings.  Weak  tormentors, 
More  tortures,  more, — alas !  you  are  unskilful — 
For  Heaven's  sake  more ;  my  breast  is  yet  untorn : 
Here  purchase  the  reward  that  was  propounded. 
The  irons  cool, — here  are  arms  yet,  and  thighs; 
Spare  no  part  of  me. 

Max.  He  endures  beyond 
The  sufferance  of  a  man. 

Sap.  No  sigh  nor  groan. 
To  witness  he  hath  feeling. 

Diode.  Harder,  villains ! 

Enter  Harpas. 

Harp.  Unless  that  he  blaspheme,  he's  lost  for 
ever. 
If  torments  ever  could  bring  forth  despair. 
Let  these  compel  him  to  it : — Oh  me  ! 
My  ancient  enemies  again  !  [Falls  down. 

Enter  Dokothea  in  a  white  robe,  a  croion  upon 
her  head,  led  in  iy  Angelo;  Antoninus, 
Calista,  and  Christeta  following],  all  in 
white,  hut  less  glorious ;  Angelo  holds  out  a 
croicn  to  Theophilus. 

Theoph.  Most  glorious  vision ! — 
Did  e'er  so  hard  a  bed  yield  man  a  dream 
So  heavenly  as  this  ?     I  am  confirm'd, 
Confirm'd,  you  blessed  spirits,  and  make  haste 
To  take  that  crown  of  immortality 
You  offer  to  me.     Death !  till  this  blest  minute, 
I  never  thought  thee  slow-paced ;  nor  would  I 
Hasten  thee  now,  for  any  pain  I  suffer. 
But  that  thou  keep'st  me  from  a  glorious  wreath, 
Which  through  this  stormy  way  I  would  creep  to. 
And,  humbly  kneeling,  with  humility  wear  it. 
Oh  !  now  I  feel  thee  : — blessed  spirits !  I  come ; 
And,  witness  for  me  all  these  wounds  and  scars, 
I  die  a  soldier  in  the  Christian  wars.  [Dies. 

Sap.  I  have  seen  thousands  tortured,  but  ne'er 
yet 
A  constancy  like  this. 

Harp.  I  am  twice  damn'd. 

Ang.  Haste  to  thy  place  appointed,  cursed 
fiend! 

[Harpax  sinlcs  with  thunder  and  lightning. 

In  spite  of  hell,  this  soldier's  not  thy  prey ; 
'Tis  I  have  won,  thou  that  hast  lost  the  day. 

[Exit  with  Dor.  &o. 

Diode.  I  think  the  centre   of   the   earth   be 
crack'd — 
Yet  I  stand  still  unmoved,  and  will  go  on. 
The  persecution  that  is  here  begun, 
Through  all  the  ■world  with  violence  shall  run. 
[Flourish.    Exeunt, 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


411 


THE    DUKE    OF   MILAN. 


BY  PHILIP  MASSINGEE. 
London.     1623. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE,  AND  MUCH  ESTEEMED  FOR  HER  HIGH  BIRTH,  BUT  MORE 
ADMIRED  FOR  HER  VIRTUE, 

THE  LADY  K.\THERINE  STANHOPE, 

■WIFE   TO    PHILIP    LORD    STANHOPE,    BARON    OF   SHELFORD. 


Madam, — If  I  wero  not  most  assured  that  works 
of  this  nature  have  found  both  patronage  and 
protection  amongst  the  greatest  princesses  of 
Italy,  and  are  at  this  day  cherished  by  persons 
most  eminent  in  our  kingdom,  I  should  not 
presume  to  offer  these  my  weak  and  imperfect 
labours  at  the  altar  of  your  favour.  Let  the 
example  of  others,  more  knowing,  and  more  ex- 
perienced in  this  kindness  (if  my  boldness  offend), 
plead  my  pardon,  and  the  rather,  since  there  is 


no  other  means  left  me  (my  misfortunes  having 
cast  me  on  this  course)  to  publish  to  the  world 
(if  it  hold  the  least  good  opinion  of  me)  that  I 
am  ever  your  ladyship's  creature.  Vouchsafe, 
therefore,  with  the  never-failing  clemency  of 
your  noble  disposition,  not  to  contemn  the  tender 
of  his  duty,  who,  while  he  is,  ever  will  be 
An  humble  servant 

to  your  Ladyship,  and  yours, 

Philip  Massi^ger. 


^ramatis  ^crsana. 


Lunovico  Sforza,  supposed  Dulce  of  Milan. 
Fkancisco,  his  especial  Favourite. 

StephSo,  }  ^°"^  "/^"'^  <^''«""'^' 
Graccho,  a  creature  of^lAKiKsx. 

G^^L..}<^ourtiers. 

Chakles,  the  Emperor. 

Pescaea,   an  Imperialist,   hut  a   Friend  to 

Sforza. 
Hernando,  "> 

Medina,        >  Captains  to  the  Emperor. 
Alphonso,   3 
Three  Gentlemen. 

\ 


Scene. — For  the  First  and  Second  Acts, 

Imperial  Camp  near  Pavia 

and  its 

ACT  L— SCEXE  L 
Milan.    An  outer  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Geaccho,  Julio,  and  Giovanni,  with 
Flagons. 

Ch'ac.   Take  every  man  his  flagon :  give  the 
oath 
To  all  you  meet ;  I  am  this  day  the  state- drunkard, 
I  am  sure  against  my  will ;  and  if  you  find 
A  man  at  ten  that's  sober,  he's  a  traitor, 
And,  in  my  name,  arrest  him. 

Jul.  Very  good,  sir : 
But,  say  he  be  a  sexton  ? 

Grac.  If  the  bells 
Ring  out  of  tune,  as  if  the  street  were  burning, 
And  he  cry,  '2¥s  rare  music!  bid  him  sleep  : 
'Tis  a  sign  he  has  ta'en  his  liquor ;  and  if  you 
An  oflScer  preaching  of  sobriety.  [meet 


Fiddlers. 
An  0  facer. 
Two  Doctors. 
Two  Couriers. 

Maecelia,  the  Duchess,  Wife  to  Sfoeza. 

Isabella,  Mother  to  Sforza. 

Mariana,  Wife  to  Prancisco,  and  Sister  io 

Sforza. 
Eugenia,  Sister  to  Francisco. 
A  Gentlewoman. 


Guards,  Servants,  Attendants. 

in  Milan ;  during  part  of  the  Third,  in  the 
;  the  rest  of  the  play,  in  Milan 
Neighbourhood. 

Unless  he  read  it  in  Geneva  print,* 
Lay  him  by  the  heels. 

Jul.  But  think  you  'tis  a  fault 
To  be  found  sober .' 

Grac.  It  is  capital  treason  : 
Or,  if  you  mitigate  it,  let  such  pay 
Forty  crowns  to  the  poor :  but  give  a  pension 
To  all  the  magistrates  you  find  singing  catches, 
Or  their  wives  dancing ;  for  the  corn-tiers  reeling, 
And  the  duke  himself,  I  dare  not  say  distemper'd,^ 
But  kind,  and  in  his  tottering  chair  carousing, 
They  do  the  country  service.     If  you  meet 
One  that  eats  bread,  a  child  of  ignorance, 
And  bred  up  in  the  darkness  of  no  drinking, 


1  Geneva  print — alluding  to  the  spultuous  liquor  so 
called.— Mason. 
-  distemper' d—dvu'Dk. — Giffokd. 


412 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Against  his  will  you  may  initiate  him 
In  the  true  posture ;  though  he  die  in  the  taking 
His  drench,  it  skills  '  not ;  what's  a  private  man, 
For  the  public  honour !     We've  nought  else  to 

think  on. 
And  so,  dear  friends,  copartners  in  my  travails. 
Drink  hard ;  and  let  the  health  run  through  the 
Until  it  reel  again,  and  with  me  cry,  [city. 

Long  live  the  duchess  ! 

Enttr  TiBERio  and  Stephano. 
Jul.  Here  are  two  lords  ; — what  think  you  ? 
Shall  we  give  the  oath  to  them  ? 
Grac.  Fie  !  no  :  I  know  them, 
You  need  not  swear  them ;  your  lord,  by  his 

patent. 
Stands  bound  to  take  his  rouse.^    Long  live  the 

duchess!  [Exeunt  Gkac.  Jul.  and  Gio. 

Steph.  The  cause  of  this?  but  yesterday  the 

court 
Wore  the  sad  livery  of  distrust  and  fear ; 
No  smile,  not  in  a  buffoon  to  be  seen. 
Or  common  jester  :  the  Great  Duke  himself 
Had  sorrow  in  his  face !  which,  waited  on 
By  his  mother,  sister,  and  his  fairest  duchess, 
Dispersed  a  silent  mourning  through  ail  Milan  ; 
As  if  some  great  blow  had  been  given  the  state. 
Or  were  at  least  expected. 

Tih.  Stephano, 
I  know  as  you  are  noble,  you  are  honest, 
And  capable  of  secrets  of  more  weight 
Than  now  I  shall  deliver.     If  that  Sforza, 
The  present  duke  (though  his  whole  life  hath 

been 
But  one  continued  pilgrimage  through  dangers, 
Affrights,  and  horrors,  which  his  fortune,  guided 
By  his  strong  judgment,  still  hath  ovei-come). 
Appears  now  shaken,  it  deserves  no  wonder  : 
All  that  his  youth  hath  labour'd  for,  the  harvest 
Sown  by  his  industry  ready  to  be  reap'd  too. 
Being  now  at  stake  ;  and  all  his  hopes  contirm'd, 
Or  lost  for  ever. 

Steph.  I  know  no  such  hazard  : 
His  guards  are  strong  and  sure,  his  coffers  fuU ; 
The  people  well  affected  ;  and  so  wisely 
His  provident  care  hath  wrought,  that  though 

war  rages 
In  most  parts  of  our  western  world,  there  is 
No  enemy  near  us. 

Tib.  Dangers,  that  we  see 
To  threaten  ruin,  are  with  ease  prevented  ; 
But  those  strike  deadly,  that  come  unexpected  : 
The  lightning  is  far  off,  yet,  soon  as  seen. 
We  may  behold  the  terrible  effects 
That  it  pi'oduceth.     But  I'll  help  your  knowledge, 
And  make  his  cause  of  fear  familiar  to  you. 
The  wars  so  long  continued  between 
The  emperor  Charles,  and  Francis  the  French 

king, 
Have  interess'd,'  in  either's  cause,  the  most 
Of  the  Italian  princes  ;  among  which,  Sforza, 
As  one  of  greatest  power,  was  sought  by  both  ; 
But  with  assurance,  having  one  his  friend. 
The  other  lived  his  enemy. 

Steph.  'Tis  true : 
And  'twas  a  doubtful  choice. 
Tib.  But  he,  well  knowing. 
And  hating  too,  it  seems,  the  Spanish  pride, 
Lent  his  assistance  to  the  king  of  France  : 
Which  hath  so  far  incensed  the  emperor, 
That  all  his  hopes  and  honours  are  embark'd 
With  his  great  patron's  fortune. 

Steph.  Which  stands  fair, 
For  aught  I  yet  can  hear. 


'  skills — signifies,  matters. 

2  rouse — carouse. 

^  inleress'd — implicated,  involved.— Gilford. 


Tib.  But  should  it  change, 
The  duke's  undone.     They  have  drawn  to  the 

field 
Two  royal  armies,  full  of  fiery  youth ; 
Of  equal  spirit  to  dare,  and  power  to  do  : 
So  near  intrench'd,  that  'tis  beyond  all  hope 
Of  human  counsel  they  can  e'er  be  severed, 
Until  it  be  determined  by  the  sword 
Who  hath  the  better  cause :  for  the  success, 
Concludes  the  victor  innocent,  and  the  vanquish'^ 
Most  miserably  guilty.     How  uncertain 
The  fortune  of  the  war  is,  children  know  ; 
And,  it  being  in  suspense  on  whose  fair  tent 
Wing'd  Victory  will  make  her  glorious  stand. 
You  cannot  blame  the  duke,  though  he  appear 
Perplex'd  and  troubled. 

Steph.  But  why,  then, 
In  such  a  time,  when  every  knee  should  bend 
For  the  success  and  safety  of  his  person. 
Are  these  loud  triumphs  !  in  my  weak  opinion, 
They  are  unseasonable. 

Tib.  I  judge  so  too  ; 
But  only  in  the  cause  to  be  excused. 
It  is  the  duchess'  birthday,  once  a  year 
Solemnized  with  all  pomp  and  ceremony  ; 
In  which  the  duke  is  not  his  own,  but  liers  : 
Nay,  every  day,  indeed,  he  is  her  creature, 
For  never  man  so  doted  ; — but  to  tell 
The  tenth  part  of  his  fondness  to  a  stranger, 
Would  argue  me  of  fiction. 

Steph.  She's  indeed 
A  lady  of  most  exquisite  form. 

Tib.  She  knows  it, 
And  how  to  prize  it. 

Steph.  1  ne'er  heard  her  tainted 
In  any  point  of  honour. 

Tib.  On  my  life. 
She's  constant  to  his  bed,  and  well  deserves 
His  largest  favom-s.     But  when  beauty  is 
Stamp'd  on  great  women,  great  in  birth  and 

fortune, 
And  blown  by  flatterers  greater  than  it  is, 
'Tis  seldom  unaccompanied  with  pride; 
Nor  is  she  that  way  free  :  presuming  on 
The  duke's  affection,  and  her  own  desert, 
She  bears  herself  with  such  a  majesty, 
Looking  with  scorn  on  all  as  things  beneath  her, 
That  Sforza's  mothei',  that  would  lose  no  part 
Of  what  was  once  her  own,  nor  his  fair  sister, 
A  lady  too  acquainted  with  her  worth. 
Will  brook  it  well ;  and  howsoe'er  their  bate 
Is  smother'd  for  a  time,  'tis  more  than  fear'd 
It  will  at  length  break  out. 

Steph.  He  in  whose  power  it  is. 
Turn  all  to  the  best ! 

Tib.  Come,  let  us  to  the  court ; 
We  there  shall  see  all  bravery  and  cost, 
That  art  can  boast  of. 

Steph.  I'll  bear  you  company.  [_ExeuKt. 


ACT  L— SCENE  IL 

Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Francisco,  Isabella,  and  Makiana. 

Mari.  I  will  not  go  ;  I  scorn  to  be  a  spot  * 
In  her  proud  train. 

hob.  Shall  I,  that  am  his  mother, 
Be  so  indulgent,  as  to  wait  on  her 
That  owes  me  duty  ? 

Evan.  'Tis  done  to  the  duke, 
And  not  to  her :  and,  my  sweet  wife,  remember,. 


1  Mariana  alludes  to  the  spots  in  the  peacock's  tail.- 

GlFFOKD. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


413 


And,  madam,  if  you  please  receive  my  counsel, 
As  Sforza  is  your  son,  you  may  command  liim ; 
And,  as  a  sister,  you  may  cliallenge  from  liini 
A  brother's  love  and  favour :  but,  tbis  granted. 
Consider  he's  tbe  prince,  and  you  Lis  subjects, 
And  not  to  question  or  contend  with  her 
Whom  he  is  pleased  to  honour.     Private  men 
Prefer  their  wives ;  and  shall  he,  being  a  prince, 
And  blest  with  one  that  is  the  paradise 
Of  sweetness,  and  of  beauty,  to  whose  charge 
The  stock  of  women's  goodness  is  given  up, 
Not  use  her  like  herself  ? 

Isah.  You  are  ever  forward 
To  sing  her  praises. 

Mai-i.  Others  are  as  fair ; 
I  am  sure,  as  noble. 

Fran.  I  detract  from  none. 
In  giving  her  what's  due.     Were  she  deform'd. 
Yet  being  the  duchess,  I  stand  bound  to  serve 

her; 
But,  as  she  is,  to  admire  her.    Never  wife 
Met  with  a  purer  heat  her  husband's  fervour; 
A  happy  pair,  one  in  the  other  blest ! 
She  confident  in  herself  he's  wholly  hers. 
And  cannot  seek  for  change ;  and  he  secure. 
That  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  man  to  tempt  her. 
And  therefore  to  contest  with  her,  that  is 
The  stronger  and  the  better  part  of  him, 
Is  more  than  folly:  you  know  him  of  a  nature 
Not  to  be  played  with ;  and,  should  you  forget 
To  obey  him  as  your  prince,  he'll  not  remember 
The  duty  that  he  owes  you. 

hub.  'Tis  but  truth  : 
Come,  clear  our  brows,  and  let  us  to  the  banquet ; 
But  not  to  serve  his  idol. 

Mari.  I  shall  do 
What  may  become  the  sister  of  a  prince ; 
But  will  not  stoop  beneath  it. 

Fran.  Yet,  be  wise ; 
Soar  not  too  high,  to  fall ;  but  stoop  to  rise. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 

A  State  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  three  Gentlemen,  setting  forth  a  banquet. 

1  Gent.  Quick,  quick,  for  love's  sake!  let  the 
court  put  on 

Her  choicest  outside :  cost  and  bravery  ^ 
Be  only  thought  of. 

2  Gent.  All  that  may  be  had 

To  please  the  eye,  the  ear,  taste,  touch,  or  smell. 
Are  carefully  provided. 

3  Gent.  Thei-e's  a  masque : 

Have  you  heard  what's  the  invention  ? 

1  Gent.  No  matter : 
It  is  intended  for  the  duchess'  honour ; 
And  if  it  give  her  glorious  attributes, 
As  the  most  fair,  most  virtuous,  and  the  rest, 
'Twill  please  the  duke.  [Loud  music]  They  come. 

3  Gent.  All  is  in  order. 

Flourish.  Enter  Tiberio,  Stephano,  Frax- 
cisco,  Sfokza,  Marcelia,  Isabella,  Mari- 
ana, and  Attendants. 

Sfor.  Yoti  are  the  mistress  of  the  feast — sit 
here, 
Oh  my  soul's  comfort!  and  when  Sforza  bows 
Thus  low  to  do  you  honour,  let  none  think 
The  meanest  service  they  can  pay  my  love, 
But  as  a  fair  addition  to  those  titles 
They  stand  possessed  of.     Let  me  glory  in 
My  happiness,  and  mighty  kings  look  pale 


1  bravery— ahov,  decoration. 


With  envy,  while  I  triumph  in  mine  own. 
Oh  mother,  look  on  her;  sistei-,  admire  her! 
And,  since  this  present  age  yields  not  a  woman 
Worthy  to  be  her  second,  borrow  of 
Times  past,  and  let  imagination  help. 
Of  those  canonized  ladies  Sparta  boasts  of, 
And,  in  her  greatness,  Rome  was  proud  to  owo, 
To  fashion  one ;  yet  still  you  must  confess, 
The  phoenix  of  perfection  ne'er  was  seen, 
But  in  my  fair  Marcelia. 

Fran.  She's  indeed 
The  wonder  of  all  times. 

Tib.  Your  excellence. 
Though  I  confess  you  give  her  but  her  own, 
Forces  her  modesty  to  the  defence 
Of  a  sweet  blush. 

Sfor.  It  need  not,  my  Marcelia ; 
When  most  I  strive  to  praise  thee,  I  appear 
A  poor  detractor :  for  thou  art  indeed 
So  absolute'  in  body  and  in  mind. 
That,  but  to  speak  the  least  part  to  the  height, 
Would  ask  an  angel's  tongue,  and  yet  then  end 
In  silent  admiration ! 

Isab.  You  still  court  her, 
As  if  she  were  a  mistress,  not  your  wife. 

Sj'or.  A  mistress,  mother !  she  is  more  to  me, 
And  every  day  deserves  more  to  be  sued  to. 
Such  as  are  cloy'd  with  those  they  have  em- 
braced, 
Jfay  think  their  wooing  done  :  no  night  to  me 
But  is  a  bridal  one,  where  Hymen  lights 
His  torches  fresh  and  new  ;  and  those  delights. 
Which  are  not  to  be  clothed  in  airy  sounds, 
Eujoy'd,  beget  desires  as  full  of  heat, 
And  jovial  fervoui',  as  when  first  I  tasted 
Her  virgin  fruit. — Blest  night!  and  be  it  num- 

ber'd 
Amongst  those  happy  ones,  in  which  a  blessing 
Was,  by  the  full  consent  of  all  the  stars, 
Couferr'd  upon  mankind. 

Marc.  My  worthiest  loi'd ! 
The  only  object  I  behold  with  pleasure, — 
My  pride,  my  gloiy,  in  a  word,  my  all ! 
Bear  witness,  heaven,  that  I  esteem  myself 
In  nothing  worthy  of  the  meanest  praise 
You  can  bestow,  unless  it  be  in  this. 
That  in  my  heart  I  love  and  honour  you. 
And,  but  that  it  would  smell  of  arrogance. 
To  speak  my  strong  desire  and  zeal  to  serve  yon, 
I  then  could  say,  these  eyes  yet  never  saw 
The  rising  sun,  but  that  my  vows  and  prayers 
Were  sent  to  heaven  for  the  prosperity 
And  safety  of  my  lord :  nor  have  I  ever 
Had  other  study,  but  how  to  appear 
Worthy  your  favour ;  and  that  my  embraces 
Might  yield  a  fruitful  harvest  of  content 
For  all  your  noble  travail,  in  the  purchase 
Of  her  that's  still  your  servant.    By  these  lips, 
Which,  pardon  me,  that  I  presume  to  kiss — 

Sfor.  Oh  swear,  for  ever  swear ! 

Marc.  I  ne'er  will  seek 
Delight  but  in  your  pleasure :  and  desire, 
When  you  are  sated  with  all  earthly  glories. 
And  age  and  honours  make  you  fit  for  heaven, 
That  one  grave  may  receive  us. 

Sfor.  'Tis  believed. 
Believed,  my  blest  one. 

Man.  How  she  winds  herself 
Into  his  soul ! 

Sfor.  Sit  all. — Let  others  feed 
On   those  gross  cates,^  while  Sforza  banquets 

with 
Immortal  viands  ta'en  in  at  his  eyes. 


'  absolute — perfect. 

'^  cates — provisions,  dainties. 


414 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


I  could  live  ever  thus. — Command  the  eunuch 
To  sing  the  ditty  that  I  last  composed, 

Enter  a  Courier. 

In  praise  of  my  Marcelia. — From  whence  ? 

Cour.  From  Pavia,  my  dread  lord. 

Sfor.  Speak,  is  all  lost  ? 

Cour.  [Belivers  a  lettei:]  The  letter  will  inform 
you.  [Exit. 

Fran.  How  his  hand  shakes, 
As  he  receives  it ! 

Mari.  This  is  some  allay 
To  his  hot  passion. 

Sfor.  Though  it  bring  death,  I'll  read  it : 

May  it  please  your  excellence  to  understand,  that  tho 
very  hour  I  wrote  this,  I  heard  a  hold  defiance  delivered 
by  a  herald  from  the  emperor,  which  was  cheerfully 
received  by  the  king  of  France.  The  battailes  *  being 
ready  to  join,  and  the  vanguard  committed  to  my 
charge,  enforces  me  to  end  abruptly. 

Your  Higlmess'  humble  seiTant, 

Gaspero. 

Heady  to  join! — Bj'  this,  then,  I  am  nothing, 
Or  my  estate  secure.  [Aside. 

Marc.  My  lord. 

Sfor.  To  doubt, 
Is  worse  than  to  have  lost ;  and  to  despair. 
Is  but  to  antedate  those  miseries 
That  must  fall  on  us;  all  my  hopes  depending 
Upon  this  battle's  fortune.     In  my  soul, 
]\Iethinks,  there  should  be  that  imperious  power 
By  supernatural,  not  usual  means, 
T'inform  me  what  I  am.     The  cause  consider'd. 
Why  should  I  fear  ?     The  French  are  bold  and 

strong, 
Their  numbers  full,  and  in  their  counsels  wise ; 
But  then,  the  haughty  Spaniard  is  all  fire, 
Hot  in  his  executions ;  fortunate 
In  his  attempts;  married  to  victory: — 
Ay,  there  it  is  that  shakes  me.  [Aside. 

Fran.  Excellent  lady, 
This  day  was  dedicated  to  your  honour ; 
One  gale  of  your  sweet  breath  will  easily 
Disperse  these  clouds ;  and,  but  yourself,  there's 

none 
That  dares  speak  to  him. 

Marc.  I  will  run  the  hazard. — 
My  lord ! 

Sfor.    Ha !  — pardon    me,    Marcelia,    I    am 
troubled ; 
And  stand  uncertain,  whether  I  am  master 
Of  aught  that's  worth  the  owning. 

Marc.  I  am  yours,  sir ; 
And  I  have  heard  you  swear,  I  being  safe. 
There  was  no  loss  could  move  you.    This  day,  sii', 
Is  by  your  gift  made  mine.     Can  you  revoke 
A  grant  made  to  Marcelia  ?  your  Marcelia  ? — 
For  whose  love,  nay,  whose  honour,  gentle  sii-. 
All  deep  designs,  and  state  affairs  deferr'd, 
Be,  as  you  purposed,  merry. 

Sfor.  Out  of  my  sight ! 

[Throws  away  the  Letter. 

And  all  thoughts  that  may  strangle  mirth  forsake 

me. 
Fall  what  can  fall,  I  dare  the  worst  of  fate : 
Though  the    foundation   of   the  earth    should 

shrink, 
The  glorious  eye  of  heaven  lose  its  splendour, 
Supported  thus,  I'll  stand  upon  the  ruins, 
And  seek  for  new  life  here.     Why  are  you  sad  ? 
No  other  sports !  by  heaven,  he's  not  my  friend. 
That  wears  one  furrow  in  his  face.     I  was  told 
There  was  a  masque. 


ihailui 


-battalions. 


Fran.  They  wait  your  highness'  pleasure. 
And  when  you  please  to  have  it. 

Sfor.  Bid  them  enter  : 
Come,  make  me  happy  once  again.     I  am  rapt — 
'Tis  not  to-day,  to-morrow,  or  tho  next. 
But  all  my  days  and  years  shall  be  employ'd 
To  do  thee  honour. 

Marc.  And  my  life  to  serve  you. 

[A  hoi'n  without. 

Sfor.  Another  post !  Go  hang  him,  hang  him, 
I  say; 
I  will  not  interrupt  my  present  pleasures, 
Although  his  message  should  import  my  head : 
Hang  him,  I  say. 

Marc.  Nay,  good  sir,  I  am  pleased 
To  grant  a  little  intermission  to  you ; 
Who  knows  but  he  brings  news  we  wish  to  hear, 
To  heighten  our  delights? 

Sfo)\  As  wise  as  fair ! 

Enter  another  Courier. 

From  Gaspero  ? 

Cour.  That  was,  my  lord. 

Sfoi:  How!  dead? 

Cour.  [Delivers  a  letter.']  With  the  delivery  of 
this,  and  prayers 
To  guard  your  excellency  from  certain  dangers, 
He  ceased  to  be  a  man. 

Sfor.  All  that  my  fears 
Could  fashion  to  me,  or  my  enemies  wish, 
Is  fallen  upon  me. — Silence  that  harsh  music  ; 
'Tis  now  unseasonable :  a  tolling  bell, 
As  a  sad  harbinger  to  tell  me,  that 
This  pamper'd  lump  of    flesh  must  feast  tha 

worms. 
Is  fitter  for  me :  I  am  sick. 

3farc.  My  lord ! 

Sfor.  Sick  to  the  death,  Marcelia.    Kemove 
These  signs  of  mirth ;  they  were  ominous,  and 

but  usher'd 
Sorrow  and  ruin. 

Marc.  Bless  us,  heaven  !  ' 

Isdb.  My  son. 

Marc.  What  sudden  change  is  this  ? 

Sfor.  All  leave  the  room ; 
I'll  bear  alone  the  burden  of  my  grief. 
And  must  admit  no  partner.     I  am  yet 
Your  prince,   where's  your  obedience? — Stay, 

Marcelia ; 
I  cannot  be  so  greedy  of  a  sorrow, 
In  which  you  must  not  share. 

[Exeunt  Tiberio,  Stephaj^o,  Feancisco, 
Isabella,  Marlana,  and  Attendants. 

Ma,rc.  And  cheerfully 
I  will  sustain  my  part.    Why  look  you  pale  ? 
Where  is  that  wonted  constancy  and  courage 
That  dared  the  worst  of  fortune  ?  where  is  Sf orza, 
To  whom  aU  dangers  that  fright  common  men, 
Appear'd  but  panic  terrors  ?  why  do  you  eye  me 
With  such  fix'd  looks  ?   Love,  counsel,^duty,  ser- 
vice. 
May  flow  from  me,  not  danger. 

Sfor.  Oh  Marcelia ! 
It  is  for  thee  I  fear ;  for  thee,  thy  Sforza 
Shakes  like  a  coward:  for  myself,  unmoved, 
I  could  have  heard  my  troops  were  cut  in  pieces. 
My  general  slain,  and  he,  on  whom  my  hopes 
Of  rule,  of  state,  of  life,  had  their  dependence. 
The  king  of  France,  my  greatest  friend,  made 

prisoner 
To  so  proud  enemies. 

Marc.  Then  you  have  just  cause 
To  show  you  are  a  man. 

Sfor.  All  this  were  nothing, 
Though  I  add  to  it,  that  I  am  assured. 
For  giving  aid  to  this  unfortunate  king. 
The  emperor,  incens'd,  lays  his  command 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


415 


On  his  ^nctorious  army,  flesh'd  with  spoil, 
And  bold  of  conquest,  to  march  up  against  me, 
And  seize  on  my  estates  ;  suppose  that  done  too, 
The  city  ta'en,  the  kennels  running  blood, 
The  ransack'd  temples  falling  on  their  saints  ; 
My  mother,  in  my  sight,  toss'd  on  their  pikes. 
And  sister  ravish'd,  and  myself  bound  fast 
In  chains,  to  grace  their  triumph,  or  what  else 
An  enemy's  insolence  could  load  me  with, 
I  would  be  Sforza  still.     But,  when  I  think 
That  my  Marcelia,  to  whom  all  these 
Are  but  as  atoms  to  the  greatest  hill, 
Must  suffer  in  my  cause,  and  for  me  suffer ! 
All  earthly  torments,  nay,  even  those  the  damn'd 
Howl  for  in  hell,  are  gentle  strokes,  compared 
To  what  I  feel,  Marcelia. 

Marc.  Good  sir,  have  patience : 
I  can  as  well  partake  your  adverse  fortune, 
As  I  thus  long  have  had  an  ample  share 
In  your  prosperity.     'Tis  not  in  the  power 
Of  fate  to  alter  me  ;  for  while  I  am, 
In  spite  of  it,  I'm  yours. 

Sfor.  But  should  that  will 
To  be  so  .  .  .  forced,!  Marcelia :  and  I  live 
To  see  those  eyes  I  prize  above  my  own, 
Dart  favours,  though  compell'd,  upon  another ; 
Or  those  sweet  lips  yielding  immortal  nectar. 
Be  gently  touch'd  by  any  but  myself  ; 
Think,  think,  Marcelia,  what  a  cursed  thing 
I  were,  beyond  expression ! 

Marc.  Do  not  feed 
Those  jealous  thoughts  ;  the  only  blessing  that 
Heaven  hath  bestow'd  on  us,  more  than  on  beasts, 
Is,  that  'tis  in  our  pleasure  when  to  die. 
Besides,  were  I  now  in  another's  power, 
There  are  so  many  ways  to  let  out  life, 
I  would  not  live,  for  one  short  minute,  his ; 
I  was  born  only  yours,  and  I  will  die  so. 

Sfor.   Angels    reward   the  goodness   of    this 
woman ! 

Enter  FKA^fCisco. 

All  I  can  pay  is  nothing. — Why,  uncall'd  for  ? 
Fran.  It  is  of  weight,  sir,  that  makes  me  thus 
press 
Upon  your  privacies.     Tour  constant  friend, 
The  Marquis  of  Pescara,  tired  with  haste. 
Hath  business  that  concerns  your  life  and  for- 
tunes. 
And  with  speed  to  impart. 
Sfor.  Wait  on  him  hither. 

[^Exit  Fkancisco. 
And,  dearest,  to  thy  closet.     Let  thy  prayers 
Assist  my  councils. 

Macr.  To  spare  imprecations 
Against  myself,  without  you  I  am  nothing. 

\^Exit. 
Sfor.  The  Marquis  of  Pescara!  a  great  soldier; 
And,  though  he  serv'd  upon  the  adverse  party. 
Ever  my  constant  friend. 

Re-enter  Francisco  with  Pescara. 

Fran.  Yonder  he  walks, 
Full  of  sad  thoughts. 

Pesc.  Blame  him  not,  good  Francisco, 
He  hath  much  cause  to  grieve ;  would  I  might 
And  not  add  this, — to  fear !  [end  so, 

Sfor.  My  dear  Pescara ; 
A  miracle  in  these  times  !  a  friend,  and  happy. 
Cleaves  to  a  falling  fortune ! 

Pesc.  If  it  were 
As  well  in  my  weak  power,  in  act,  to  raise  it. 
As  'tis  to  bear  a  part  of  sorrow  with  you. 
You  then  should  have  just  cause  to  say,  Pescara 


•  There  is  evidently  some  omission  here. 


Look'd  not  upon  your  state,  but  on  your  virtues, 
When  he  made  suit  to  be  writ  in  the  list 
Of  those  you  favoured. — But  my  haste  forbids 
All  compliment :  thus,  then,  su-,  to  the  purpose : 
The  cause  that,  xmattended,  brought  me  hither 
Was  not  to  teU  you  of  your  loss,  or  danger ; 
For  fame  hath  many  wings  to  bring  ill  tidings, 
And  I  presume  you've  heard  it ;  but  to  give  you 
Such  friendly  coiinsel,  as,  perhaps,  may  make 
Your  sad  disaster  less. 

Sfor.  You  are  all  goodness ; 
And  I  give  up  myself  to  be  disposed  of, 
As  in  your  wisdom  you  think  fit. 

Pesc.  Thus,  then,  sir: 
To  hope  you  can  hold  out  against  the  emperor, 
Were  flattery  in  yourself,  to  your  undoing : 
Therefore,  the  safest  course  that  you  can  take, 
Is  to  give  up  yourself  to  his  discretion, 
Before  you  be  compell'd ;  for,  rest  assured, 
A  voluntary  yielding  may  find  grace. 
And  will  admit  defence,  at  least,  excuse  : 
But,  should  you  linger  doubtful,  till  his  powers 
Have  seized  your  person  and  estates  jJerforce, 
You  must  expect  extremes. 

Sfor.  I  understand  you ; 
And  I  will  put  your  counsel  into  act, 
And  speedily.     I  only  will  take  order 
For  some  domestical  affairs,  that  do 
Concern  me  nearly,  and  with  the  next  sun 
Ride  with  you :  in  the  meantime,  my  best  friend, 
Pray  take  your  rest. 

Pesc.  Indeed,  I  have  travell'd  hard ; 
And  will  embrace  your  counsel.  [Exit. 

Sfor.  With  all  care, 
Attend  my  noble  friend.     Stay  you,  Francisco. 
You  see  how  things  stand  with  me  ? 

Fran.  To  my  grief : 
And  if  the  loss  of  my  poor  Hfe  could  be 
A  sacrifice  to  restore  them  as  they  were, 
I  willingly  would  lay  it  down, 

Sfor.  I  think  so  ; 
For  I  have  ever  found  you  true  and  thankful. 
Which  makes  me  love  the  building  I  have  raised 
In  your  advancement :  and  repent  no  grace 
I  have  conferr'd  upon  you.     And,  believe  me, 
Though  now  I  should  repeat  my  favours  to  you, 
The  titles  I  have  given  you,  and  the  means 
Suitable  to  your  honours  ;  that  I  thought  you 
Worthy  my  sister  and  my  family. 
And  in  my  dukedom  made  you  next  myself ; 
It  is  not  to  upbraid  you ;  but  to  tell  you 
I  find  you  are  worthy  of  them,  in  your  love 
And  service  to  me. 

Fran.  Sir,  I  am  your  creature  ; 
And  any  shape  that  you  would  have  me  wear, 
I  gladly  will  put  on. 

Sfor.  Thus,  then,  Francisco  : 
I  now  am  to  deliver  to  your  trust 
A  weighty  secret,  of  so  strange  a  nature. 
And  'twill,  I  know,  appear  so  monstrous  to  you, 
That  you  will  tremble  in  the  execution, 
As  much  as  I  am  tortured  to  command  it : 
For  'tis  a  deed  so  horrid,  that,  but  to  hear  it. 
Would  strike  into  a  ruiHan  flesh'd  in  murders. 
Or  an  obdu.rate  hangman,  soft  compassion  ; 
And  yet,  Francisco,  of  all  men  the  dearest, 
And  from  me  most  deserving,  such  my  state 
And  strange  condition  is,  that  thou  alone 
Must  know  the  fatal  service,  and  perform  it. 

Fran.    These    preparations,    sir,    to    work    a 
stranger. 
Or  to  one  unacquainted  with  your  bounties, 
Might  appear  useful ;  but  to  me  they  are 
Needless  impertinences  :  for  I  dare  do 
Whate'er  you  dare  command. 

Sfor.  But  j'ou  must  swear  it ; 
And  put  into  the  oath  all  joys  or  torments 


4i6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


That  friglit  the  wicked  or  confirm  the  good ; 
Not  to  conceal  it  only,  that  is  nothing, 
But,  whensoe'er  my  will  shall  speak,  Strike  now! 
To  fall  upon't  like  thunder. 

Fran.  Minister 
The  oath  in  any  way  or  form  you  please, 
I  stand  resolved  to  take  it. 

Sfor.  Thou  must  do,  then. 
What  no  malevolent  star  will  dare  to  look  on, 
It  is  so  wicked :  for  which  men  will  curse  thee 
For  being  the  instrument;  and  the  blest  angels 
Forsake  me  at  my  need,  for  being  the  author  : 
For,  'tis  a  deed  of  night,  of  night,  Francisco  ! 
In  which  the  memory  of  all  good  actions 
We  can  pi-etend  to,  shall  be  buried  quick : 
Or,  if  we  be  remember'd,  it  shall  be 
To  fright  posterity  by  our  example, 
That  have  outgone  all  precedents  of  villains 
That  were  before  us  ;  and  such  as  succeed. 
Though  taught  in  hell's  black  school,  shall  ne'er 

come  near  us. — 
Art  thou  not  shaken  yet .' 

Fran.  I  grant  you  move  me : 
But  to  a  man  confirm'd — 

Sfor.  I'll  try  your  temper  : 
What  think  you  of  my  wife  ? 

Fran.  As  a  thing  sacred  ; 
To  whose  fair  name  and  memory  I  pay  gladly 
These  signs  of  duty. 

Sfor.  Is  she  not  the  abstract 
Of  all  that's  rare,  or  to  be  wisli'd  in  woman  .' 

Fran.  It  were  a  kind  of  blasphemy  to  dispute 
it: 
But  to  the  purpose,  sir. 

Sfor.  Add  too,  her  goodness, 
Her  tenderness  of  me,  her  care  to  please  me, 
Her  unsuspected  chastity,  ne'er  equall'd ; 
Her  innocence,  her  honour :  oh,  I  am  lost 
In  the  ocean  of  her  virtues  and  her  graces. 
When  I  tliiuk  of  them ! 

Fran.  Now  I  find  the  end 
Of  all  your  conjurations:  there's  some  service 
To  be  done  for  this  sweet  lady.     If  she  have 

enemies. 
That  she  would  have  removed — 

Sfor.  Alas !  Francisco, 
Her  greatest  enemy  is  her  greatest  lover  ; 
Yet  in  that  hatred  her  idolater. 
One  smile  of  hers  would  make  a  savage  tame  ; 
One  accent  of  that  tongue  would  calm  the  seas, 
Though  all  the  winds  at  once  strove  there  for 

empire. 
Yet  I,  for  whom  she  thinks  all  this  too  little. 
Should  I  miscarry  in  this  present  journey. 
From  whence  it  is  all  number  to  a  cipher, 
I  ne'er  return  with  honour,  by  thy  hand 
Must  have  her  murder'd. 

Fran.  Murder'd ! — She  that  loves  so, 
And  so  deserves  to  be  belov'd  again ! 
And  I,  who  sometimes  you  were  pleased  to  favour, 
Pick'd  out  the  instrument ! 

Sfor.  Do  not  fly  off  : 
What  is  decreed  can  never  be  recall'd; 
'Tis  more  than  love  to  her,  that  marks  her  out 
A  wish'd  companion  to  me  in  both  fortunes  ; 
A  strong  assurance  of  thy  zealous  faith. 
That  gives  up  to  thy  trust  a  secret,  that 
Backs  should  not  have  forced  from  me.      Oh, 

Francisco ! 
There  is  no  heaven  without  her,  nor  a  hell 
Where  she  resides.     I  ask  from  her  but  justice. 
And  what  I  would  have  paid  to  her,  had  sickness. 
Or  any  other  accident,  divorced 
Her  purer  soul  from  her  unspotted  body. 
The  slavish  Indian  princes,  when  they  die, 
Are  cheerfully  attended  to  the  fire 
By  the  wife  and  slave  that  living  they  loved  best, 


To  do  them  service  in  another  world; 
Nor  will  I  be  less  honour'd,  that  love  mora. 
And  therefore  trifle  not,  but,  in  thy  looks. 
Express  a  ready  purpose  to  perform 
What  I  command  ;  or  by  Marcelia's  soul. 
This  is  thy  latest  minute. 

Fran.  'Tis  not  fear 
Of  death,  but  love  to  you,  makes  me  embrace  it : 
But  for  mine  own  security,  when  'tis  done. 
What  warrant  have  I  ?    If  you  please  to  sign  one, 
I  shall,  though  with  unwillingness  and  horror, 
Perform  your  dreadful  charge. 

Sfor.  I  will,  Francisco : 
But  still  remember  that  a  prince's  secrets 
Are  balm  conceal'd,  but  poison,  if  discover' d. 
I  may  come  back ;  then  this  is  but  a  trial 
To  purchase  thee,  if  it  were  possible, 
A  nearer  place  in  my  affection  : — but 
I  know  thee  honest. 

Fran.  'Tis  a  character 
I  will  not  part  with. 

Sfor.  I  may  live  to  reward  it.  {Exeunt, 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

The  same.     An  open  sjiace  hefore  the  Castle. 

Enter  Tiberio  and  Stephano. 

Sfeph.  How!  left  the  court.' 

Tib.  Without  guard  or  retinue 
Fitting  a  prince. 

Sfeph.  No  enemy  near  to  force  him 
To  leave  his  own  strengths,  yet  deliver  up 
Himself,  as  'twere,  in  bonds,  to  the  discretion 
Of  him  that  hates  him !  'tis  beyond  example. 
You  never  heard  the  motives  that  induced  him 
To  this  strange  course  ? 

Tib.  No  ;  those  are  cabinet  councils. 
And  not  to  be  communicated,  but 
To  such  as  are  his  own,  and  sm-e.     Alas, 
We  fill  up  empty  places,  and  in  public 
Are  taught  to  give  our  suffrages  to  that 
Which  was  before  determined ;  and  are  safe  so. 
Signior  Francisco  (upon  whom  alone 
His  absolute  power  is,  with  all  strength,  confeiT'd 
During  his  absence)  can  with  ease  resolve  you : 
To  me  they  are  riddles. 

Steph.  Well,  he  shall  not  be 
My  (Edipus ;  I'll  rather  dwell  in  dai-kness. 
But,  my  good  lord  Tiberio,  this  Francisco 
Is,  on  the  sudden,  sti-angely  raised. 

Tib.  Oh,  sir. 
He  took  the  thriving  course  :  he  had  a  sister, 
A  fair  one  too,  with  whom,  as  it  is  rumour'd. 
The  duke  was  too  familiar ;  but  she,  cast  off 
(What  promises  soever  passed  between  them). 
Upon  the  sight  of  this,'  forsook  the  court. 
And  since  was  never  seen.     To  smother  this, 
As  honours  never  fail  to  purchase  silence, 
Francisco  first  was  graced,  and,  step  by  step. 
Is  raised  up  to  this  height. 

Steph.  But  how  is 
His  absence  borne  ? 

Tib.  Sadly,  it  seems,  by  the  duchess; 
For  since  he  left  the  court, 
For  the  most  part  she  hath  kept  her  private 

chamber, 
No  visitants  admitted.     In  the  chiirch. 
She  hath  been  seen  to  pay  her  pure  devotions, 
Season'd  with  tears ;  and  sure  her  sorrow's  true, 
Or  deeply  counterfeited;  pomp,  and  state. 
And  bravei-y  cast  off :  and  she,  that  lately 
Rivall'd  Poppsea  in  her  varied  shapes. 


'  this— i.e.  the  duchess. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


417 


Or  the  Egyptian  queen,  now,  widow-like, 
In  sable  colours,  as  her  husband's  dangers 
Strangled  in  her  the  use  of  any  pleasure, 
Mourns  for  his  absence. 

Steph.  It  becomes  her  virtue, 
And  does  confirm  what  was  reported  of  her. 

Tib.  You  take  it  right :  but,  on  the  other  side, 
The  darling  of  his  mother,  Mariana, 
As  there  were  an  antipathy  between 
Her  and  the  duchess'  passions  ;  and  as 
She'd  no  dependence  on  her  brother's  fortune, 
She  ne'er  appeared  so  full  of  mirth. 

Steph.  'Tis  strange. 

Enter  Graccho  with  Fiddlers. 

But  see  !  her  favourite,  and  accompanied, 
To  your  report. 

Grac.  You  shall  scrape,  and  I  will  sing 
A  scurvy  ditty  to  a  scurvy  tune, 
Eepine  who  dares. 

1  Fid.  But  if  we  should  offend, 
The  duchess  having  silenced    us , — and   these 

lords. 
Stand  by  to  hear  us. — 

Grac.  They  in  name  are  lords, 
But  I  am  oae  in  power :  and,  for  the  duchess. 
But  yesterday  we  were  merry  for  her  pleasure, 
We  now'll  be  for  my  lady's. 

Tib.  Signior  Graccho. 

Grac.     A   poor    man,    sir,  a  servant   to    the 
princess ; 
But  you,  great  lords  and  councillors  of  state, 
Whom  I  stand  bound  to  reverence. 

Tib.  Come ;  we  know 
You  are  a  man  in  grace.i 

Grac.  Fie!  no:  I  grant, 
I  bear  my  fortunes  patiently;  serve  the  princess. 
And  have  access  at  all  times  to  her  closet. 
Such  is  my  impudence !  when  your  grave  lord- 
ships 
Are  masters  of  the  modesty  to  attend 
Three  hours,  nay  sometimes  four ;  and  then  bid 

wait 
Upon  her  the  next  morning. 

Steph.  He  derides  us. 

Tib.  Pray  you,   what  news  is  stirring?    you 
know  all. 

Grac.  Who,  I  ?  alas !  I've  no  intelligence 
At  home  nor  abroad  ;  I  only  sometimes  guess 
The  change  of  the  times :  I  should  ask  of  your 

lordships, 
Who  are  to  keep  their  honours,  who  to  lose  them ; 
Who  the  duchess  smiled  on  last,  or  on  whom 

frown'd, 
You  only  can  resolve  me ;  we  poor  waiters 
Deal,  as  you  see,  in  mirth,  and  foolish  fiddles : 
It  is  our  element ;  and — could  you  tell  me 
What  point  of  state  'tis  that  I  am  commanded 
To  muster  up  this  music,  en  mine  honesty, 
You  should  much  befriend  me. 

Steph.  Sirrah,  you  grow  saucy. 

Tib.  And  would  be  laid  by  the  heels. 

Grac.  Not  by  your  lordships. 
Without  a  special  warrant;   look  to  your  own 

stakes ; 
Were  I  committed,  here  come  those  would  bail 

me: 
Perhaps,  we  might  change  places  too. 

Enter  Isabella  and  Mariana  ;  Graccho 
whispers  the  latter. 

Tib.  The  princess ! 
We  must  be  patient. 
Steph.  There  is  no  contending. 


'  jfrace— favour. 


Tib.  See,  the  informing  rogue  I 

Steph.  That  we  should  stoop 
To  such  a  mushroom ! 

Mari.  Thou  dost  mistake ;  they  durst  not 
Use  the  least  word  of  scorn,  although  provoked, 
To  anything  of  mine. — Go,  get  you  home. 
And  to  your   servants,   friends,  and  flatterers, 

number 
How    many    descents    you're    noble; — look    to 

your  wives  too ; 
The  smooth-chinn'd  courtiers  are  abroad. 

Tib.  No  way  to  be  a  freeman ! 

[Exeunt  Tiberio  and  Stepiiano. 

Grac.  Your    Excellence    hath    the  best   gift 
to  despatch 
These  arras  pictures  of  nobility, 
I  ever  read  of. 

Mari.  I  can  speak  sometimes. 

Grac.  And  cover  so    your  bitter    pills  with 
sweetness 
Of  princely  language  to  forbid  reply, 
They  are  greedily  swaUow'd. 

Isab.  But  the  purpose,  daughter. 
That  brings  us  hither .'     Is  it  to  bestow 
A  visit  on  this  woman,  that,  because 
She  only  would  be  thought  truly  to  grieve 
The  absence  and  the  dangers  of  my  son, 
Proclaims  a  general  sadness .' 

Mari.  If  to  vex  her 
May  be  interpreted  to  do  her  honour, 
She  shall  have  many  of  them.     I'll  make  use 
Of  my  short  reign  :  my  lord  now  governs  all ; 
And  she  shall  know  that  her  idolater. 
My  brother,  being  not  by  now  to  protect  her, 
I  am  her  equal. 

Grac.  Of  a  little  thing, 
It  is  so  full  of  gall !     A  devil  of  this  size. 
Should  they  run  for  a  wager  to  be  spiteful. 
Gets  not  a  horse-head  of  her.  [Aside. 

Mari.  On  her  birthday 
We  were  forced  to  be  merry,  and  now  she's  musty, 
We  must  be  sad,  on  pain  of  her  displeasure : 
We  will,  we  will !  this  is  her  private  chamber. 
Where,  like  an  hypocrite,  not  a  true  turtle. 
She  seems  to  mourn  her  absent  mate ;  her  servants 
Attending  her  like  mutes:  but  I'll  speak  to  her, 
And  in  a  high  key  too. — Play  anything 
That's  light  and  loud  enough  but  to  torment  her, 
And  we  will  have  rare  sport. 

[Music  and  a  song. 

Marcelia  appears  at  a  Window  above,  in  blacJc. 

Isab.  She  frowns  as  if 
Her  looks  could  fright  us. 

Mari.  May  it  please  your  greatness. 
We  heard  that  your  late  physic  hath  not  work'd  ; 
And    that  breeds  melancholy,    as  your  doctor 

tells  us : 
To  purge  which,  we,  that  are  born  your  high- 
ness' vassals, 
And  are  to  play  the  fool  to  do  you  service. 
Present  you  with  a  fit  of  mirth.    What  think  you 
Of  a  new  antic  .■' 

]sab.  'Twould  show  rare  in  ladies. 

Mari.  Being  intended  for  so  sweet  a  creature. 
Were  she  but  pleased  to  grace  it. 

Isab.  Fie !  she  will. 
Be  it  ne'er  so  mean  ;  she's  made  of  courtesy. 

Mari.  The  mistress  of  all  hearts.     One  smile,  I 
pray  you, 
On  your  poor  servants,  or  a  fiddler's  fee ; 
Coming  from  those  fair  hands,  though  but  a 

ducat. 
We  will  enshrine  it  as  a  holy  relic. 

Isab.  'Tis  wormwood,  and  it  works. 


'Z  D 


4i8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Marc.  If  I  lay  by 
My  fears  and  griefs,  in  "whicla  you  should  be 

sharers, 
If  doting  age  could  let  you  but  remember 
You  have  a  son ;  or  frontless  impudence. 
You  are  a  sister ;  and,  in  making  answer 
To  what  was  most  unfit  for  you  to  speak, 
Or  me  to  hear,  borrow  of  my  just  anger — 

Isah.  A  set  speech,  on  ray  life. 

Mari.  Penn'd  by  her  chaplain. 

Marc.  Yes,  it  can  speak,  without  instruction 
speak. 
And  tell  your  want  of  manners,  that  you  are  rude. 
And  saucily  rude,  too. 

Ch-ac.  Now  the  game  begins. 

Marc.  You  durst  not,  else,  on  any  hire  or  hope, 
Bemembering  what  I  am,  and  whose  I  am, 
Put  on  the  desperate  boldness  to  disturb 
The  least  of  my  retirements. 

Mari.  Note  her,  no\-,'. 

Marc.  For  both  shull  understand,  though  the 
one  presume 
Upon  the  privilege  duo  to  a  mother. 
The  duke  stands  now  on  his  own  legs,  and  needs 
No  nurse  to  lead  him. 

Isab.  How,  a  nux-se ! 

Marc.  A  dry  one. 
And  useless  too : — but  I  am  merciful, 
And  dotage  signs  your  pardon. 

Isab.  I  defy  thee  ; 
Thee,  and  thy  pardons,  proud  one ! 

Marc.  For  you,  puppet — 

Mari.  What  of  me,  pine-tree  ? 

Marc.  Little  you  are,  I  grant. 
And  have  as  little  worth,  but  much  less  wit ; 
You  durst  not  else,  the  duke  being  wholly  mine. 
His  power  and  honour  mine,  and  the  allegiance 
You  owe  him,  as  a  subject,  due  to  me — 

Man.  To  you  ? 

Marc.  To  me :  and  therefore,  as  a  vassal. 
From  this  hour  learn  to  serve  me,  or  you'll  feel 
I  must  make  use  of  my  authority, 
And,  as  a  princess,  punish  it. 

Isab.  A  princess! 

Mari.  I  had  rather  be  a  slave  unto  a  Moor, 
Than  know  thee  for  my  equal. 

Isab.  Scornful  thing ! 
Proud  of  a  white  face. 

Mari.  Let  her  but  remember 
The  issue  in  her  leg. 

Isab.  The  charge  she  puts 
The  state  to,  for  perfumes. 

Mari.  And  howsoe'er 
She  seems  when  she's  made  up,  as  she's  herself. 
She  stinks  above  the  ground.     Oh  that  I  could 

reach  you ! 
The  little  one  you  scorn  so,  with  her  nails 
Would  tear  your  painted  face,  and  scratch  those 
Do  but  come  down.  [eyes  out. 

Marc.  Were  there  no  other  way. 
But  leaping  on  thy  neck,  to  break  mine  own, 
Kather  than  be  outbraved  thus.  [She  retires. 

Grac.  Forty  ducats 
Upon  the  little  hen  ;  she's  of  the  kind, 
And  wUI  not  leave  the  pit.  \^Aside. 

Mari.  That  it  were  lawful 
To  meet  her  with  a  poniard  and  a  pistol ! 
But  these  weak  hands  shall  show  my  spleen — 

Re-enter  Makcelia  below. 

Marc.  Where  are  you, 
You  modicum,  you  dwarf ! 
Mari.  Here,  giantess,  here. 

Enter  Francisco,  Tiberio,  Stephano,  and 
Guards. 

Fran.  A  tumult  in  the  court ! 


Mari.  Let  her  come  on. 

Fran.  What  wind  hath  raised  this  tempest .' 
Sever  them,  I  command  you.    What's  the  cause  ? 
Speak,  Mariana. 

Mart.  I  am  out  of  breath ; 
But  we  shall  meet,  we  shall. — And,  do  you  hear, 

sir! 
Or  right  me  on  this  monster  (she's  three  feet 
Too  high  for  a  woman),  or  ne'er  look  to  have 
A  quiet  hour  with  me. 

Isab.  If  my  son  were  here, 
And  would  endure  this,  may  a  mother's  curse 
Pursue  and  overtake  him ! 

Fran.  Oh  forbear ; 
In  me  he's  present,  both  in  power  and  will ; 
And,  madam,  I  much  grieve  that  in  his  absence, 
There  should  arise  the  least  distaste  to  move  you; 
It  being  his  principal,  nay,  only  charge. 
To  have  you,  in  his  absence,  served  and  honour'd, 
As  when  himself  perform'd  the  willing  office. 

Mari.  This  is  fine,  i'faith. 

Grac.  I  would  I  were  well  off ! 

Fran.  And  therefore,  I  beseech  you,  madam, 
frown  not, 
Till  most  unwittingly  he  hath  deserved  it, 
On  your  poor  servant ;  to  your  excellence 
I  ever  was  and  will  be  such ;  and  lay 
The  duke's  authority,  trusted  to  me. 
With  willingness  at  your  feet. 

Mari.  Oh  base ! 

Isab.  We  are  like 
To  have  an  equal  judge ! 

Fran.  But,  should  I  find 
That  you  are  touch'd  in  any  point  of  honour, 
Or  that  the  least  neglect  is  fail'n  upon  you, 
I  then  stand  up  a  prince. 

1  Fid.  Without  reward, 
Pray  you  dismiss  us. 

Grac.  Would  I  were  five  leagues  hence ! 

Fran.  I  will  be  partial 
To  none,  not  to  myself ; 
Be  you  but  pleased  to  show  me  my  offence, 
Or  if  you  hold  me  in  your  good  opinion. 
Name  those  that  have  offended  you. 

Isab.  I  am  one. 
And  I  will  justify  it.  v 

Mari.  Thou  art  a  base  fellow. 
To  take  her  part. 

Fran.  Remember,  she's  the  duchess. 

Marc.  But  used  with  more  contempt,  than  if  I 
were 
A  peasant's  daughter;  baited,  and  hooted  at. 
Like  to  a  common  strumpet ;  with  loud  noises 
Forced  from  my  prayers ;  and  my  private  cham- 
ber. 
Which  with  all  willingness  I  would  make  my 

prison 
During  the  absence  of  my  lord,  denied  me : 
But  if  he  e'er  return — 

Fran.  Were  you  an  actor 
In  this  lewd  comedy  ? 

Mari.  Ay,  marry  was  I ; 
And  will  be  one  again. 

Isab.  I'll  join  with  her, 
Though  you  repiine  at  it. 

Fran.  Think  not,  then,  I  speak. 
For  I  stand  bound  to  honour,  and  to  serve  yon ; 
But  that  the  duke,  that  lives  in  this  great  lady. 
For  the  contempt  of  him  in  her,  commands  you 
To  be  close  prisoners.  • 

Isab.  Mari.  Prisoners! 

Fran.  Bear  them  hence : 
This  is  your  charge,  my  lord  Tiberio, 
And,  Stephano,  this  is  yours. 

Marc.  I  am  not  cruel. 
But  pleased  they  may  have  liberty. 

Isab.  Pleased,  with  a  mischief ! 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


419 


Mari.  I'll  rather  live  ia  any  loatbsome  dun- 
geon, 
Than  in  a  paradise  at  her  entreaty; 
And,  for  you,  upstart — 

Steph.  There  is  no  contending. 

Tib.  What  shall  become  of  these  ? 

Fran.  See  them  well  whipp'd, 
As  you  will  answer  it. 

Tib.  Now,  Signior  Graccho, 
What  think  you  of  your  greatness  ? 

Grac.  I  preach  patience. 
And  must  endure  my  fortiine. 

1  Fid.  I  was  never  yet 
At  such  a  hunt's-up,i  nor  was  so  rewarded. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Francisco  and  Marcelia. 

Fran.   Let  them  first  know  themselves,  and 
how  you  are 
To  be  served  and  honour'd;  which,  when  they 

confess, 
You  may  again  receive  them  to  your  favour : 
And  then  it  will  show  nobly. 

Marc.  With  my  thanks 
The  duke  shall  pay  you  his,  if  he  return 
To  bless  us  with  his  presence. 

Fran.  There  is  nothing 
That  can  be  added  to  your  fair  acceptance ; 
That  is  the  prize,  indeed ;  all  else  are  blanks. 
And  of  no  value.     As,  in  virtudus  actions. 
The  undertaker  finds  a  full  reward. 
Although  conferr'd  upon  unthankful  men ; 
(So,  any  service  done  to  so  much  sweetness, 
However  dangerous,  and  subject  to 
An  ill  construction,  in  your  favour  finds 
A  wish'd  and  gloriou?  end. 

Marc.  Fi'om  you,  I  take  this 
As  loyal  duty ;  but,  in  any  other, 
It  would  appear  gross  flattery. 

Fran.  Flattery,  madam ! 
You  are  so  rare  and  excellent  in  all  things, 
And  raised  so  high  upon  a  rock  of  goodness, 
As  that  vice  cannot  reach  you :  who  but  looks  on 
This  temple,  built  by  nature  to  perfection, 
But  must  bow  to  it ;  and  out  of  that  zeal, 
Not  only  learn  to  adore  it,  but  to  love  it? 

Marc.  Whither  will  this  fellow  ?  [Aside. 

Fran.  Pardon,  therefore,  madam. 
If  an  excess  in  me  of  humble  duty. 
Teach  me  to  hope,  and  though  it  be  not  in 
The  power  of  man  to  merit  such  a  blessing, 
My  piety,  for  it  is  more  than  love, 
May  find  reward. 

Marc.  You  have  it  in  my  thanks ; 
And,  on  my  hand,  I  am  pleased  that  you  shall 

take 
A  full  possession  of  it :  but,  take  heed 
That  you  fix  here,  and  feed  no  hope  beyond  it ; 
If  you  do,  it  will  prove  fatal. 

Fran.  Be  it  death. 
And  death  with  torments  tyrants  ne'er  found  out. 
Yet  1  must  say,  I  love  you. 

Marc.  As  a  subject ; 
And  'twill  become  you. 

Fran.  Farewell,  circumstance! 
And  since  you  are  not  pleased  to  understand  me, 
But  by  a  plain  and  useful  form  of  speech : 
All  superstitious  reverence  laid  by, 
I  love  you  as  a  man,  and,  as  a  man, 
I  would  enjoy  you.     Why  do  you  start,  and  fly 

me? 
I  am  no  monster,  and  you  but  a  woman, 

1  The  hunt's-up  was  a  lesson  on  the  horn,  played 
under  the  windows  of  sportsmen,  to  call  them  up  in  the 
rnoming.  It  was,  probably,  sufficiently  obstreperous,  for 
it  is  frequently  applied  by  our  old  writers,  as  in  this 
place,  to  any  noise  or  clamour  of  an  awakening  or 
alarming  nature.— Giffokd. 


A  woman  made  to  yield,  and  by  example 
Told  it  is  lawful :  favours  of  this  nature, 
Are,  in  our  age,  no  miracles  in  the  greatest ; 
And  therefore,  lady — 

Marc.  Keep  off! — 0  you  Powers! — 
Libidinous  beast  I  and,  add  to  that,  unthankful ! 
A   crime  which  creatures   wanting  reason    fly 

from. 
Are  all  the  princely  bounties,  favours,  honours, 
Which,  with  some  prejudice  to  his  own  wisdom, 
Thy  lord  and  raiser  hath  conferr'd  upon  thee. 
In  three  days'  absence  buried  ?     Hath  he  made 

thee, 
A  thing  obscure,  almost  without  a  name. 
The  envy  of  great  fortunes?     Have  I   graced 

thee. 
Beyond  thy  rank,  and  entertain'd  thee,  as 
A  friend,  and  not  a  servant?  and  is  this. 
This  impudent  attempt  to  taint  mine  honour, 
The  fair  return  of  both  our  ventured  favours! 

Fran.  Hear  my  excuse. 

Marc.  The  devil  may  plead  mercy. 
And  with  as  much  assurance,  as  thou  yield  one. 
Burns  lust  so  hot  in  thee  ?  or  is  thy  pride 
Grown  up  to  such  a  height,  that  but  a  princess. 
No  women  can  content  thee ;  and,  add  to  it. 
His  wife  and  princess,  to  whom  thou  art  tied 
In  all  the  bonds  of  duty  ? — Eead  my  life. 
And  find  one  act  of  mine  so  loosely  carried. 
That  could  invite  a  most  self-loving  fool. 
Set  off  with  all  that  fortune  could  throw  on  him, 
To  the  least  hope  to  find  way  to  my  favour; 
And,  what's  the  worst  mine  enemies  could  wish 
I'll  be  thy  strumpet.  [me, 

Fran.  'Tis  acknowledged,  madam, 
That  your  whole  course  of  life  hath  been  a  pattern 
For  chaste  and  virtuous  women.    In  your  beauty. 
Which  I  first  saw,  and  loved,  as  a  fair  crystal, 
I  read  your  heavenly  mind,  clear  and  untainted ; 
And  while  the  duke  did  prize  you  to  your  value, 
Could  it  have  been  in  man  to  pay  that  duty, 
I  well  might  envy  him,  but  durst  not  hope 
To  stop  you  in  your  full  career  of  goodness: 
But  now  I  find  that  he's  fall'n  from  his  fortune. 
And,  howsoever  he  would  appear  doting, 
Grown  cold  in  his  affection ;  I  presume. 
From  his  most  barbarous  neglect  of  you, 
To  offer  my  true  service.     Nor  stand  I  bound, 
To  look  back  on  the  courtesies  of  him. 
That,  of  all  living  men,  is  most  unthankful. 

Marc.  Unheard-of  impudence ! 

Fran.  You'll  say  I  am  modest. 
When  I  have  told  the  story.     Can  he  tax  me. 
That  have  received  some  worldly  trifles  from 

him. 
For  being  ungrateful,  when  he,  thlat  first  tasted. 
And  had  so  long  enjoy'd,  your  sweet  embraces, 
In  which  all  blessings  that  our  frail  condition 
Is  capable  of,  are  wholly  comprehended. 
As  cloy'd  with  happiness,  contemns  the  giver 
Of  his  felicity ;  and,  as  he  reach'd  not 
The  masterpiece  of  mischief  which  he  aims  at. 
Unless  he  pay  those  favours  he  stands  bound  to. 
With  fell  and  deadly  hate  !     You  think  he  loves 

_  you 
With  unexampled  fervour ;  nay,  dotes  on  you, 
As  there  were    something  in    you  more  than 

woman  : 
When,  on  my  knowledge,  he  long  since  hath 

wish'd 
You  were  among  the  dead: — and  I,  you  scorn  so, 
Perhaps,  am  your  preserver. 

Marc.  Bless  me,  good  angels. 
Or  I  am  blasted !  Lies  so  false  and  wicked, 
And  fashion'd  to  so  damnable  a  purpose, 
Cannot  be  spoken  by  a  human  tongue. 
My  husband  hate  me  !  give  thyself  the  lie. 


420 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


False  and  accurs'd!     Thy  soul,  if  thou  hast  any, 

Can  witness,  never  lady  stood  so  bound 

To  the  unfeign'd  affection  of  her  lord, 

As  I  do  to  my  Sforza.     If  thou  -wouldst  work 

Upon  my  weak  credulity,  tell  me,  rather. 

That  the  earth  moves ;  the  sun  and  stars  stand 

still ; 
The  ocean  keeps  nor  floods  nor  ebbs  ;  or  that 
There's  peace  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb ; 
Or  that  the  ravenous  eagle  and  the  dove 
Keep  in  one  aerie,  and  bring  up  their  young ; 
Or  anything  that  is  averse  to  nature  ; 
And  1  will  sooner  credit  it,  than  that 
My  lord  can  think  of  me,  but  as  a  jewel 
He  loves  more  than  himself,  and  all  the  world. 

Fran.  Oh  innocence  abused!  simplicity  cozen'd! 
It  were  a  sin,  for  which  we  have  no  name, 
To  keep  you  longer  in  this  wilful  error. 
Bead  his  affection  here — [Gives  her  a  paper.'] — 

and  then  observe 
How  dear  he  holds  you!     'Tis  his  character. 
Which  cunning  yet  could  never  counterfeit. 

Marc.  'Tis  his  hand,  I'mrtsolved'  of  it.     I'll 
try 
What  the  inscription  is. 

Fran.  Pray  you  do  so. 

Marc.  [Reads.l  You  know  my  pleasure,  and  the  hour 
of  Marcclia's  death,  which  fail  not  to  execute,  as  j'ou 
will  answer  the  contrary,  not  with  your  head  alone,  hut 
with  the  ruin  of  your  whole  family.  And  this,  written 
with  mine  own  hand,  and  signed  with  my  privy  signet, 
shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant. 

LODOVICO  Sfokza. 

I  do  obey  it !  every  word's  a  poniard, 

And  reaches  to  my  heart.  \_Swoons. 

Fran.  What  have  I  done  ? 
Madam !  for  Heaven's  sake,  madam ! — Oh  my  fate ! 
I'll  bend  her  body  :  this  is  yet  some  pleasure  : 
I'll  kiss  her  into  a  new  life.     Dear  lady! — 
She   stirs.     For    the   duke's   sake,   for   Sforza's 
sake — 

Marc.  Sforza's !  stand  off ;  though  dead,  I  will 
be  his. 
And  even  my  ashes  shall  abhor  the  touch 
Of  any  other. — Oh  unkind,  and  cruel ! 
Learn,  women,  learn  to  trust  in  one  another ! 
There  is  no  faith  in  man :  Sforza  is  false, 
Fa,lse  to  Marcelia ! 

Fran.  But  I  am  true, 
And  live  to  make  you  happy.     All  the  pomp. 
State,  and  observance  you  had,  being  his. 
Compared  to  what  you  shall  enjoy  when  mine. 
Shall  be  no  more  remember'd.    Lose  his  memory. 
And   look   with  cheerful  beams   on  your  new 

creature ; 
And  know  what  he  hath  plotted  for  your  good, 
Fate  cannot  alter.     If  the  emiDcror 
Take  not  his  life,  at  his  return  he  dies. 
And  by  my  hand;  my  wife,  that  is  his  heir. 
Shall  quickly  follow: — then  we  reign  alone! 
For  with  this  arm  I'll  swim  through  seas  of  blood. 
Or  make  a  bridge,  arch'd  with  the  bones  of  men, 
But  I  will  grasp  my  aims  in  you,  my  dearest, 
Dearest,  and  best  of  women ! 

Marc.  Thou  art  a  villain ! 
All  attributes  of  arch-villains  made  into  one, 
Cannot  express  thee.     I  prefer  the  hate 
Of  Sforza,  though  it  mai-k  me  for  the  grave, 
Before  thy  base  affection.     I  am  yet 
Pure  and  unspotted  in  my  true  love  to  him ; 
Nor  shall  it  be  corrupted,  though  he's  tainted  : 
Nor  will  I  part  with  innocence,  because 
He  is  found  guilty.     For  thyself,  thou  art 
A  thing  that,  equal  with  the  devU  himself, 
I  do  detest  and  scorn. 

>  resoJueci— convinced. 


Fran.  Thou,  then,  art  nothing : 
Thy  life  is  in  my  power,  disdainful  woman ! 
Think  on't,  and  tremble. 

Marc.  No,  though  thou  wert  now 
To  play  thy  hangman's  part. — Thou  well  may'st 

be 
My  executioner,  and  art  only  fit 
For  such  employment ;  but  ne'er  hope  to  have 
The  least  grace  from  me.     I  will  never  see  thee, 
But  as  the  shame  of  men  :  so,  with  my  curses 
Of  horror  to  thy  conscience  in  this  life. 
And  pains  in  hell  hereafter,  I  spit  at  thee ; 
And,  making   haste  to  make    my  peace  with 

Heaven, 
Expect  thee  as  my  hangman.  \_Exit. 

Fran.  I  am  lost 
In  the  discovery  of  this  fatal  secret. 
Curs'd  hope  that  flatter'd  me,  that  wrongs  could 

make  her 
A  stranger  to  her  goodness !  all  my  plots 
Turn  back  upon  myself ;  but  I  am  in. 
And  must  go  on :  and,  since  I  have  put  off 
From  the  shore  of  innocence,  guilt  be  now  my 

pilot! 
Fievenge  first  wrought  me  ;   murder's  his  twin- 
brother  : 
One  deadly  sin,  then,  help  to  cure  another! 

[Exit. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

The  Imperial  Camp,  before  Pavia. 
Enter  Medina,  Hernando,  and  Alphonso. 

Med.  The  spoil,  the  spoil !  'tis  that  the  soldier 
fights  for. 
Our  victory,  as  yet,  affords  us  nothing 
But  wounds  and  empty  honour.     We  have  pass'd 
The  hazard  of  a  dreadful  day,  and  forced 
A  passage  with  our  swords  through  all  the  dan- 
gers 
That,  page-like,  wait  on  the  success  of  war ; 
And  now  expect  reward. 

Hern.  Hell  put  it  in 
The  enemy's  mind  to  be  desperate,  and  hold  out! 
Yieldings  and  compositions  will  undo  us  ; 
And  what  is  that  way  given,  for  the  most  part. 
Comes  to  the  emperor's  coffers,  to  defray 
The  charge  of  the  great  action,  as  'tis  rumour'd: 
When  usually,   something  in  grace,  that  ne'er 

heard 
The  cannon's  roaring  tongue,  but  at  a  triumph, 
Puts  in,  and  for  his  intercession  shares 
All  that  we  fought  for ;  the  poor  soldier  left 
To  starve,  or  fill  up  hospitals. 

Alph.  But,  when 
We  enter  towns  by  force,  and  carve  ourselves, 
Pleasure  with  pillage,  and  the  richest  wines 
Open  our  shruuk-up  veins,  and  pour  into  them 
New  blood  and  fervour — 

Med.  I  long  to  be  at  it ; 
To  see  these  chuffs, •  that  every  day  may  spend 
A  soldier's  entertainment  for  a  year'. 
Yet  make  a  third  meal  of  a  bunch  of  raisins  : 
These  sponges,  that  suck  up  a  kingdom's  fat, 
Battening  like  scai'abs  in  the  dung  of  peace. 
To  be  squeezed  out  by  the  rough  hand  of  war  ; 
And  all  that  tUeir  whole  lives  have  heap'd  to- 
gether, 
By  cozenage,  perjury,  or  sordid  thrift, 
AVith  one  gripe  to  be  ravish'd. 

Hern.  I  would  be  tousing 


1  chuff  was  a  term  of  reproach  usually  applied  to 
avaricious  old  citizens. — Nakks. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


421 


Their  fair  madonas,  that  in  little  dogs, 
Moukeys,  and  paraquittos,  consume  thousands  ; 
Yet,  for  the  advancement  of  a  noble  action, 
Repine  to  part  with  a  poor  piece  of  eight : 
War's  plagues  upon  them !  I  have  seen  them  stop 
Their  scornful  noses  first,  then  seem  to  swoon, 
At  sight  of  a  buff  jerkin,  if  it  were  not 
Perfumed,  and  hid  with  gold :   yet  these  nice 

wantons, 
Spurr'd  on  by  lust,  cover'd  in  some  disguise. 
To  meet  some  rough  court-stallion,  and  be  leap'd, 
Durst  enter  into  any  common  brothel. 
Though  all  varieties  of  stink  contend  there; 
Yet  praise  the  entertainment. 

Med.  I  may  live 
To  see  the  tatter'd'st  rascals  of  my  troop 
Drag  them  out  of  their  closets,  with  a  vengeance ! 
When   neither  threat'ning,  flattering,  kneeling, 

howling. 
Can  ransom  one  poor  jewel,  or  redeem 
Themselves  from  their  blunt  wooing. 

Hern.  My  main  hope  is, 
To  begin  the  sport  at  Milan  :  there's  enough, 
And  of  all  kinds  of  pleasure  we  can  wish  for, 
To  satisfy  the  most  covetous. 

Alph.  Every  day. 
We  look  for  a  remove. 

il/erf.  For  Lodowick  Sforza, 
The  Duke  of  Milan,  I,  on  mine  own  knowledge. 
Can  say  thus  much  :  he  is  too  much  a  soldier 
Too  confident  of  his  own  worth,  too  rich  too, 
And  understands  too  well  the  emperor  hates  him, 
To  hope  for  composition, 

Alph.  On  my  life. 
We  need  not  fear  his  coming  in.^ 

Hem.  On  mine, 
I  do  not  wish  it :  I  had  rather  that. 
To  show  his  valour,  he'd  put  us  to  the  trouble 
To  fetch  him  in  by  the  ears. 
3Ied.  The  emperor ! 
Flourish.    Enter  Charles,  Pescara,  and 
Attendants. 
Charl.  You  make  me  wonder : — nay,  it  is  no 
coimsel,- 
You  may  jsartake   it,    gentlemen :   who'd   Lave 

thought 
That  he,  that  scorn'd  our  proffer'd  amity 
When  he  was  sued  to,  should,  ere  he  be  sum- 

mon'd 
(Whether  persuaded  to  it  by  base  fear. 
Or  flatter'd  by  false  hope,  which,  'tis  uncertain). 
First  kneel  for  mercy  ? 

Med.  When  your  majesty 
Shall  please  to  instruct  us  who  it  is,  we  may 
Admire  it  with  you. 

Charl.  Who,  but  the  Duke  of  Milan, 
The  right  hand  of  the  French  !    Of  all  that  stand 
In  our  displeasure,  whom  necessity 
Compels  to  seek  our  favour,  I  would  have  sworn 
Sforza  had  been  the  last. 

Hern.  And  should  be  writ  so, 
In  the  list  of  those  you  pardon.     Would  his  city 
Had  rather  held  us  out  a  siege,  like  Troy, 
Than,  by  a  feign'd  submission,  he  should  cheat 

you 
Of  a  just  revenge  ;  or  us,  of  those  fair  glories 
We  have  sweat  blood  to  purchase ! 

Med.  With  your  honour 
You  cannot  hear  him. 

Alph.  The  sack  alone  of  Milan 
Will  pay  the  army. 

Charl.  I  am  not  so  weak 
To  be  wrought  on,  as  you  fear ;  nor  ignorant 
That  money  is  the  sinew  of  the  war  : 

1  coming  in — surrender. 

-  counsel — secret. — Giffoed. 


And  on  what  terms  soever  he  seek  peace, 
'Tis  in  our  power  to  grant  it,  or  deny  it : 
Yet,  for  our  glorj-,  and  to  show  him  that 
We've  brought  him  on  his  knees,  it  is  resolved 
To  hear  him  as  a  suppliant.     Bring  him  in ; 
But  let  him  see  the  effects  of  our  just  anger, 
In  the  guard  that  you  make  for  him. 

[Exit  Pescaka. 
Hern.  I  am  now 
Familiar  with  the  issue  :  all  plagues  on  it ! 
He  will  appear  in  some  dejected  habit. 
His  countenance  suitable,  and  for  his  order, 
A  rope  about  his  neck :  then  kneel,  and  tell 
Old  stories,  what  a  worthy  thing  it  is 
To  have  power,  and  not  to  use  it;  then  add  to 

that 
A  tale  of  King  Tigi-anes,  and  great  Pompey, 
Who    said,   forsooth,    and  wisely,    'twas    more 

honour 
To  make  a  king,  than  kill  one  :  which,  applied 
To  the  emperor,  and  himself,  a  pardon's  granted 
To  him  an  enemy ;  and  we,  his  servants, 
Coudemn'd  to  beggary.  \_Aside  to  Med. 

Aled.  Yonder  he  comes  ; 
But  not  as  you  expected. 

Re-enter  Pescara  with  Sforza,  strongly  guarded. 

Alph.  He  looks  as  if 
He  would  outface  his  dangers. 

Hern.  I  am  cozen'd : 
A  suitor,  in  the  devil's  name ! 

Med.  Hear  him  speak. 

Sfor.    I    come   not,    emperor,   to   invade   thy 
mercy. 
By  fawning  on  thy  fortune ;  nor  bring  with  me 
Excuses  or  denials.     I  profess. 
And  with  a  good  man's  confidence,  even  this 

instant 
That  I  am  in  thy  power ;  I  was  thine  enemy, 
Thy  deadly  and  vow'd  enemy  :  one  that  wish'd 
Confusion  to  thy  person  and  estates  ; 
And  with  my  utmost  powei's,  and  deepest  counsels. 
Had  they  been  truly  follow'd,  further'd  it. 
Nor  will  I  now,  although  my  neck  were  under 
The  hangman's  axe,  with  one  poor  syllable 
Confess,  but  that  I  honour'd  the  French  king 
More  than  thyself,  and  all  men. 

Med.  By  Saint  Jaques, 
This  is  no  flattei-y. 

Hern.  There  is  fire  and  spirit  in't ; 
But  not  long-lived,  I  hope. 

Sfor.  Now  give  me  leave. 
My  hate  against  thyself,  and  love  to  him 
Freely  acknowledged,  to  give  up  the  reasons 
That  made  me  so  affected  :  In  my  wants 
I  ever  found  him  faithful ;  had  supplies 
Of  men  and  monies  from  him  ;  and  my  hopes, 
Quite  sunk,  were,  by  his  grace,  buoy'd  up  again : 
He  was,  indeed,  to  me,  as  my  good  angel 
To  guard  me  from  all  dangers.     I  dare  speak. 
Nay,  must  and  will,  his  praise  now,  in  as  high 
And  loud  a  key,  as  when  he  was  thy  equal. — 
The  benefits  he  sow'd  in  me,  met  not 
Unthankful  ground,  but  yielded  him  his  own 
With  fair  increase,  and  I  still  glory  in  it. 
And,  though  my  fortunes,  poor,  compared  to  his, 
And   Milan,    weigh'd   with   France,   appear   as 

nothing, 
Are  in  thy  fury  burnt,  let  it  be  mention'd. 
They  served  but  as  small  tapers  to  attend 
The  solemn  flame  at  this  great  funeral : 
And  with  them  I  will  gladly  waste  myself, 
Eather  than  undergo  the  imputation 
Of  being  base,  or  unthankful. 

Alph.  Nobly  spoken ! 

Hern.  I  do  begin,  I  know  not  why,  to  hate 
Less  than  I  did.  [him 


422 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Sfor.  If  that,  then,  to  be  grateful 
For  courtesies  received,  or  not  to  leave 
A  friend  in  his  necessities,  be  a  crime 
Amongst  you  Spaniards,  which  other  nations 
That,    like   you,    aim'd    at    empire,    lov'd,    and 

cherish'd 
Wh&re'er  they  found  it,  Sforza  brings  his  head 
To  pay  the  forfeit.     Nor  come  I  as  a  slave, 
Pinion'd  and  fetter'd,  in  a  squalid  weed. 
Falling  before  thy  feet,  kneeling  and  howling, 
For  a  forestall'd  remission  :  that  were  poor, 
And  would  but  shame  thy  victory;  for  conquest 
Over  base  foes  is  a  captivity, 
And  not  a  triumph.     I  ne'er  fear'd  to  die, 
More  than  I  wish'd  to  live.     When  I  had  reach'd 
My  ends  in  being  a  duke,  I  wore  these  robes. 
This  crown  upon  my  head,  and  to  my  side 
This  sword  was  girt ;  and  witness  truth,  that, 

now 
'Tis  in  another's  power,  when  I  shall  part 
With  them  and  life  together,  I'm  the  same  : 
My  veins  then  did  not  swell  with  pride  ;  nor  now 
Shrink  they  for  fear.     Know,  sir,   that  Sforza 

stands 
Prepared  for  either  fortune. 

Hern.  As  I  live, 
I  do  begin  strangely  to  love  this  fellow, 
And  could  part  with  three  quarters  of  my  share 

in 
The  promised  spoil,  to  save  him. 

Sfor.  But  if  example 
Of  my  fidelity  to  the  French,  whose  honours, 
Titles,  and  glories  are  now  mix'd  with  yours, — 
As  brooks,  devour'd  by  rivers,  lose  their  names, — 
Has  power  to  invite  you  to  make  him  a  friend. 
That  hath  given  evident  proof,  he  knows  to  love, 
And  to  be  thankful :  this  my  crown,  now  yours, 
You  may  restore  me,  and  in  me  instruct 
These  brave  commanders,  should  your  fortune 

change. 
Which  now  I  wish  not,  what  they  may  expect 
From  noble  enemies  for  being  faithful. 
The  charges  of  the  war  I  will  defray, 
And,  what  you  may,  not  without  hazard,  force. 
Bring  freely  to  you :  I'll  prevent  the  cries 
Of  murder'd  infants,  and  of  ravish'd  maids, 
Which,  in  a  city  sack'd,  call  on  Heaven's  justice. 
And  stop  the  course  of  gloi-ious  victories  : 
And,  when  I  know  the  captains  and  the  soldiers. 
That  have  in  the  late  battle  5oue  best  service. 
And  are  to  be  rewarded,  I  myself, 
According  to  their  quality  and  merits. 
Will  see  them  largely  recompensed. — I  have  said, 
And  now  expect  my  sentence. 

AljA.  By  this  light, 
'Tis  a  brave  gentleman. 

Med.  How  like  a  block 
The  emperor  sits ! 

Hern.  He  hath  deliver'd  reasons, 
Especially  in  his  purpose  to  enrich 
Such  as  fought  bravely  (I  myself  am  one, 
I  care  not  who  knows  it),  as  I  wouder  that 
He  can  be  so  stupid.     N  ow  he  begins  to  stir : 
Mercy,  an't  be  thy  will ! 

Charl.  Thou  hast  so  far 
Outgone  my  expectation,  noble  Sforza, 
For  such  I  hold  thee  ; — and  true  constancy, 
Eaised  on  a  brave  foundation,  bears  such  palm 
And  privilege  with  it,  that  where  we  behold  it  , 
Though  in  an  enemy,  it  does  command  us 
To  love  and  honour  it.     By  my  future  hopes, 
I  am  glad,  for  thy  sake,  that,  in  seeking  favour. 
Thou  didst  not  borrow  of  vice  her  indirect. 
Crooked,  and  abject  means  ;  and  for  mine  own, 
That,  since  my  purposes  must  now  be  changed. 
Touching  thy  life  and  fortunes,  the  world  cannot 
Tax  me  of  levity  in  my  settled  counsels ; 


I  being  neither  wrought  by  tempting  bribes, 
Nor  servile  flattery ;  but  forced  into  it  ' 

By  a  fair  M'ar  of  virtiie. 

Hern.  This  sounds  well. 

Charl.  All  former  passages  of  hate  be  buried  S 
For  thus  with  open  arms  I  meet  thy  love. 
And  as  a  friend  embrace  it ;  and  so  far 
I  am  from  robbing  thee  of  the  least  honour, 
That  with  my  hands,  to  make  it  sit  the  faster, 
I  set  thy  crown  once  more  upon  thy  head  ; 
And  do  not  only  style  thee  Duke  of  Milan, 
But  vow  to  keep  thee  so.     Yet,  not  to  take 
From  others  to  give  only  to  mj'self, 
I  will  not  hinder  your  magnificence 
To  my  commanders,  neither  will  I  urge  it; 
But,  in  that  as  in  all  things  else,  I  leave  you 
To  be  your  own  disposer. 

[Flourish.    Exit  with  Attendants, 
"  Sfor.  May  I  live 

To  seal  mj'  loyaltj-,  though  with  loss  of  life, 
In  some  brave  service  worthy  Cassar's  favour. 
And  I  shall  die  most  happy!     Gentlemen, 
Eeceive  me  to  j^our  loves;  and  if  henceforth 
There  can  arise  a  difference  between  us. 
It  shall  be  in  a  noble  emulation 
Who  hath  the  fairest  sword,  or  dare  go  farthest, 
To  fight  for  Charles  the  emperor. 

Hern.  We  embrace  you. 
As  one  well  read  in  all  the  points  of  honour : 
And  there  we  are  your  scholars. 

Sfor.  True  ;  but  such 
As  far  outstrip  the  master.     We'll  contend 
In  love  hereafter ;  in  the  meantime,  pray  you. 
Let  me  discharge  my  debt,  and,  as  an  earnest 
Of  what's  to  come,  divide  this  cabinet ; 
In  the  small  bodj'  of  it  there  are  jewels 
Will  yield  a  hundred  thousand  pistolets, 
Which  honour  me  to  receive. 

Med.  You  bind  us  to  you. 

Sfor.  And  when  great  Charles  commands  me 
to  his  presence. 
If  you  will  please  to  excuse  my  abrupt  departure. 
Designs  that  most  concern  me,  next  this  mercy. 
Calling  me  home,  I  shall  hereafter  meet  you, 
And  gratify  the  favour. 

Hern.  In  this,  and  all  things. 
We  are  your  servants. 

Sfor.  A  name  I  ever  owe  you. 

\_Exeunt  Medina,  Hernando,  and 
Alphonso. 

Pesc.  So,  sir ;  this  tempest  is  well  overblown. 
And  all  things  fall  out  to  our  wishes  ;  but, 
In  my  opinion,  this  quick  return, 
Before  you've  made  a  party  in  the  court 
Among  the  great  ones  (for  these  needy  captains 
Have  little  power  in  peace),  may  beget  danger, 
At  least  suspicion. 

Sfor.  Where  true  honour  lives. 
Doubt  hath  no  being ;  I  desire  no  pawn 
Beyond  an  emperor's  word  for  my  assurance. 
Besides,  Pescara,  to  thyself  of  all  men, 
I  wUl  confess  my  weakness : — though  my  state 
And  crown's  restored  me,  though  I  am  in  grace. 
And  that  a  little  stay  might  be  a  step 
To  greater  honours,  I  must  hence.    Alas  ! 
I  live  not  here  ;  my  wife,  my  wife,  Pescara, 
Being  absent,  I  am  dead.     Pr'ythee,  excuse, 
And  do  not  chide,  for  friendship's  sake,  my  fond- 
ness. 
But  ride  along  with  me  :  I'll  give  you  reasons, 
And  strong  ones,  to  plead  for  me. 

Pesc.  Use  your  own  pleasure ; 
I'll  bear  you  company. 

Sfor.  Farewell  grief !     I  am  stored  with 
Two  blessings  most  desired  in  human  life, — 
A  constant  friend,  an  unsuspected  wife. 

[ExmnU 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


423 


ACT  III.— SCENE  11. 
Milan.    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  an  Officer  with  Graccho. 

Offic.  "What  I  did  1   had  warrant  for :   you 
have  tasted 
My  oflSce  gently,  and  for  those  strolces, 
Flea-bitings  to  the  jerks  I  could  have  lent  you, 
There  does  belong  a  feeling. 

Grac.  Must  I  pay 
For  being  tormented,  and  dishonour'd  ? 

Offic.  Fie!  no; 
Your  honour's  not  impaired  in't.     What's  the 

letting  out 
Of  a  little  corrupt  blood,  and  the  next  way  too  ? 
There  is  no  surgeon  like  me,  to  take  off 
A  courtiei-'s  itch  that's  rampant  at  great  ladies, 
Or  turns  knave  for  preferment,  or  grows  proud 
Of   his   rich   cloaks   and   suits,  though   got   by 
And  so  forgets  his  betters.  [brokage, 

Grac.  Very  good,  sir ; 
But  am  I  the  first  man  of  qiiality 
That  e'er  came  under  your  iingers  ? 

Offic.  Not  by  a  thousand ; 
And  they  have  said  I  have  a  luckj'  hand  too  : 
Both  men  and  women  of  all  sorts  have  bow'd 
Under  this  sceptre.     I  have  had  a  fellow 
That  could  indite,  forsooth,  and  make  line  metres 
To  tinkle  in  the  ears  of  ignorant  madams. 
That,  for  defaming  of  great  men,  was  sent  mo 
Threadbare  and  lousy,  and  in  three  days'  after. 
Discharged  by  another  that  set  him  on,  I  have 

seen  him 
Cap-a-pi^  gallant,  and  his  stripes  wash'd  off 
With  oil  of  angels. 1 

Grac.  'Twas  a  sovereign  cure. 

Offic.    There  was   a  sectary,  too,  that  would 
not  be 
Conformable  to  the  orders  of  the  church, 
Nor  yield  to  any  argument  of  reason. 
But  still  rail  at  authority,  brought  to  me, 
When  I  had  worm'd  his  tongue  and  truss'd  his 

haunches, 
Grew  a  fine  pulpitman,  and  was  beneficed. 
Had  he  not  cause  to  thank  me  ? 

Grac.  There  was  physic 
Was  to  the  purpose. 

Offic.  Now  for  women,  sir, 
For  your  more  consolation,  I  could  tell  you 
Twenty  fine  stories,  but  I'll  end  in  one. 
And  'tis  the  last  that's  memorable. 

Grac.  Pr'ythee,  do; 
For  I  grow  weary  of  thee. 

Offic.  There  was  lately 
A  fine  she-waiter  in  the  court  that  doted 
Extremely  of  a  gentleman  that  had 
His  main  dependence  on  a  signior's  favour 
I  will  not  name,  but  could  not  compass  him 
On  any  terms.     This  wanton,  at  dead  midnight, 
Was  found  at  the  exercise  behind  the  arras. 
With  the  'foresaid  signior :  he  got  clear  off. 
But  she  was  seized  on,  and,  to  save  his  honour. 
Endured  the  lash ;  and,  though  I  made  her  often 
Curvet  and  caper,  she  would  never  tell 
Who  play'd  at  push-pin  with  her. 

Grac.  But  what  follow'd? 
Pr'ythee  be  brief. 

Offic.  Why  this,  sir:  she  deliver'd. 
Had  store  of  crowns  assign'd  her  by  her  patron. 
Who  forced  the  gentleman,  to  save  her  credit, 
To  marry  her  and  say  he  was  the  party 
Found  in  Lob's  pound :  ^  so  she,  that  before  gladly 


'  angels — alluding  to  the  coin  so  called. 
'^  Lob's  pound — a  cant  name  for  the  jail,  and  also  for 
any  coatiiied  place,   as   'behind  tlie  arras'   above. — 

Na££S. 


Would  have  been  his  whore,  reigns  o'er  him  as 

wife ; 
Nor  dares  he  grumble  at  it.     Speak  but  truth, 

then. 
Is  not  my  ofiice  lucky  .' 

Grac.  Go,  there's  for  thee  ; 
But  what  will  be  my  fortune  ? 

Offic.  If  you  thrive  not 
After  that  soft  correction,  come  again. 

Grac.  I  thank  you,  kuave. 

Offic.  And  then,  knave,  I  will  fit  you.       [Exit. 

Grac.  Whipt  like  a  rogue  !  no  Lighter  punish- 
ment serve 
To  balance  with  a  little  mirth !    'Tis  well ; 
My  credit  sunk  for  ever,  I  am  now 
Fit  company  only  for  pages  and  for  footboys, 
That  have  perused  the  porter's  lodge.' 

Enter  Julio  and  Giovanni. 

Giov.  See,  Julio, 
Yonder  the  proud  slave  is.    How  he  looks  now, 
After  his  castigation ! 

Jul.  As  he  came 
From  a  close  fight  at  sea  under  the  hatches, 
With  a  she-Dunkirk,  that  was  shot  before 
Between  wind  and  water;  and  he  hath  sprung 

a  leak  too, 
Or  I  am  cozen'd. 

Giov.  Let's  be  merry  with  him. 

Grac.  How  they  stare  at  me !    Am  I  turn'd  to 
an  owl  ? — 
The  wonder,  gentlemen  ? 

Jul.  I  read,  this  morning. 
Strange  stories  of  the  passive  fortitude 
Of  men  in  former  ages,  which  I  thought 
Impossible,  and  not  to  be  believed  : 
But  now  I  look  on  you,  my  wonder  ceases. 

Grac.  The  reason,  sir  ? 

Jul.  Why,  sir,  you  have  been  whipt, 
Whipt,  Signior  Graccho ;  and  the  whip,  I  take  it| 
Is,  to  a  gentleman,  the  greatest  trial 
That  may  be  of  his  patience. 

Grac.  Sir,  I'll  call  you 
To  a  strict  account  for  this. 

Giov.  I'll  not  deal  with  you. 
Unless  I  have  a  beadle  for  my  second : 
And  then  I'll  answer  you. 

Jul.  Farewell,  poor  Graccho. 

\_Exeunt  Julio  and  Giovanni. 

Grac.  Better  and  better  still.     If  ever  wrongs 
Could  teach  a  wretch  to  find  the  way  to  ven- 
geance, 

Enter  Francisco  and  a  Servant. 

Hell  now  inspire  me.     How,  the  lord  protector ! 
My  judge ;    I   thank   him  !      AYhither   thus  in 

private  ? 
I  will  not  see  him.  [Stands  aside. 

Fran.  If  I  am  sought  for, 
Say  I  am  indisposed,  and  will  not  hear 
Or  suits  or  suitors. 

Serv.  But,  sir,  if  the  princess 
Enquire,  what  shall  I  answer  ? 

Fran.  Say  I  am  rid 
Abroad  to  take  the  air  ;  but  by  no  means 
Let  her  know  I'm  in  court. 

Sem.  So  I  shall  tell  her.  [ExU. 

Fran.  Within  there,  ladies! 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 

Gentlew.  My  good  lord,  your  pleasure  ? 


1  the  porter's  lodge,  In  our  author's  days,  when  the 
great  claimed,  and  indeed  iVecjuently  exercised,  the 
light  of  chastising  their  seivauts,  was  the  usual  place 
of  punishment. — Gifford. 


424 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Fran.  Pr'y thee,  let  me  beg  thy  favour  for  access 
To  the  duchess. 

Gentleio.  In  good  sooth,  my  lord,  I  dare  not ; 
She's  very  private. 

Fran.  Come,  there's  gold  to  buy  thee 
A  new  gown,  and  a  rich  one. 
Where  is  thy  lady .' 

Gentlew.  If  you  venture  on  her, 
She's  walking  in  the  gallery  ;  perhaps 
You  will  find  her  less  tractable. 

Fran.  Bring  me  to  her. 

Gentlew.  I  fear  you'll  have  cold  entertainment, 
when 
You    are   at  your  journey's  end;    and  'twere 

discretion 
To  take  a  snatch  by  the  way. 

Fra7i.  Pr'ythee,  leave  fooling  : 
My  page  waits  in  the  lobby;  give  him  sweetmeats; 
He  is  train'd  up  for  his  master's  ease. 
And  he  will  cool  thee. 

[Exeunt  Fran,  and  Gentlew. 

Gi'ac.  A  brave  discovery  beyond  my  hope, 
A  plot  even  offer'd  to  my  hand  to  work  on  ! 
If  I  am  dull  now,  may  I  live  and  die 
The  scorn  of  worms  and  slaves ! — Let  me  con- 
sider ; 
My  lady  and  her  mother  first  committed, 
In  the  favour  of  the  duchess,  and  I  whipt ! 
That  with  an  iron  pen  is  writ  in  brass 
On  my  tough  heart,  now  grown  a  harder  metal. — 
And  all  his  bribed  approaches  to  the  duchess 
To  be  conceal'd !    Good,  good.     This  to  my  lady 
Deliver'd  as  I'll  order  it,  runs  her  mad. — 
But  this  may  prove  but  courtship  !  ^  let  it  be, 
I  care  not,  so  it  feed  her  jealousy.  [Exit. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III. 

Another  Room  in  ike  same. 

Enter  Marcelia  and  Francisco. 

Marc.  Believe  thy  tears  or  oaths !    can  it  be 
hoped. 
After  a  practice  so  abhorr'd  and  horrid, 
Kepentance  e'er  can  find  thee  ? 

Fran.  Dearest  lady, 
Great  in  your  fortune,  greater  in  your  goodness, 
Make  a  superlative  of  excellence. 
In  being  greatest  in  your  saving  mercy. 
I  do  confess,  humbly  confess  my  fault, 
To  be  beyond  all  pity  ;  my  attempt. 
So  barbarously  rude,  that  it  would  turn 
A  saint-like  patience  into  savage  fury. 
But  you,  that  are  all  innocence  and  virtue, 
No  spleen  or  anger  in  you  of  a  woman, 
But  when  a  holy  zeal  to  piety  fires  you, 
May,  if  you  please,  impute  the  fault  to  love, 
Or  call  it  beastly  lust,  for  'tis  no  better ; 
A  sin,  a  monstrous  sin  !  yet  with  it  many 
That    did   prove   good   men    after,    have    been 

tempted ; 
And,  though  I'm  crooked  now,  'tis  in  your  po^ver 
To  make  me  straight  again. 

Marc.  Is't  possible 
This  can  be  cunning !  [Aside. 

Fran.  But,  if  no  submission. 
Nor  prayers   can  appease  you,  that  you   may 

know 
'Tisnot  the  fear  of  death  that  makes  me  sue  thus, 
But  a  loath'd  detestation  of  my  madness, 


1  But  this  may  prove,  &c. — i.e.  merely  paying  his  court 
to  her  as  ducliess. — Mason. 


Which    makes   me  wish  to  live   to   have  your 

pardon ; 
I  will  not  wait  the  sentence  of  the  duke. 
Since  his  return  is  doubtful,  but  I  myself 
Will  do  a  fearful  justice  on  myself, 
No  witness  by  but  you,  there  bi'ing  no  more, 
When  I  offended.     Yet,  before  I  do  it, 
For  I  perceive  in  you  no  signs  of  mercy, 
I  will  disclose  a  secret,  which,  dying  with  me, 
May  prove  your  ruin. 

Mar.  Speak  it ;  it  will  take  from 
The  burthen  of  thy  conscience. 

Fran.  Thus,  then,  madam  : 
The  warrant  by  my  lord  sign'd  for  your  death, 
Was  but  conditional ;  but  you  must  swear, 
By  your  unspotted  truth,  not  to  reveal  it, 
Or  I  end  here  abruptly. 

Marc.  By  my  hopes 
Of  joys  hereafter.     On. 

Fran.  Nor  was  it  hate 
That  forced  him  to  it,  but  excess  of  love. 
And  if  I  ne'er  return  (so  said  great  Sf  orza), 
No  living  man  deserving  to  enjoy 
My  best  Marcelia,  with  the  first  news 
That  I  am  dead  (for  no  man  after  me 
Must  e'er  enjoy  her),  fail  not  to  kill  her — 
But  till  certain  proof 

Assure  thee  I  am  lost  (these  were  his  words), 
Observe  and  honour  her,  as  if  the  soul 
Of  woman's  goodness  only  dwelt  in  hers. 
This  trust  I  have  abused,  and  baselj^  wrong'd ; 
And  if  the  excelling  pity  of  your  mind 
Cannot  forgive  it,  as  I  dare  not  hope  it, 
Eather  than  look  on  my  offended  lord, 
I  stand  resolved  to  punish  it.    [Draws  his  sword. 

Alarc.  Hold !  'tis  forgiven. 
And  by  me  freely  pardon'd.     In  thy  fair  life 
Hereafter,  study  to  deserve  this  bounty. 
Which  thy  true  penitence,  such  I  believe  it, 
Against  my  resolution  hath  forced  from  me. — 
But  that  my  lord,  my  Sforza,  should  esteem 
My  life  fit  only  as  a  page,  to  wait  on 
The  various  course  of  his  uncertain  fortunes  ; 
Or  cherish  in  himself  that  seusual  hope. 
In  death  to  know  me  as  a  wife,  afflicts  me  ; 
Nor  does  his  envy  less  deserve  mine  anger. 
Which  though,   such  is  my  love,  I  wuuld  no 

nourish, 
Will  slack  the  ardour  that  I  had  to  see  him 
Return  in  safety. 

Fran.  But  if  your  entertainment 
Should  give  the  least  ground  to  his  jealousy, 
To  raise  up  an  opinion  I  am  false, 
You    then    destroy    your    mercy.      Therefore, 

madam 
(Though  I  shall  ever  look  on  you  as  on 
My  life's  preserver,  and  the  miracle 
Of  human  pity),  would  you  but  vouchsafe, 
In  company,  to  do  me  those  fair  graces. 
And  favours,  which  your  innocence  and  honour 
May  safely  warrant,  it  would  to  the  duke, 
I  being  to  your  best  self  alone  known  guilty, 
Make  me  appear  most  innocent. 

Marc.  Have  your  wishes  ; 
And  something  I  may  do  to  try  his  temper, 
At  least,  to  make  him  know  a  constant  wife 
Is    not    so    slaved    to    her    husband's    doting 

humours, 
But  that  she  may  deserve  to  live  a  widow, 
Her  fate  appointing  it. 

Fran.  It  is  enough  ; 
Nay,  all  I  coiild  desire,  and  will  make  way 
To  my  revenge,  which  shall  disperse  itself 
On  him,  on  her,  and  all. 

[Aside  and  exit. — Shout  and  flourish. 

Marc.  What  shout  is  that  ? 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


425 


Enter  Tibekio  and  Stephano. 
Tih.  All  happiness  to  the  duchess,  that  may 
flo-w 
From  the  duke's  new  and  wish'd  return  ! 
Marc.  He's  -welcome. 
Steph.  How  coldly  she  receives  it ! 
Tib.  Observe  the  encounter. 

Flourish.    Enter  Sforza,  Pescara,  Isabella, 
Mariana,  Graccho,  and  Attendants. 

Mari.  What  you  have  told  me,   Graccho,  is 
believed, 
And  I'll  find  time  to  stir  in't. 

Grac.  As  you  see  cause ; 
I  will  not  do  ill  offices. 

Sfor.  I  have  stood 
Silent  thus  long,  Marcelia,  expectino: 
When,  with  more    than   a  greedy  haste,   thou 

wouldst 
Have  flown  into  my  arms,  and  on  my  lips 
Have  printed  a  deep  welcome.    My  desires 
To  glass  myself  in  these  fair  eyes,  have  borne 

me 
"With  more  than  hiiman  speed :  nor  durst  I  stay 
In  any  temple,  or  to  any  saint 
To  pay  my  vows  and  thanks  for  my  return. 
Till  I  had  seen  thee. 

Marc.  Sir,  I  am  most  happy 
To  look  upon  you  safe,  and  would  express 
My  love  and  duty  in  a  modest  fashion. 
Such  as  might  suit  with  the  behaviour 
Of  one  that  knows  herself  »,  wife,  and  how 
To  temper  her  desires,  not  like  a  wanton 
Fired  with  hot  appetite  ;  nor  can  it  wrong  mo 
To  love  discreetl}'. 

Sfor.  Hew !  why,  can  there  be 
A  mean  in  your  affections  to  Sforza  ? 
Or  any  act,  though  ne'er  so  loose,  that  may 
Invite  or  heighten  appetite,  appear 
Immodest  or  uncomely  1     Do  not  move  me ; 
My  passions  to  you  are  in  extremes. 
And  know  no  bounds: — come  ;  kiss  me. 
Marc.  I  obey  you. 

Sfor.  By  all  the  joys  of  love,  she  does  salute 
me 
As  if  I  were  her  grandfather !     What  witch. 
With  cursed  spells,  hath  quenfched  the  amorous 

heat 
That  lived  upon  these  lips  ?     Tell  me,  Marcelia, 
And  truly  tell  me,  is't  a  fault  of  mine 
That  hath  begot  this  coldness  .'  or  neglect 
Of  others,  in  my  absence  ? 

Marc.  Neither,  sir ; 
I  stand  indebted  to  your  substitute. 
Noble  and  good  Francisco,  for  his  care 
And  fair  observance  of  me  ;  there  was  nothing 
With  which  you,  being  present,    could  supply 

me. 
That  I  dare  say  I  wanted. 
Sfor.  How! 
Marc.  The  pleasures. 
That  sacred  Hymen  warrants  us,  excepted, 
Of  which,  in  troth,  you  are  too  great  a  doter ; 
And  there  is  more  of  beast  in't  than  man. 
Let  us  love  temperately ;  things  violent  last  not : 
And  too  much  dotage  rather  argues  folly 
Than  true  affection. 

Grac.  Observe  but  this. 
And  how  she  praised  my  lord's  care  and  observ- 
ance ; 
And  then  judge,  madam,  if  my  intelligence 
Have  any  ground  of  truth. 
Mari.  No  more ;  I  mark  it. 
Steph.  How  the  duke  stands ! 
Tib.  As  he  were  rooted  there, 
And  had  no  motion. 


Pesc.  My  lord,  from  whence 
Grows  this  amazement .' 

Sfor.  It  is  more,  dear  my  friend  ; 
For  I  am  doubtful  whether  I've  a  being. 
But  certain  that  my  life's  a  burden  to  me. 
Take  me  back,  good  Pescara,  show  me  to  Cossar 
In  all  his  rage  and  fury ;  I  disclaim 
His  mercy  :  to  live  now,  which  is  his  gift, 
Is  worse  than  death,  and  with  all  studied  tor- 
ments. 
Marcelia  is  unkind,  nay,  worse,  grown  cold 
In  her  affection ;  my  excess  of  fervour. 
Which  yet  wasneverequall'd,  grown  distasteful. — 
But  have  thy  wishes,  woman  ;  thou  shalt  know 
That  I  can  be  myselif,  and  thus  shako  off 
The  fetters  of  fond  dotage.    From  my  sight. 
Without  reply ;  for  I  am  apt  to  do 
Something  I  may  repent. — [Exit  Marc] — Oh! 

who  would  place 
His  happiness  in  most  accursed  woman. 
In  whom  obsequiousness  engenders  pride, 
And  harshness  deadly  hatred !     From  this  hour 
I'll  labour  to  forget  there  are  such  creatures ; 
True  friends  be  now  my  mistresses.     Clear  your 

brows. 
And,    though    my    heart-strings   crack  for't,    I 

will  be 
To  all  a  free  example  of  delight. 
We  will  Lave  sports  of  all  kinds,  and  propound 
Rewards  to  such  as  can  produce  us  new ; 
Unsatisfied,  though  we  surfeit  in  their  store : 
And  never  think  of  curs'd  Marcelia  more. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.-SCENE  I. 

The  same,    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Francisco  and  Graccho. 

Fran.  And  is  it  possible  thou  shouldst  forget 
A  wrong  of  such  a  nature,  and  then  study 
My  safety  and  content  ? 

Grac.  Sir,  but  allow  me 
Only  to  have  read  the  elements  of  courtship,' 
Not  the  abstruse  and  hidden  arts  to  thrive  there ; 
And   you   may  please    to   grant   me    so    much 

knowledge, 
That  injuries  from  one  in  grace,  like  you. 
Are  noble  favours.     Is  it  not  grown  common. 
In  eveiy  sect,  for  those  that  want,  to  suffer 
From  such  as  have  to  give  ?     Your  captain  cast. 
If  poor,   though  not  thought  daring,    but  ap- 
proved so. 
To  raise  a  coward  into  name,  that's  rich, 
Suffers  disgraces  publicly;  but  receives 
Eewards  for  them  iu  pi'ivate. 

Fran.  Well  observed. 
Put  on  ;  '^  we'll  be  familiar,  and  discourse 
A  little  of  this  argument.     That  day. 
In  which  it  was  first  rumour'd,  then  confirm'd. 
Great  Sforza  thought  me  worthy  of  his  favour, 
I  found  myself  to  be  another  thing  ; 
Not  what  I  was  before.     I  passed  then 
For  a  pretty  fellow,  and  of  pretty  parts  too. 
And  was  perhaps  received  so ;  but,  once  raised, 
The  liberal  courtier  made  me  master  of 
Those  virtues  which  I  ne'er  knew  in  myself : 
If  I  pretended  to  a  jest,  'twas  made  one 
By  their  interpretation ;  if  I  offer'd 
To  reason  of  philosophy,  though  absurdlj'. 
They  had  helps  to  save  me,  and  without  a  blush 


1  courtship— court  policy.— Mason. 
■  Put  on — i.e.  be  covered. 


426 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Would    swear    that    I,    by    nature,    had    more 

knowledge 
Than  others  could  acquire  by  any  labour : 
Nay,  all  I  did,  indeed,  which  in  another 
Was  not  remarkable,  in  me  show'd  rarely. 
Gi'ac.  But  then  they  tasted  of  your  bounty. 
Fran.  True: 
They  gave  me  those  good  parts  I  was  not  born  to, 
And,  by  my  intercession,  they  got  that 
Which,  had  I  cross'd  them,  they  durst  not  have 

hoped  for. 
Grac.  All  this  is  oracle :  and  shall  I,  then, 
For  a  foolish  whipping,  leave  to  honour  him, 
That  holds  the   wheel   of    fortune?    No;    that 

savours 
Too  much  of  the  ancient  freedom.     Since  great 

men 
Keceive  disgraces  and  give  thanlis,  poor  knaves 
Must  have  nor  spleen  nor  anger.     Though  I  love 
My  limbs  as  well  as  any  man,  if  you  had  now 
A  humour  to  kick  me  lame  into  an  office. 
Where  I  might  sit  in  state  and  undo  others, 
Stood  I  not  bound  to  kiss  the  foot  that  did  it  ? 
Though  it  seem  strange,  there  have  been  such 

things  seen 
In  the  memory  of  man. 

Fran.  But  to  the  purpose, 
And  then,  that  service  done,  make  thino  own 

fortunes. 
My  wife,  thou  say'st,  is  jealous  I  am  too 
Familiar  with  the  duchess. 

Grac.  And  incensed 
For  her  commitment  in  her  brother's  absence ; 
And  by  her  mother's  anger  is  spurr'd  on 
To  make  discovery  of  it.     This  her  purpose 
Was  trusted  to  my  charge,  which  I  declined 
As  much  as  in  me  lay;  but,  finding  her 
Determinately  bent  to  undertake  it, 
Though  brealdng  my  faith  to  her  may  destroy 
My  credit  with  your  lordship,  I  j'et  thought. 
Though  at  my  peril,  I  stood  bound  to  reveal  it. 
Fran.  I  thank  thy  care,  and  will  deserve  this 

secret. 
In  making  thee  acquainted  with  a  greater. 
And  of  more  moment.     Come  into  my  bosom. 
And  take  it  from  me.     Canst  thou  think,   dull 

Graccho, 
My  power  and  honours  were  conferred  upon  me, 
And,    add   to   them,    this    form,    to    have    my 

pleasures 
Confined  and  limited  ?     I  delight  in  change, 
And  sweet  variety ;  that's  my  heaven  on  earth. 
For  which  I  love  life  only.     I  confess. 
My  wife  pleased  me  a  day,  the  duchess  two 
(And  yet  I  must  not  say  I  have  enjoy'd  her). 
But  now  I  care  for  neither:  therefore,  Graccho, 
So  far  I  am  from  stopping  Mariana 
In  making  her  complaint,  that  I  desire  thee 
To  urge  her  to  it. 

Grac.  That  may  prove  your  ruin : 
The  duke  already  being,  as  'tis  reported, 
Doubtful  she  hath  play'd  false. 

Fran.  There  thou  art  cozen'd; 
His  dotage,  like  an  ague,  keeps  his  course. 
And  now  'tis  strongly  on  him.     But  I  lose  time, 
And  therefore  know,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
Thou  art  to  be  my  instrument;  and,  in  spite 
Of  the  old  saw,  that  says.  It  is  not  safe 
On  any  terms  to  trust  a  man  that's  wrong'd, 
I  dare  thee  to  be  false. 

Grac.  This  is  a  language, 
My  lord,  I  understand  not. 

Fran.  You  thought,  siiTah, 
To  put  a  trick  on  me  for  the  relation 
Of  what  I  knew  before,  and,  having  won 
Some  weighty  secret  from  me,  in  revenge 
To  play  the  traitor.    Know,  thou  wretched  thing. 


By  my  command  thou  wert  whipt ;  and  every  day 
I'll  have  thee  freshly  tortured,  if  thou  miss 
In  the  least  charge  that  I  impose  upon  thee. 
Though  what  I  speak,  for  the  most  part,  is  true ; 
Nay,  grant  thou  hadst  a  thousand  witnesses 
To  be  deposed  they  heai-d  it,  'tis  in  me 
With  one  word,  such  is  Sforza's  confidence 
Of  my  fidelity  not  to  be  shaken. 
To  make  all  void,  and  ruin  my  accusers. 
Therefore  look  to't ;  bring  my  wife  hotly  on 
To  accuse  me  to  the  duke — I  have  an  end  in't. 
Or  think  what  'tis  makes  man  most  miserable, 
And  that  shall  fall  upon  thee.     Thou  wert  a  fool 
To  hope,  by  being  acquainted  with  my  courses, 
To  curb  and  awe  me  ;  or  that  I  should  live 
Thy  slave,  as  thou  didst  saucily  divine: 
For  prying  in  my  counsels,  still  live  mine. 

\^Exit. 
Grac.  I  am  caught  on  both  sides.     This 'tis  for 

a  puisne 
In  policy's  Protean  school,  to  try  conclusions  i 
With  one  that  hath  commenced,  and  gone  out 

doctor. 
If  I  discover  what  but  now  he  bragg'd  of, 
I  shall  not  be  believed :  if  I  fall  off 
From  him,  his  threats  and  actions  go  together, 
And  there's  no  hope  of  safety.     Till  I  get 
A  plummet  that  may  sound  his  deepest  counsels, 
I  must  obey  and  serve  him.    Want  of  skill 
Now  makes  me  play  the  rogue  against  my  will. 

[Exit. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  11. 

Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Marcelia,  Tiberio,  Stephako,  and 
Gentlewoman. 

Marc.  Command  me  from  his  sight,  and  with 
such  scorn 
As  he  would  rate  his  slave ! 

Tib.  'Twas  in  his  fury. 

Steph.  And  he  repents  it,  madam. 

Marc.  Was  I  born 
To  observe  his  humours?  or,  because  he  dotes, 
Must  I  run  mad  ? 

Tib.  If  that  your  Excellence 
Would  please  but  to  receive  a  feeling  knowledge 
Of  what  he  suffers,  and  how  deep  the  least 
Unkindness  wounds  from  you,  you  would  excuse 
liis  hasty  language. 

Steph.  He  hath  paid  the  forfeit 
Of  his  offence,  I'm  sure,  with  such  a  sorrow, 
As,  if  it  had  been  greater,  would  deserve 
A  full  remission. 

Marc.  Why,  perhaps,  he  hath  it ; 
And  I  stand  more  afflicted  for  his  absence, 
Than  he  can  be  for  mine: — so,  pray  you,  tell  him. 
But,  till  I  have  digested  some  sad  thoughts. 
And  reconciled  passions  that  are  at  war 
Within  myself,  I  purpose  to  be  private  : 
And  have  you  care,  unless  it  be  Francisco, 
That  no  man  be  admitted, 

\_Exit  Gentlewoman, 

Tib.  How !  Francisco  ? 

Steph.  He,  that  at  every  stage  keeps  livery 
mistresses ; 
The  stallion  of  the  state! 

Tib.  They  are  things  above  us. 
And  so  no  way  concern  us. 

Steph.  If  I  were 
The  duke  (I  freely  must  confess  my  weakness), 


'^  to  try  conclusions — to  try  experiments;  commcncec/, 
and  gone  out,  which  occur  in  the  next  line,  are  university 
terms. — Giffokd. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


427 


Enter  Francisco. 

I  should  wear  yellow  breeches.'    Here  he  comes. 

Tib.  Nay,  spare  your  labour,  lady ;  we  kno^v 
our  duty, 
And  quit  the  room. 

Steph.  Is  this  her  privacy ! 
Though  with  the  hazard  of  a  check,  perhaps. 
This  may  go  to  the  duke. 

\Exeuni  TibePwIO  and  Stephaxo. 

Marc.  Tour  face  is  full 
Of  fears  and  doubts:  the  reason? 

Fran.  Oil,  best  madam, 
They  are  not  coimterfeit.     I,  your  poor  convert. 
That  only  wish  to  live  in  sad  repentance, 
To  mourn  my  desperate  attempt  of  you, 
That  have  no  ends  nor  aims,  but  that  your  good- 
ness 
Might  be  a  witness  of  my  penitence, 
Which  seen,  would  teach  you  how  to  love  your 

mercy. 
Am  robb'd  of  that  last  hope.     The  duke,   the 

duke, 
I  more  than  fear,  hath  found  that  I  am  g^■lilty. 

Marc.  By  my  unspotted  honour,  not  from  me  ; 
Nor  have  I  with  him  changed  one  syllable, 
Since  his  return,  but  what  you  heard. 

Fran.  Yet  malice 
Is  eagle-eyed,  and  would  see  that  which  is  not ; 
And  jealousy's  too  apt  to  build  upon 
Unsure  foundations. 

Marc.  Jealousy! 

Fran.  \Aslde.~]     It  takes. 

Marc.  Who  dares  but  only  think  I  can  be 
tainted .' 
But  for  him,  though  almost  on  certain  proof, 
To  give  it  hearing,  not  belief,  deserves 
My  hate  for  ever. 

Fran.  Whether  grounded  on 
Your  noble,  yet  chaste  favours  shown  unto  me  ; 
Or  her  imprisonment,  for  her  contempt 
To  you,  by  my  command,  my  frantic  wife 
Hath  put  it  in  his  head. 

Marc.  Have  I  then  lived 
So  long,  now  to  be  doubted  ?     Are  my  favours 
The  themes  of  her  discourse  ?  or  what  I  do, 
That  never  trod  in  a  suspected  path, 
Subject  to  base  construction  ?     Be  undaunted ; 
For  now,  as  of  a  creature  that  is  mine, 
I  rise  up  your  protectress  :  all  the  grace 
I  hitherto  have  done  you,  was  bestow'd 
With  a  shut  hand ;  it  shall  be  now  more  free, 
Open,  and  liberal.     But  let  it  not. 
Though  counterfeited  to  the  life,  teach  you 
To  nourish  saucy  hopes. 

Fran.  May  I  be  blasted. 
When  I  prove  such  a  monster ! 

Marc.  I  will  stand  theu 
Between  you  and  all  danger.     He  shall  know, 
Suspicion  overturns  what  confidence  builds  ; 
And  he  that  dares  but  doubt  when  there's  no 

ground. 
Is  neither  to  himself  nor  others  sound.        \_Exit. 

Fran.  So,  let  it  work!     Her  goodness,   that 
denied 
My  service,  branded  with  the  name  of  lust, 
Shall  now  destroy  itself ;  and  she  shall  find. 
When  he's  a  suitor,  that  brings  cunning  arm'd 
With  power  to  be  his  advocates,  the  denial 
Is  a  disease  as  killing  as  the  plague, 
And  chastity  a  clue  that  leads  to  death. 
Hold  but  thy  nature,  duke,  and  be  but  rash     . 
And  violent  enough,  and  then  at  leisure 
Repent ;  I  care  not. 


'  wear  yellow  breeches — i.e.  be  jealous. — Giffobd. 


And  let  my  plots  produce  this  long'd-for  birth. 
In  my  revenge  I  have  my  heaven  on  earth. 

[Eodt. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 

Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Sforza,  Pescara,  and  three  Gentlemen. 

Pesc.  You  promised  to  be  merry. 

1  Gent.  There  are  pleasures, 

And  of  all  kinds,  to  entertain  the  time. 

2  Gent.  Your  Excellence  vouchsafing  to  make 
choice 

Of  that  which  best  affects  you. 

Sfor.  Hold  your  prating. 
Learn  manners  too  ;  you  are  rude. 

3  Gent.  I  have  my  answer, 

Before  I  ask  the  question.  \_Aside. 

Pesc.  I  must  borrow 
The  privilege  of  a  friend,  and  will;  or  else 
I  am  like  these,  a  servant,  or,  what's  worse, 
A  parasite  to  the  sorrow  Sforza  worships 
In  spite  of  reason. 

Sfor.  Pray  you,  use  your  freedom  ; 
And  so  far,  if  you  please,  allow  me  mine. 
To  hear  you  only  ;  not  to  be  compelled 
To  take  j'our  moral  potions.     I  am  a  man, 
And,  though  philosophy,  your  mistress,  rage  for't. 
Now  I  have  cause  to  grieve,  I  must  be  sad ; 
And  I  dare  show  it. 

Pesc.  Would  it  were  bestow'd 
Upon  a  worthier  subject ! 

Sfor.  Take  heed,  friend. 
You  rub  a  sore,  whose  pain  will  make  me  mad  ; 
And  I  shall  then  forget  myself  and  you. 
Lance  it  no  further. 

Pesc.  Have  you  stood  the  shock 
Of  thousand  enemies,  and  outfaced  the  anger 
Of  a  great  emperor,  that  vow'd  your  ruin, 
Though  by  a  desperate,  a  glorious  way. 
That  had  no  precedent  ?  are  you  return'd  with 

honour. 
Loved  by  your  subjects?    does    your  fortune 

court  you. 
Or  rather  say,  your  courage  does  command  it  ? 
Have  you  given  proof,  to  this  hour  of  your  life, 
Prosperity,  that  searches  the  best  temper, 
Could  never  puff  you  up,  nor  adverse  fate 
Deject  your  valour  ?     Shall,  I  say,  these  virtues, 
So  many  and  so  various  trials  of 
Your  constant  mind,  be  buried  in  the  frown 
(To  please  you,  I  will  say  so)  of  a  fair  woman? 
— Yet  I  have  seen  her  equals. 

Sfor.  Good  Pescara, 
This  language  in  another  were  profane  ; 
In  you  it  is  unmannerly. — Her  equal ! 
I  tell  you  as  a  friend,  and  tell  you  plainly 
(To  all  men  else  my  sword  should  make  reply). 
Her  goodness  does  disdain  comparison, 
And,  but  herself,  admits  no  parallel. 
But  you  will  say  she's  cross  :  'tis  fit  she  should  be. 
When  I  am  foolish  ;   for  she's  wise,  Pescara, 
And  knows  how  far  she  may  dispose  her  bounties, 
Her  honour  safe  ;  or,  if  she  were  averse, 
'Twas  a  prevention  of  a  greater  sin 
Eeady  to  fall  upon  me ;  for  she's  not  ignorant, 
But  truly  understands  how  much  I  love  her, 
And  that  her  rare  parts  do  deserve  all  honour. 
Her  excellence  increasing  with  her  years  too, 
I  might  have  fallen  into  idolatry, 
Aud  from  the  admiration  of  her  worth, 
Been  taught  to  think  there  is  no  power  above  her; 
And  yet  I  do  believe,  had  angels  sexes, 
The  most  would  be  such  women,  and  assume 
No  other  shape,  when  they  were  to  appear 
In  their  fuU  glory. 


428 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Pt'sc.  Well,  sir,  I'll  not  cross  you, 
Nor  labour  to  diminish  your  esteem, 
Hei'eafter,  of  her.     Since  your  happiness. 
As  you  will  have  it,  has  alone  dependence 
Upon  her  favour,  from  my  soul  1  wish  you 
A  fair  atonement.' 

/Sfoi:  Time,  and  my  submission. 

Enter  Tiberio  a7id  Stephano. 

May  work  her  to  it. — Oh  !  you  are  well  retum'd; 
bay,  am  I  blest?  bath  she  vouchsafed  to  hear 

you? 
Is  there  hope  left  that  she  may  be  appeased  ? 
Let  her  propound,  and  gladly  I'll  subscribe 
To  her  conditions. 

Tib.  She,  sir,  yet  is  froward 
And  desires  respite,  and  some  privacy. 

Sleph.  She  was   harsh  at  first;   but,  ere   we 
parted,  seem'd  not 
Implacable. 

Sf'ov.  There's  comfort  yet :  I'll  ply  her 
Each    hour    with    new    ambassadors    of    more 

honours. 
Titles,  and  eminence :  my  second  self, 
Francisco,  shall  solicit  her. 

Steph.  That  a  wise  man, 
And  what  is  more,  a  prince  that  may  command. 
Should  sue  thus  poorly,  and  treat  with  his  wife, 
As  she  were  a  victorious  enemy, 
At  whose  proud  feet,   himself,    his  state,   and 

country, 
Basely  begg'd  mercy ! 

Sfui:  What  is  that  you  mutter  ? 
I'll  have  thy  thoughts. 

Steph.  You  shall.     You  are  too  fond, 
And  feed  a  pride  that's  swollen  too  big  already, 
And  surfeits  with  observance. 

Sfor.  Oh  my  patience  ! 
My  vassal  speak  thus  ? 

Steph.  Let  my  head  answer  it. 
If  I  offend.     She,  that  you  think  a  saint, 
I  fear,  may  play  the  devil. 

Peso.  Well  said,  old  fellow.  {Aside. 

Steph.  And  he   that  hath  so   long  engross"d 
your  favours. 
Though  to  be  named  with  reverence,  Lord  Fran- 
cisco, 
Who,  as  you  purpose,  shall  solicit  for  you, 
I  think's  too  near  her, 

[Sforza  lays  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Pesc.  Hold,  sir!  this  is  madness. 

Steph.  It  may  be  they  confer  of  joining  lord- 
ships ; 
I'm  sure  he's  private  with  her. 

Sfor.  Let  me  go, 
I  scorn  to  touch  him ;  he  deserves  my  pity, 
And  not  my  anger.     Dotard  !  and  to  be  one 
Is  thy  protection,  else  thou  durst  not  think 
That  love  to  my  Marcelia  hath  left  room 
In  my  full  heart  for  any  jealous  thought : — 
That   idle   passion    dwell    with   thick  -  skinn'd 

tradesmen. 
The  undeserving  lord,  or  the  unable ! 
Lock  up  thy  own  wife,  fool,   that  must  take 

physic 
From  her  young  doctor,  physic  upon  her  back. 
Because  thou  hast  the  palsy  in  that  part 
That  makes  her  active.     I  could  smile  to  think 
What  wretched  things   they  are  that  dare  be 

jealous : 
Were  I  matched  to  another  Messaline, 
While  I  found  merit  in  myself  to  please  her, 
I  should  believe  her  chaste,  and  would  not  seek 
To  find  out  my  own  torment ;  but,  alas ! 

*  atonement — reconciliation,  a  making  at  one. 


Enjoying  one  that  but  to  me's  a  Dian, 
I  am  too  secure. 

Tib.  This  is  a  confidence 
Beyond  example. 

Enter  Graccho,  Isabella,  and  ?.Iariaxa. 

Grac.  There  he  is ;  now  speak. 
Or  be  for  ever  silent. 

Sfor.  If  you  come 
To  bring  me  comfort,  say  that  you  have  made 
My  peace  with  my  Marcelia. 

Isab.  I  had  rather 
Wait  on  you  to  your  funeral. 

Sfor.  You  are  my  mother ; 
Or,  by  her  life,  you  Avere  dead  else. 

Mari.  Would  you  were. 
To  your  dishonour !  and,  since  dotage  makes  you 
Wilfully  blind,  borrow  of  me  my  eyes. 
Or  some  part  of  my  spirit.     Are  you  all  flesh  ? 
A  lump  of  patience  only  ?  no  fire  in  you  ? 
But  do  your  pleasure  : — here  your  mother  was 
Committed  bj'  your  servant  (for  I  scorn 
'I'o  call  him  husband),  and  myself,  your  sister, 
If  that  you  dare  remember  such  a  name, 
Mew'd  up,  to  make  the  way  open  and  free 
For  the  adultress,  I  am  unwilling 
To  say,  a  part  of  Sforza. 

Sfor.  Take  her  head  off ! 
She  hath  blasphemed,  and  by  our  law  must  die. 

Isab.  Blasphemed !  for  calling  of  a  whore,  a 
whore  ? 

Sfor.  Oh  hell,  what  do  I  suffer ! 

Mari.  Or  is  it  treason 
For  me,  that  am  a  subject,  to  endeavour 
To  save  the  honour  of  the  duke,  and  that 
He  should  not  be  a  wittol  on  record  ? 
For  by  posterity  'twill  be  believed, 
As  certainly  as  now  it  can  be  proved, 
Francisco,  the  great  minion,  that  sways  all. 
To  meet  the  chaste  embraces  of  the  duchess, 
Hath  leap'd  into  her  bed. 

Sfor.  Some  proof,  vile  creature, 
Or  thou  hast  spoke  thy  last ! 

Mari.  The  public  fame, 
Their  hourly  private  meetings  ;  and  e'en  now. 
When,  under  a  pretence  of  grief  or  anger, 
You  are  denied  the  joys  due  to  a  husband, 
And  made  a  stranger  to  her,  at  all  times 
The  door  stands  open  to  him.     To  a  Dutchman, 
This  were  enough ;  but  to  a  right  Italian, 
A  hundred  thousand  witnesses. 

Isab.  Would  you  have  us 
To  be  her  bawds  ? 

Sfor.  Oh  the  malice 
And  envy  of  base  women,  that  with  horror. 
Knowing  their  own  defects  and  inward  guilt, 
Dare  lie,  and  swear,  and  damn,  for  what's  most 

false, 
To  cast  aspersions  upon  one  untainted  ! 
Ye  are  in  your  natures  devils,  and  your  ends, 
Knowing  your  reputation  sunk  for  ever. 
And  not  to  be  recover'd,  to  have  all 
Wear  your  black  livery.     Wretches !  you  havo 

raised 
A  monumental  trophy  to  her  pureness, 
In  this  your  studied  purpose  to  deprave  her : 
And  all  the  shot  made  by  your  foul  detraction, 
Falling  upon  her  sure-arm'd  innocence, 
Returns  upon  yourselves ;  and,  if  my  love 
Could  suffer  an  addition,  I'm  so  far 
From  giving  credit  to  you,  this  would  teach  me 
More  to  admu-e  and  serve  her.     You  are   not 

worthy 
To  fall  as  sacrifices  to  appease  her ; 
And  therefore  live  till  your  own  envy  bui'st  you. 

Isab.  All  is  in  vain ;  he  is  not  to  be  moved. 

Man.  She  has  bewitch'd  him. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


429 


Peso.  'Tis  so  past  belief, 
To  me  it  shows  a  fable. 

Enter  Feancisco,  speaking  to  a  Servant  within. 

Fran.  On  thy  life, 
Provide  my  horses,  and  without  the  poi't 
With  care  attend  me. 

Serv.  [tvit/wi.']  I  shall,  my  lord, 

Grac.  He's  come. 
What  gimcrack  have  we  next  ? 

Fran.  Great  sir. 

Sfor.  Francisco, 
Though  all  the  joys  in  woman  are  fled  from  me. 
In  thee  I  do  embrace  the  full  delight 
That  I  can  hope  from  man. 

Fran.  I  would  impart, 
Please  you  to  lend  your  ear,  a  weighty  secret, 
I  am  in  labour  to  deliver  to  you. 

S/br.  All  leave  the  room. 

[^Exeunt  Isabella,  Mariana,  and  Graccho. 
Excuse  me,  good  Pescara, 
Ere  long  I  will  wait  on  you. 

Pesc.  You  speak,  sir, 
The  language  I  should  use.  [Exit. 

Sfor.  I3e  within  call, 
Perhaps  we  may  have  use  of  you. 

Tib.  We  shall,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Tiberio  and  Stephano. 

Sfor.  Say  on,  my  comfort. 

Fran.  Comfort !  no,  your  torment. 
For  so  my  fate  appoints  me.     I  could  cui'se 
The  hour  that  gave  me  being. 

Sfor.  What  new  monsters 
Of  misery  stand  ready  to  devour  me  ? 
Let  them  at  once  despatch  me. 

Fran.  Draw  your  sword,  then. 
And,  as  you  wish  your  own  peace,  quickly  kill 

me; 
Consider  not,  but  do  it. 

Sfor.  Art  thou  mad  ? 

Fran.   Or,   if  to   take  my  life  be  too  much 
mercy, 
As  death,  indeed,  concludes  all  human  sorrows, 
Cut  off  my  nose  and  ears  ;  pull  out  an  eye, 
The  other  only  left  to  lend  me  light 
To  see  my  own  deformities.     Why  was  I  born 
Without  some  mulct  imposed  on  me  by  nature  ? 
Would  from  my  youth  a  loathsome  leprosy 
Had  run  upon  this  face,  or  that  my  breath 
Had  been  infectious,  and  so  made  me  shunn'd 
Of  all  societies  !     Curs'd  be  he  that  taught  me 
Discourse  or  manners,  or  lent  any  grace 
That  makes  the  owner  pleasing  in  the  eye 
Of  wanton   women  !    since  those  parts,   which 

others 
Value  as  blessings,  are  to  me  afflictions, 
Such  my  condition  is. 

Sfor.  I  am  on  the  rack  : 
Dissolve  1  this  doubtful  riddle. 

Fran.  That  I  alone, 
Of  all  mankind,  that  stand  most  bound  to  love 

you. 
And  study  your  content,  should  be  appointed. 
Not  by  my  will,  but  forced  by  cruel  fate. 
To  be  your  greatest  enemy ! — not  to  hold  you 
In  this  amazement  longer,  in  a  word, 
Your  duchess  loves  me. 

Sfor.  Loves  thee  I 

Fran.  Is  mad  for  me, 
Pursues  me  hourly. 


1  Dissolve.  Our  old  writers  used  dissolve  and  solve 
indiscriminately;  or,  if  they  made  any  difference,  it 
was  in  favour  of  the  former. — Giffokd. 


Sfor.  Oh! 

Fran.  And  from  hence  grew 
Her  late  neglect  of  3'ou. 

Sfo):  Oh  women  !  women  ! 

Fran.  I  labour'd  to  divert  her  by  persuasion. 
Then  urged  your  much  love  to  her,  and  the 

danger : 
Denied  her,  and  with  scorn. 

Sfo7:  'Twas  like  thyself. 

Fran.  But  when  I  saw  her  smile,  then  heard 
her  say. 
Your  love  and  extreme  dotage,  as  a  cloak, 
Should  cover  our  embraces,  and  your  power 
Fright  others  from  suspicion  ;  and  all  favours 
That  should  preserve  her  in  her  innocence. 
By  lust  inverted  to  be  used  as  bawds  ; 
I  could  not  but  in  duty  (though  I  know 
That  the  relation  kills  in  you  all  hope 
Of  peace  hereafter,  and  in  me  'twill  show 
Both  base  and  poor  to  rise  up  her  accuser) 
Freely  discover  it. 

Sfor.  Eternal  plagues 
Pursue  and  overtake  her !  for  her  sake, 
To  all  posterity  may  ho  prove  a  cuckold, 
And,  like  to  me,  a  thing  so  miserable 
As  words  may  not  express  him,  that  gives  trust 
To  all-deceiving  women  !     Or,  since  it  is 
The  will  of  Heaven  to  preserve  mankind. 
That  we  must  know  and  couple  with  these  ser- 
pents. 
No  wise  man  ever,  taught  by  my  example. 
Hereafter  use  his  wife  with  more  respect 
Than  he  would  do  his  horse  that  does  him  ser- 
vice; 
Base  woman  being  in  her  creation  made 
A  slave  to  man.    But,  like  a  village  nurse. 
Stand  I  now  cursing  and  considering,  when 
The  tamest  fool  would   do  !  —  Within    there  ! 

Stephano, 
Tiberio,  and  the  rest ! — I  will  be  sudden. 
And  she  shall  know  and  feel,  love  in  extremes 
Abused,  knows  no  degree  in  hate. 

Enter  Tiberio  and  Stephano. 

Tib.  My  lord. 

Sfor.  Go  to  the  chamber  of  that  wicked  wo- 
man— 

Steph.  What  wicked  woman,  sir  7 

Sfor.  The  devil,  my  wife. 
Force  a  rude  entry,  and,  if  she  refuse 
To  follow  you,  di'ag  her  hither  by  the  hair, 
And  know  no  pity  ;  any  gentle  usage 
To  her  will  call  on  cruelty  from  me, 
To  such  as  show  it. — Stand  you  staring!     Go, 
And  put  my  will  in  act. 

Steph.  There's  no  disputing. 

Tib.  But  'tis  a  tempest,  on  the  sudden  raised, 
Who  durst  have  dream'd  of  ? 

[Exeunt  Tiberio  and  Stephano. 

Sfor.  Nay,  since  she  dares  damnation, 
I'll  be  a  fury  to  her. 

Fran.  Yet,  great  sir, 
Exceed  not  in  your  fury ;  she's  yet  guilty 
Only  in  her  intent. 

Sfor.  Intent,  Francisco ! 
It  does  include  all  fact ;  and  I  might  sooner 
Be  won  to  pardon  treason  to  my  crown, 
Or  one  that  kill'd  my  fathei-. 

Fran.  You  are  wise, 
And  know  what's  best  to  do  :  yet,  if  you  please, 
To  prove  her  temper  to  the  height,  say  only 
That  I  am  dead,  and  then  observe  how  far 
She'll  be  transported.     I'll  remove  a  little, 
But  be  within  your  call. — Now  to  the  upshot ! 
Howe'er,  I'll  shift  for  one.  [Aside  and  exit. 


430 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ee-ciiler  Tiberio,  Stephano,  and  Guard,  with 
Marcelia. 

Marc.  "Where  is  this  monster, 
This  walking  tree  of  jealousy,  this  dreamer, 
This  homed  beast  that  -would  be  ?      Oh !    are 

you  here,  sir  ? 
Is  it  by  your  commandment  or  allowance 
I  am  thus  basely  used  ?    Which  of  my  virtues, 
My  labours,  services,  and  cares  to  please  you 
(For,  to  a  man  suspicious  and  unthankful, 
Without  a  blush  I  may  be  mine  own  trumpet), 
Invites  this  barbarous  course  ?  dare  you  look  on 

me 
Without  a  seal  of  shame  ? 

Sfor.  Impudence, 
How  ugly  thou  appear'st  now !    Thy  intent 
To  be  a  whore,  leaves  thee  not  blood  enough 
To  make  an  honest  blush :   what  had  the  act 

done? 
Marc.  Eeturn'd  thee  the  dishonour  thou  de- 

serv'st ; 
Though  willingly  I  had  given  up  myself 
To  every  common  lecher. 

Sfor.  Your  chief  minion. 
Tour  chosen  favourite,  your  woo'd  Francisco, 
Has  dearly  paid  for't;  for,  wretch!  know  he's 

dead, 
And  by  my  hand. 

Marc.  The  bloodier  villain  thou  ! 
But  'tis  not  to  be  wondered  at,  thy  love 
Does  know  no  other  object.     Thou  hast  kill'd, 

then, 
A  man  I  do  profess  I  loved ;  a  man 
For  whom  a  thousand  queens  might  well  be 

rivals. 
But  he,  I  speak  it  to  thy  teeth,  that  dares  be 
A  jealous  fool,  dares  be  a  murderer, 
And  knows  no  end  in  mischief. 

Sfor.  I  begin  now 
In  this  my  justice.  \_Stal}s  her. 

Marc.  Oh  !  I  have  fool'd  myself 
Into  my  grave,  and  only  grieve  for  that 
Which,  when  you  know  you've  slain  an  innocent, 
Tou  needs  must  suffer. 

Sfor.  An  innocent !     Let  one 
Call  in  Francisco  ; — for  he  lives,  vile  creature, 

\_Exit  Stephano. 
To  justify  thy  falsehood,  and  how  often, 
With  whorish  flatteries,  thou  hast  tempted  him  ; 
I  being  only  fit  to  live  a  stale, 
A  bawd  and  property  to  your  waTitonness. 

Re-enter  Stephaxo. 

Steph.  Siguier  Francisco,  sir,  but  even  now 
Took  horse  without  the  ports. 

Marc.  We  are  both  abused, 
And  both  by  him  undone.     Stay,  death,  a  little. 
Till  I  have  clear'd  me  to  my  lord,  and  then 
I  wilUngly  obey  thee. — Oh  my  Sforza  ! 
Francisco  was  not  tempted,  but  the  tempter ; 
And,  as  he  thought  to  wia  me,  show'd  the  war- 
rant 
That  you  sign'd  for  my  death. 

Sfor.  Then  I  believe  thee  ; 
Believe  thee  innocent  too. 

Marc.  But,  being  contemn'd, 
Upon  his  knees  ■frith  tears  he  did  beseech  me 
Not  to  reveal  it ;  I,  soft-hearted  fool, 
Judging  his  penitence  true,  was  won  unto  it. 
Indeed,  the  unkindness  to  be  sentenced  by  you. 
Before  that  I  was  guilty  in  a  thought. 
Made  me  put  on  a  seeming  anger  towards  you, 
And  now — behold  the  issue  !     As  I  do, 
May  Heaven  forgive  you !  [^Dies. 

Tib.  Her  sweet  soul  has  left 
Her  beauteous  prison. 


Steph.  Look  to  the  duke  ;  he  stands 
As  if  he  wanted  motion. 

Tib.  Grief  hath  stopp'd 
The  organ  of  his  speech. 

Steph.  Take  up  this  body. 
And  call  for  his  physicians. 

Sfor.  Oh  my  heart-strings !  [Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  L 

The  Milanese.    A  Room  in  Eugenia's  House. 
Enter  Francisco,  and  Eugenia  in  male  attire.      \ 

Fran.  Why,  couldst  thou  think,  Eugenia,  that    | 
rewards,  j 

Graces,  or  favours,  though  strew'd  thick  upon  me,    | 
Could  ever  bribe  me  to  forget  mine  honour? 
Or  that  I  tamely  would  sit  down,  before 
I  had  dried  these  eyes,  still  wet  with  showers  of 

tears. 
By  the  fire  of  my  revenge  ?    Look  up,  my  dearest ; 
For  that  proud  fair,  that,  thief-like,  stepp'd  be- 
tween .; 
Thy  promised  hopes,  and  robUd  thee  of  a  fortune 
Almost  in  thy  possession,  hath  found. 
With  hon-id  proof,  his  love,  she  thought  her 

glory. 
And  an  assurance  of  all  happiness, 
But  hastened  her  sad  ruin. 

Enff.  Do  not  flatter 
A  grief  that  is  beneath  it ;  for,  however 
The  credulous  duke  to  me  proved  false  and  cruel, 
It  is  impossible  he  could  be  wrought 
To  look  on  her,  but  with  the  eyes  of  dotage, 
And  so  to  serve  her. 

Fran.  Such,  indeed,  I  grant, 
The  stream  of  his  affection  was,  and  ran 
A  constant  course,  till  I,  with  cunning  malice — 
And  yet  I  wrong  my  act,  for  it  was  justice — 
Made  it  turn  backward;  and  hate,  in  extremes 
(Love  banish'd  from  his  heart),  to  fill  the  room: 
In  a  word,  know  the  fair  Marcelia's  dead. 

Eu(j.  Dead! 

Fran.  And  by  Sforza's  hand.    Does  it  not  move 
you? 
How  coldly  you  receive  it !  I  expected 
The  mere  relation  of  so  great  a  blessing. 
Borne  proudly  on  the  wings  of  sweet  revenge, 
Would  have  call'd  on  a  sacrifice  of  thanks, 
And  joy  not  to  be  bounded  or  conceal'd. 
You  entertain  it  with  a  look,  as  if 
You  wish'd  it  wei-e  undone. 

Eur/.  Indeed  I  do : 
Foi",  if  my  sorrows  could  receive  addition. 
Her  sad  fate  would  increase,  not  lessen  them. 
She  never  injured  me,  but  entertain'd 
A  fortune  humbly  offer'd  to  her  hand. 
Which  a  wise  lady  gladly  would  have  kneel'd  for. 
Unless  you  would  impute  it  as  a  crime. 
She  was  more  fair  than  I,  and  had  discretion 
Not  to  deliver  up  her  virgin  fort. 
Though  strait  besieged  with  flatteries,  vows,  and 

tears. 
Until  the  church  had  made  it  safe  and  lawful. 
And  had  I  been  the  mistress  of  her  judgment 
And  constant  temper,  skilful  in  the  knowledge 
Of  man's  malicious  falsehood,  I  had  never. 
Upon  his  hell-deep  oaths  to  marry  me. 
Given  up  my  fair  name  and  my  maiden  honour 
To  his  foul  lust ;  nor  lived  now,  being  branded 
In  his  forehead  for  his  whore,  the  scorn  and 

shame 
Of  all  good  women. 

Fran.  Have  you  then  no  gall. 
Anger,  or  spleen,  familiar  to  your  sex  ? 


Or  is  it  possible  tliat  you  could  see 
Another  to  possess  what  was  your  due, 
And  not  grow  pale  with,  envy  ? 

Eug.  Yes,  of  him 
That  did  deceive  me.     There's  no  passion,  that 
A  maid  so  injured  ever  could  partake  of, 
But  I  have  dearly  suffer'd.     These  three  years. 
In  my  desire  and  labour  of  revenge, 
Trusted  to  you,  I  have  endured  the  throes 
Of  teeming  women  ;  and  will  hazard  all 
Fate  can  inflict  on  me,  but  I  will  reach 
Thy  heart,  false  Sforza !     You  have  trifled  with 

me. 
And  not  proceeded  with  that  fiery  zeal 
I  look'd  for  from  a  brother  of  your  spirit. 
Sorrow  forsake  me,  and  all  signs  of  grief 
Farewell  for  ever !  Vengeance,  arm'd  with  fury. 
Possess  me  wholly  now ! 

Fran.  The  reason,  sister, 
Of  this  strange  metamorphosis  ? 

Eug.  Ask  thy  fears : 
Thy  base,  unmanly  fears,  thy  poor  delays, 
Thy  dull  forgetfuluess  equal  with  death  ; 
My  wrong,  else,  and  the  scandal  which  can  never 
Be  wash'd  off  from  our  house,  but  in  his  blood, 
Would  have  stirr'd  up  a  coward  to  a  deed 
In  which,  though  he  had  fallen,  the  brave  intent 
Had  crown'd  itself  with  a  fair  monument 
Of  noble  resolution.    In  this  shape 
I  hope  to  get  access  ;  and  then,  with  shame, 
Hearing  my  sudden  execution,  judge 
What  honour  thou  hast  lost,  in  being  transcended 
By  a  weak  woman. 

Fran.  Still  mine  own,  and  dearer ! 
And  yet  in  this  you  but  pour  oil  on  fire, 
And  offer  your  assistance  where  it  needs  not. 
And,  that  you  may  perceive  I  lay  not  fallow, 
But  had  your  wrongs  stamp'd  deejaly  on  my  heart 
By  the  iron  pen  of  vengeance,  I  attempted, 
By  whoring  her,  to  cuckold  him :  that  failing, 
I  did  begin  his  tragedy  in  her  death. 
To  which  it  served  as  prologue,  and  will  make 
A  memorable  story  of  your  fortunes 
In  my  assured  revenge.    Only,  best  sister, 
Let  us  not  lose  ourselves  in  the  performance, 
By  your  rash  undertaking ;  we  will  be 
As  sudden  as  you  could  wish. 

Eug.  Upon  those  terms 
I  yield  myself  and  cause  to  be  disposed  of 
As  you  think  fit. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Fran.  Thy  pui-pose  ? 

Serv.  There's  one  Graccho, 
That  follow'd  you,  it  seems,  upon  the  track. 
Since  you  left  Milan,  that's  importunate 
To  have  access,  and  will  not  be  denied: 
His  haste,  he  says,  concerns  you. 

Fran.  Bring  him  to  me.  \_Exit  Servant. 

Though  he  hath  laid  an  ambush  for  my  life, 
Or  apprehension,  yet  I  will  prevent  him, 
And  work  mine  own  ends  out. 

Enter  Geaccho. 

Grac.  Now  for  my  whipping ! 
And  if  I  now  outstrip  him  not,  and  catch  him. 
And  by  a  new  and  strange  way  too,  hereafter 
I'll  swear  there  are  worms  in  my  brains. 

l^Aside. 

Fran,  Now,  my  good  Graccho ! 
We  meet  as  'twere  by  miracle. 

Grac.  Love,  and  duty. 
And  vigilance  in  me  for  my  lord's  safety. 
First  taught  me  to  imagine  you  were  here, 
And  then  to  follow  you.    All's  come  forth,  my 
lord, 


That  you  could  wish  conceal'd.     The  duchess' 

wound. 
In  the  duke's  rage  put  home,  yet  gave  her  leave 
To  acquaint  him  with  your  practices,  which  your 

Did  easily  confirm. 

Fran.  This  I  expected ; 
But  sure  you  come  provided  of  good  cotinsel, 
To  help  in  my  extremes. 

Grac.  I  would  not  hurt  you. 

Fran.  How!  hurt  me?   such  another  word's 
thy  death ; 
Why  dar'st  thou  think  it  can  fall  in  thy  will, 
To  outlive  what  I  determine  ? 

Grac.  How  he  awes  me  !  [Aside. 

Fran.  Be  brief ;  what  brought  thee  hither  ? 

Grac.  Care  to  inform  you 
You  are  a  condemn'd  man,  pursued  and  sought 

for, 
And  your  head  rated  at  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  him  that  brings  it. 

Fran.  Very  good. 

Grac.  All  passages 
Are  intercepted,  and  choice  troops  of  horse 
Scour  o'er  the  neighbour  plains;  your  picture 

sent 
To  every  state  confederate  with  Milan : 
That,  though  I  grieve  to  speak  it,  in  my  judg- 
ment. 
So  thick  your  dangers  meet,  and  run  upon  you, 
It  is  impossible  you  should  escape 
Their  curious  search. 

E^lg.  Why,  let  us  then  turn  Eomans, 
And,   falling  by  our  own    hands,  mock  their 

threats. 
And  dreadful  preparations. 

Fran.  'T would  show  nobly; 
But  that  the  honour  of  our  full  revenge 
Were  lost  in  the  rash  action.     No,  Eugenia, 
Graccho  is  wise,  my  friend  too,  not  my  servant. 
And  I  dare  trust  him  with  my  latest  secret. 
We  would,  and  thou  must  help  us  to  perform  it. 
First  kill  the  duke — then,  fall  what  can  upon  us ! 
For  injuries  are  writ  in  brass,  kind  Graccho, 
And  not  to  be  forgotten. 

Grac.  He  instructs  me 
What  I  should  do.  {^Aside. 

Fran.  What's  that.' 

Grac.  I  labour  with 
A  strong  desire  to  assist  you  with  my  service ; 
And  now  I  am  deliver'd  oft. 

Fran.  I  told  you. — 
Speak,  my  oraculous  Graccho. 

Grac.  I  have  heard,  sir, 
Of  men  in  debt  that,  lay'd  for  by  their  creditors. 
In  all  such  places  where  it  could  be  thought 
They  would  take  shelter,  chose,  for  sanctuary. 
Their    lodgings     underneath    their     creditors' 

noses. 
Or  near  that  prison  to  which  they  were  design'd, 
If  apprehended  ;  confident  that  there 
They  never  should  be  sought  for. 

Eug.  'Tis  a  strange  one  ! 

Fran.  But  what  infer  you  from  it  ? 

Grac.  This,  my  lord  ; 
That,  since  all  ways  of  your  escape  are  stopp'd, 
In  Milan  only,  or,  what's  more,  in  (the  court. 
Whither  it  is  presumed  you  dare  not  come, 
Conceal'd  in  some  disguise,  you  may  live  safe. 

Fran.  And  not  to  be  discover'd? 

Grac.  But  by  myself. 

Fran.  By  thee!    Alas!  I  know  thee  honest, 
Graccho, 
And  I  will  put  thy  counsel  into  act. 
And  suddenly.     Yet,  not  to  be  ungrateful 
For  all  thy  loving  travail  to  preserve  me, 
What  bloody  end  soe'er  my  stars  appoint. 


432 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Thou  shalt  be  safe,  good  Graccho. — Who's  with- 
in there  ? 
Grac.  In  the  devil's  name,  -vvhat  means  he ! 

Enter  Servants. 

Fran.  Take  my  friend 
Into  your  custody,  and  bind  him  fast : 
I  would  not  part  with  him. 

Gvac.  My  good  lord. 

Fran.  Despatch: 
'Tis  for  your  good,  to  keep  you  honest,  Graccho : 
I  would  not  have  ten  thousand  ducats  tempt  you. 
Being  of  a  soft  and  wax-like  disposition, 
To  play  the  traitor ;  nor  a  foolish  itch 
To  be  revenged  for  your  late  excellent  whipping, 
Give  you  the  opportunity  to  offer 
My  head  for  satisfaction.     Why,  thou  fool !  • 
I  can  look  through  and  through  thee !  Thy  intents 
Appear  to  me  as  written  in  thy  forehead. 
In  plain  and  easy  characters :  and  but  that 
I  scorn  a  slave's  base  blood  should  rust  that 

sword 
That  from  a  prince  expects  a  scarlet  dye. 
Thou  now  wert  dead ;  but  live,  only  to  pray 
For  good  success  to  crown  my  undertakings ; 
And  then,  at  my  return,  perhaps,  I'll  free  thee. 
To  make  me  further  sport.     Away  with  him ! 
I  will  not  hear  a  syllable. 

\_Exeunt  Servants  xoith  Graccho. 
We  must  trust 
Ourselves,  Eugenia;  and  though  we  make  use  of 
The  counsel  of  our  servants,  that  oil  spent. 
Like  snuffs  that  do  offend,  we  tread  them  out. — 
But  now  to  our  last  scene,  which  we'll  so  carry, 
That  few  shall  understand  how  'twas  begun. 
Till  all,  with  half  an  eye,  may  see  'tis  done. 

\_Exeunt. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 

Milan.    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Pescara,  Tiberio,  and  Stephaso. 

Peso.  The  like  was  never  read  of. 

Steph.  In  my  judgment. 
To  all  that  shall  but  hear  it,  'twill  appear 
A  most  impossible  fable. 

Tib.  For  Francisco 
My  wonder  is  the  less,  because  there  ai'e 
Too  many  precedents  of  unthankful  men 
Eaised  up  to  greatness,  which  have  after  studied 
The  ruin  of  their  makers. 

Steph.  But  that  melancholy. 
Though  ending  in  distraction,  should  work 
So  far  upon  a  man,  as  to  compel  him 
To  court  a  thing  that  has  nor  sense  nor  being. 
Is  unto  me  a  miracle. 

Peso.  'Troth,  I'll  tell  you. 
And  briefly  as  I  can,  by  what  degrees 
He  fell  into  this  madness.     When,  by  the  care 
Of  his  physicians,  he  was  brought  to  life. 
As  he  had  only  pass'd  a  fearful  dream, 
And  had  not  acted  what  I  grieve  to  think  on, 
He  call'd  for  fair  Marcelia,  and  being  told 
That  she  was  dead,  he  broke  forth  in  extremes 
(I  would  not  say  blasphemed),  and  cried  that 

Heaven, 
For  all  the  offences  that  teankind  could  do. 
Would  never  be  so  cruel  as  to  rob  it 
Of  so  much  sweetness,  and  of  so  much  goodness ; 
That  not  alone  was  sacred  in  herself, 
But  did  preserve  all  others  innocent, 
That  had  but  converse  with  her.      Then  it  came 
Into  his  fancy  that  she  was  accused 
By  his  mother  and  his  sister;  thrice  he  curs'd 

them. 
And  thrice  his  desperate  hand  was  on  his  sword, 


T'have  killed  them  both  ;  but  he  restrain'd,  and 

they 
Shunning  his  fury,  spite  of  all  prevention 
He  would  have  turn'd  his  rage  upon  himself  ; 
When  wisely  his  physicians,  looking  on 
The  duchess'  wound,  to  stay  his  ready  hand, 
Cried  out  it  was  not  mortal. 

Tib.  'Twas  well  thought  on. 

Peso.  He  easily  believing  what  he  wish'd, 
More  than  a  perpetuity  of  pleasure 
In  any  object  else !  flatter'd  by  hope, 
Forgetting  his  own  greatness,  he  fell  prostrate 
At  the  doctors' feet,  implored  their  aid,  and  swore, 
Provided  they  recover'd  her,  he  would  live 
A    private    man,   and    they  should    share    his 

dukedom. 
They  seem'd  to  promise  fair,  and  every  hour 
Vary  their  judgments,  as  they  find  he's  fit 
To  suffer  intermission  or  extremes  ; 
For  his  behaviour  since — 

Sfor.  [within.'\  As  you  have  pity, 
Support  her  gently. 

Peso.  Now  be  your  own  witnesses ; 
I  am  prevented. 

Enter  Sforza,  Isabella,  Mariana,  Doctors, 
and  Servants  with  the  body  o/"  Marcelia. 

Sfor.  Carefully,  I  beseech  you  ; 
The  gentlest  touch  torments  her ;  and  then  think 
What  I  shall  suffer.     Oh  you  earthly  gods. 
You  second  natm-es  that  from  your  great  master, 
Who  join'd  the  limbs  of  torn  Hippolitus, 
And  drew  upon  himself  the  Thunderer's  envy. 
Are  taught  those  hidden  secrets  that  restore 
To  life  death- wounded  men  !  you  have  a  patient. 
On  whom  to  express  the  excellence  of  art, 
Will  bind  even  Heaven  your  debtor,  though  it 

pleases 
To  make  your  hands  the  organs  of  a  work 
The  saints  will  smile  to  look  on,  and  good  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  to  give  it  plaudits. 
How  pale  and  wan  she  looks !     Oh  pardon  me. 
That  I  presume  (dy'd  o'er  with  bloody  guilt. 
Which  makes  me,  i  confess,  far,  far  unworthy) 
To  touch  this  snow-white  hand.     How  cold  it  is  ! 
This  once  was  Cupid's  firebrand,  and  still 
'Tis  so  to  me.     How  slow  her  pulses  beat  too  ! 
Yet  in  this  temper  she  is  all  perfection. 
And  mistress  of  a  heat  so  full  of  sweetness, 
The  blood  of  virgins,  in  their  pride  of  youth. 
Are  balls  of  snow  or  ice  compared  unto  her. 

Mart.  Is  not  this  strange  ? 

Isab.  Oh !  cross  him  not,  dear  daughter ; 
Our  conscience  tells  us  we  have  been  abused, 
Wrought  to  accuse  the  innocent,  and  with  him 
Are  guilty  of  a  fact — ■ 

Enter  a  Servant,  and  whispers  Pxcscara. 

Mari.  'Tis  now  past  help. 

Peso.  With  me  ?     What  is  he  ? 

Serv.  He  has  a  strange  aspect ; 
A  Jew  by  birth,  and  a  physician 
By  his  profession,  as  he  says,  who,  hearing 
Of  the  duke's  frenzy,  on  the  forfeit  of 
His  life,  will  undertake  to  render  him 
Perfect  in  every  part : — provided  that 
Your  lordship's  favour  gain  him  free  access. 
And  your  power  with  the  duke  a  safe  protection. 
Till  the  great  work  be  ended. 

Peso.  Bring  me  to  him. 
As  I  find  cause  I'll  do.     [Exeunt  Pesc.  and  Serv. 

Sfor.  How  sound  she  sleeps ! 
Heaven  keep  her  from  a  lethargy ! — How  long 
(But  answer  me  with  comfort,  I  beseech  you) 
Does  your  sure  judgment  tell  you  that  these  lids. 
That  cover  richer  jewels  than  themselves, 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


433 


Like  envious  night,  will  bar  these  glorious  suns 
From  shining  on  me? 

1  Doct.  AVe  have  given  her,  sir, 
A  sleepy  potion,  that  will  hold  her  long, 
That  she  may  be  less  sensible  of  the  torment 
The  searching  of  her  wound  will  put  her  to. 

2  Doct.  She  now  feels  little ;  but  if  we  should 
wake  her, 
To  hear  her  speak  would  fright  both  us  and  you, 
And  therefore  dare  not  hasten  it. 

Sfor.  I  am  patient. 
You  see  I  do  not  rage,  but  wait  your  pleasure. 
"What  do  you  think  she  dreams  of  now  .'  for  sure. 
Although  her  body's  organs  are  bound  fast, 
Her  fancy  cannot  slumber. 

1  Doct.  That,  sir,  looks  on 
Your  sorrow  for  your  late  rash  act,  with  pity 
Of  what  you  suffer  for  it,  and  prepares 
To  meet  the  free  confession  of  your  guilt 
With  a  glad  pardon. 

Sfor.  She  was  ever  kind  ; 
And  her  displeasure,  though  call'd  on,  short-lived 
Upon  the  least  submission.     Oh  you  Powers, 
That  can  convey  our  thoughts  to  one  another 
Without  the  aid  of  eyes  or  ears,  assist  me  ! 
Let  her  behold  me  in  a  pleasing  dream     \Kneels. 
Thus  on  my  knees  before  her  (yet  that  duty 
In  me  is  not  sufficient) ;  let  her  see  me 
Compel  my  mother,  from  whom  I  took  life, 
And  this  my  sister,  partner  of  my  being. 
To  bow  thus  low  unto  her ;  let  her  hear  us 
In  my  acknowledgment  freely  confess 
That  we  in  a  degree  as  high  are  guilty 
As  she  is  innocent.     Bite  your  tongues,  vile 

creatures. 
And  let  your  inward  horror  fright  your  souls, 
For  having  belied  that  pureness,  to  come  near 

which, 
All  women  that  posterity  can  bring  forth 
Must  be,  though  striving  to  be  good,  poor  rivals. 
And  for  that  dog  Francisco,  that  seduced  me, 
In  wounding  her,  to  rase  a  temple  built 
To  chastity  and  sweetness,  let  her  know 
I'll  follow  him  to  hell,  but  I  will  find  him. 
And  there  live  a  fourth  Fury  to  torment  him. 
Then,  for  this  cursed  hand  and  arm  that  guided 
The  wicked  steel,  I'll  have  them,  joint  by  joint. 
With  burning  irons  sear'd  off,  which  I  will  eat, 
I  being  a  vulture  fit  to  taste  such  carrion ; 
Lastly — 

1  Boct.  You  are  too  loud,  sir ;  you  disturb 
Her  sweet  repose. 

Sfor.  I  am  hush'd.     Yet  give  us  leave, 
Thus  prostrate  at  her  feet,  our  eyes  bent  down- 
wards. 
Unworthy,  and  ashamed,  to  look  upon  her, 
To  expect  her  gracious  sentence. 

2  Doct.  He's  past  hope. 

1  Doct.  The  body  too  will  putrefy,  and  then 
We  can  no  longer  cover  the  imposture. 

Tib.  Which,  in  his  death,  will  quickly  be  dis- 
cover'd. 
I  can  but  weep  his  fortune. 

Steph.  Yet  be  careful 
You  lose  no  minute  to  preserve  him  ;  time 
May  lessen  his  distraction. 

Re-enter  Pescara,  loith  Francisco  as  a  Jew 
doctor,  and  Eugenia  disguised  as  before. 

Fran.  I  am  no  god,  sir, 
To  give  a  new  life  to  her ;  yet  I'll  hazard 
My  head,  I'll  work  the  senseless  trunk  t'appear 
To  him  as  it  had  got  a  second  being. 
Or  that  the  soul  that's  fled  from't,  were  call'd  back 
To  govern  it  again.     I  will  preserve  it 
In  the  first  sweetness,  and  by  a  strange  vapoiir, 
Which  I'll  infuse  into  her  mouth,  create 


A  seeming  breath  ;  I'll  make  her  veins  run  high 

too, 
As  if  they  had  true  motion. 

Pesc.  Do  but  this, 
TLU.  we  use  means  to  win  upon  his  passions 
T'endure  to  hear  she's  dead  with   some  small 

patience. 
And  make  thy  own  reward. 

Fran.  The  art  I  use 
Admits  no  looker-on  :  I  only  ask 
The  fourth  part  of  an  hour,  to  pei-fect  that 
I  boldly  undertake. 

Pesc.  I  will  procure  it. 

2  Doct.  What  stranger's  this  ? 

Pesc.  Sooth  me  in  all  I  say ; 
There's  a  main  end  in  it. 

Fran.  Beware ! 

Fug.  I  am  warn'd. 

Pesc.  Look  up,  sir,  cheerfully ;  comfort  in  me 
Flows  strongly  to  you. 

Sfoj:  From  whence  came  that  sound  ? 
Was  it  from  my  Marcelia  ?     If  it  were,      [^Pises. 
I  rise,  and  joy  will  give  me  wings  to  meet  it. 

Pesc.  Nor  shall  your  expectation  be  defei-r'd 
But  a  few  minutes.     Your  physicians  are 
Mere  voice,  and  no  performance ;  I  have  found 
A  man  that  can  do  wonders.     Do  not  hinder 
The  duchess'  wished  recovery,  to  enquire 
Or  what  he  is,  or  to  give  thanks,  but  leave  him 
To  work  this  miracle. 

Sfor.  Sure,  'tis  my  good  angel. 
I  do  obey  in  all  things :  be  it  death 
For  any  to  disturb  him,  or  come  near. 
Till  he  be  pleased  to  call  us.     Oh,  be  prosperous, 
And  make  a  duke  thy  bondman  ! 

l^Fxeuni  all  but  Francisco  and  Eugenia. 

Fran.  'Tis  my  purpose  ; 
If  that  to  fall  a  long-wish'd  sacrifice 
To  my  revenge  can  be  a  benefit. 
I'll  first  make  fast  the  doors ; — so ! 

Fug.  You  amaze  me  : 
What  follows  now  ? 

Fran.  A  full  conclusion 
Of  all  thy  wishes.     Look  on  this,  Eugenia, 
Even  such  a  thing,  the  proudest  fair  on  earth 
(For  whose  delight  the  elements  are  ransack'd, 
And  art  with  nature  studied  to  preserve  her) 
Must  be,  when  she  is  summon'd  to  appear 
In  the  court  of  Death.     But  I  lose  time. 

Fug.  What  mean  you  ? 

Fran.  Disturb  me  not. — Your  ladyship  looks 
pale  ; 
But  I,  your  doctor,  have  a  ceruse  *  for  you. — 
See,  my  Eugenia,  how  many  faces. 
That  are  adored  in  court,  borrow  these  helps, 

[^Paints  the  cheeks. 
And  pass  for  excellence,  when  the  better  part 
Of  them  are  like  to  this. — Your  mouth  smells 

sour  too. 
But  here  is  that  shall  take  away  the  scent ; 
A  precious  antidote  old  ladies  use. 
When  they  would  kiss,  knowing  their  gums  are 
rotten.  [Paints  the  lips. 

These  hands  too,  that  disdain'd  to  take  a  touch. 
From  any  lip,  whose  owner  writ  not  lord, 
Are  now  but  as  the  coarsest  earth  ;  but  I 
Am  at  the  charge,  my  bill  not  to  be  paid  too. 
To  give  them  seeming  beauty.  [Paints  the  hands.^ 

— So!  'tis  done. 
How  do  you  like  my  workmanship .' 

Fug.  1  tremble ; 
Aud  thus  to  tyrannize  upon  the  dead 
Is  most  inhuman. 

Fran.  Come  we  for  revenge. 


*  ceruse — a  cosmetic. 


2e 


434 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


And  can  we  think  on  pity !    Now  to  the  upshot, 
And,  as  it  proves,  applaud  it. — My  lord  the  duke ! 
Enter  with  joy,  and  see  the  sudden  change 
Your  servant's  hand  hath  wrought. 

He-enter  Sfokza  and  the  re&t. 

Bfor.  I  live  again 
In  my  full  confidence  that  Marcelia  may 
Pronounce  my  pardon.     Can  she  speak  yet  ? 

Fran.  No: 
Tou  must  not  look  for  all  your  joys  at  once ; 
That  will  ask  longer  time. 

Pesc.  'Tis  wondrous  strange ! 

Sfor.  By  all  the  dues  of  love  I  have  had  from 
her, 
This  hand  seems  as  it  was  when  first  I  kiss'd  it. 
These  lips  invite  too.     I  could  ever  feed 
Upon  these  roses,  they  still  keep  their  colour 
And  native  sweetness :  only  the  nectar's  wanting, 
That,  like  the  morning  dew  in  flowery  May, 
Preserved  them  in  their  beauty. 

Enter  Geaccho  hastily. 

Grac.  Treason,  treason ! 

Tib.  Call  lip  the  guard. 

Fran.  Graccho !  then  we  are  lost.  [Aside. 

Enter  Guard. 

G-rac.    I  am  got  off,  Sir  Jew ;    a  bribe  hath 
done  it. 
For  all  your  serious  charge  ;  there's  no  disguise 
Can  keep  you  from  my  knowledge. 

Sfor.  Speak. 

Grac.  I  am  out  of  breath, 
But  this  is — 

Fran.  Spare  thy  labour,  fool, — Francisco. 

All.  Monster  of  men ! 

Fran.  Give  me  all  attributes 
Of  all  you  can  imagine,  yet  I  glory 
To  be  the  thing  I  was  bom.     I  abi  Francisco  ; 
Francisco,  that  was  raised  by  you  and  made 
The  minion  of  the  time ;  the  same  Francisco 
That  would  have  whored  this  trunk  when  it 

had  life. 
And  after  breathed  a  jealousy  upon  thee. 
As  killing  as  those  damps  that  belch  out  plagues 
When  the  foundation  of  the  earth  is  shaken : 
I  made  thee  do  a  deed  Heaven  will  not  pardon. 
Which  was  to  kill  an  innocent. 

Sfor.  Call  forth  the  tortures 
For  all  that  flesh  can  feel. 

Fran.  I  dare  the  worst. 


Only,  to  yield  some  reason  to  the  world 
Why  I  pursued  this  course,  look  on  this  f^ce, 
Made  old  by  thy  base  falsehood  :  'tis  Eugenia. 

Sfor.  Eugenia! 

Fran.  Does  it  start  you,  sir  ?  my  sister, 
Seduced  and  fool'd  by  thee :  but  thou  must  pay 
The  forfeit  of  thy  falsehood.    Does  it  not  work 

yet!— 
Whate'er  becomes  of  me,  which  I  esteem  not, 
Thou  art  mark'd  for  the  grave.    I've  given  thee 

poison 
In  this  cup,i  now  observe  me,  which  thy  lust 
Carousing  deeply  of,  made  thee  forget 
Thy  vow'd  faith  to  Eugenia. 

Pesc.  Oh  damn'd  villain ! 

Isab.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 

Sfor.  Like  one 
That  learns  to  know  in  death  what  punishment 
Waits  on  the  breaoh  of  faith.     Oh  !  now  I  feel 
An  ^tna  in  my  entrails. — I  have  Uved 
A  prince,  and  my  last  breath  shall  be  command. 
— I  burn,  I  burn !  yet  ere  life  be  consumed. 
Let  me  pronounce  upon  this  wretch  all  torture 
That  witty^  cruelty  can  invent. 

Pesc.  Away  with  him ! 

Tib.  In  aU  things  we  will  serve  you. 

Fran.  Farewell,  sister ! 
Now  I  have  kept  my  word,  torments  I  scorn : 
I  leave  the  world  with  glory.     They  are  men, 
And  leave  behind  them  name  and  memory, 
That,  wrong'd,  do  right  themselves  before  they 
die.  [_ExtuHt  Guard  with  Fkancisco. 

Steph.  A  desperate  wretch ! 

Sfor.  I  come  :  Death !  I  obey  thee. 
Yet  I  wiU  not  die  raging  ;  foi-,  alas  ! 
My  whole  life  was  a  frenzy.     Good  Eugenia, 
In  death  forgive  me. — As  you  love  me,  bear  her 
To  some  religious  house,  there  let  her  spend 
The  remnant  of  her  life :  when  I  am  ashes, 
Perhaps  she'll  be  appeased,  and  spare  a  prayer 
For  my  poor  soul.    Bury  me  with  Marcelia, 
And  let  our  epitaph  be —  \JDies. 

Tib.  His  speech  is  stopp'd. 

Steph.  Already  dead ! 

Pesc.  It  is  in  vain  to  labour 
To  call  him  back.     We'll  give  him  funeral 
And  then  determine  of  the  state  affairs : 
And  learn  from  this  example,  There's  no  trust 
In  a  foundation  that  is  built  on  lust.        \Exeunt. 


•  In  this  cup — i.e.  in  the  lips  of  Marcelia. 

*  Wii^i^— knowing,  ingenious. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


435 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

London.     1633. 


TO  THE  EIGHT  HONOUKABLE 

ROBERT    EARL    OF    CARNARVON, 


MASTEK- FALCONEE  OP  ENGLAND. 


My  good  Loed, — Pardon,  I  beseech  you,  my 
boldness,  in  presuming  to  shelter  this  Comedy 
under  the  "wings  of  your  lordship's  favour  and 
protection.  I  am  not  ignorant  (having  never  yet 
deserved  you  in  my  service)  that  it  cannot  but 
meet  with  a  severe  construction,  if,  in  the  cle- 
mency of  your  noble  disposition,  you  fashion  not 
a  better  defence  for  me,  than  I  can  fancy  for 
myself.  All  I  can  allege  is,  that  divers  Italian 
princes,  and  lords  of  eminent  rank  in  England, 
have  not  disdained  to  receive  and  read  poems  of 
this  nature ;  nor  am  I  -wholly  lost  in  my  hopes, 
but  that  your  honour  (who  have  ever  expressed 
yourself  a  favourer,  and  friend  to  the  Muses) 
may  vouchsafe,  in  your  gracious  acceptance  of 
this  trifle,  to  give  me  encouragement  to  present 


you  with  some  laboured  work,  and  of  a  higher 
strain,  hereafter.  I  was  born  a  devoted  servant 
to  the  thrice  noble  family  of  your  incomparable 
lady,*  and  am  most  ambitious,  but  with  a  be- 
coming distance,  to  be  known  to  your  lordship, 
which,  if  you  please  to  admit,  I  shall  embrace  it 
as  a  bounty,  that  while  I  live  shall  oblige  me  to 
acknowledge  you  for  my  noble  patron,  and  pro- 
fess myself  to  be, 

Your  honour's  true  servant, 
Philip  Massingee. 


1  Anna  Sophia,  daughter  of  Philip  Earl  of  Pembroke 
and  Montgomery. — Malone. 


'^x'3ixa.^^il%  ^iersona^. 


Loed  Lovell. 

SiE  Giles  Ovekeeach,  «  cruel  Extortioner. 

Pkank  Wellboen,  a  Prodigal. 

Tom  Allwoeth,  a  young  Gentleman,  Page  to 

Loed  Lo\t3:ll. 
Geeedy,  a  Imngry  Justice  of  Peace. 
Maeeall,  a  Term-Driver ;  a  creature  of  Sis. 

Giles  Oveeeeach. 
Oedee,  Steward        '\  , 
Ajible,  Usher  (  ^^  ^ady  Allwoeth. 

PUENACE,   Cook  ( 

Watchall,  Porter   ) 


Willdo,  a  Parson. 
Tapwell,  an  Alehouse-Keeper. 

Creditors,  Servants,  etc. 

Lady  Allwoeth,  a  rich  Widow. 
Maegaeet,  Oveeeeach's  Daughter. 
Peoth,  Tapwell's  Wife. 

Chambermaid. 
Waiting  "Woman. 


Scene— TAe  Country  near  Nottingham. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

Before  Tapwell's  House. 

Enter  "Wellboen  in  tattered  apparel,  Tapwell, 
and  Peoth. 

Well.  No  bouse  ? '  nor  no  tobacco  ? 

Tap.  Not  a  suck,  sir; 
Nor  the  remainder  of  a  single  can 
Left  by  a  drunken  porter,  all  night  pall'd  too. 


'  house — drink. 


Froth.  Not  the  dropping  of  the  tap  for  your 
morning's  draught,  sir : 
'Tis  verity,  I  assure  you. 

Well.  Verity,  you  brache ! ' 
The  devil  turn'd  precisian  :  *  Kogue,  what  am  I  ? 
Tap.  Troth,  dui'st  I  trust  you  with  a  looking- 
glass, 
To  let  you  see  your  trim  shape,  you  would  quit 

me, 
And  take  the  name  yourself. 


1  iracTie.—See  note  4,  p.  145,  col.  2. 

2  precisian — Puritan. 


43^ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Well.  How,  dog ! 
Tap.  Even  so,  sir. 
Aud  I  must  tell  you,  if  you  but  advance 
youi-  Flymoutli  cloak,'  you  shall  be  soon  in- 
structed 
There  dwells,  and  within  call,  if  it  please  your 

worship, 
A  potent  monarch,  call'd  the  constable. 
That  does  command  a  citadel  call'd  the  stocks  ; 
Whose  guards  are  certain  files  of  rusty  billmen, 
Such  as  with  great  dexterity  will  hale 
Your  tatter'd,  lousy — 

Well.  Eascal !  slave ! 

Froth.  No  rage,  sir. 

Tap.  At  his  own  peril.     Do  not  put  yourself 
In  to^o  much  heat,  there  being  no  water  near 
To  quench  your  thirst;  and,  sure,  for  other  liquor, 
As  mighty  ale,  or  beer,  they  are  things,  I  take  it, 
You  must  no  more  remember — not  in  a  dream,  sir. 

Well.  Why,  thou  unthankful  villain,  dar'st  thou 
talk  thus ! 
Is  not  Ihy  house,  and  all  thou  hast,  my  gift  ? 

Tap.  I  find  it  not  in  chalk;  and  Timothy  Tap- 
Does  keep  no  other  register.  [well 

Well.  Am  not  I  he 
Whose  riots  fed  and  clothed  thee  ? 
Wert  thou  not  born  on  my  father's  land,  and 

proud  to  be 
A  drudge  in  his  house  ? 

Tap.  What  I  was,  sir,  it  skills  *  not: 
What  you  are,  is  apparent :  now,  for  a  farewell. 
Since  you  talk  of  father,  in  my  hope  it  will  tor- 
ment you, 
I'll  briefly  tell  your  story.     Your  dead  father, 
My  quondam  master,  was  a  man  of  worship. 
Old  Sir  John  Wellborn,  justice   of  peace    and 

quorum, 
And  stood  fair  to  be  custos  rotulorum ; 
Eore  the  whole   sway  of  the  shire,  kept  a  great 

house. 
Relieved  the  poor,  and  so  forth ;  but  he  dying. 
And  the  twelve  hundred  a  year  coming  to  you, 
Late  Master  Francis,  but  now  forlorn  Wellborn — 

Well.  Slave,  stop !  or  I  shall  lose  myself. 

Froth.  Very  hardly ; 
You  cannot  out  of  your  way. 

Tap.  But  to  my  story : 
You  were  then  a  lord  of  acres,  the  prime  gallant, 
Aud  I  your  under  butler  ;  note  the  change  now  : 
You  had  a  merry  time  oft ;  hawks  aud  hounds, 
With  choice  of  running  horses  :  mistresses 
Of  all  sorts  and  all  sizes,  yet  so  hot, 
As  their  embraces  made  your  lordships  melt ; 
Which  yom-  uncle.  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  observing 
(Resolving  not  to  lose  a  drop  of  them). 
On  foolish  mortgages,  statutes,  and  bonds. 
For  a  while  supplied  your  looseness,  and  then  left 
you. 

Well.  Some  curate  hath  penn'd  this  invective, 
mongrel. 
And  you  have  studied  it. 

Tap.  I  have  not  done  yet: 
Your  land  gone,  and  your  credit  not  worth  a 

token,3 
You  grew  the  common  borrower;  no  man 'scaped 
Your  paper-pellets,  from  the  gentleman 
To   the   beggars  on  highways,    that    sold    you 

switches 
In  your  gallantry. 

Well.  1  shall  switch  your  brains  out. 


1  Plymouth  cloak — a  -wliimsical  plirase  for  a  stick  or 
cudgel. — Nakes. 

'^  skills — signifies,  matters. 

3  token — a  small  coin,  struck  by  private  individuals,  to 
pass  for  a  fartliing. — Nabes. 


Tap.  Where  poor  Tim  Tapwell,  with  a  little 
stock. 
Some  forty  pounds  or  so,  bought  a  small  cottage ; 
Humbled  myself  to  man-iage  with  my  Froth  here, 
Gave  entertainment — 

Well.  Yes,  to  whores  and  canters,  ^ 
Clubbers  by  night. 

Tap.  True,  but  they  brought  in  profit. 
And  had  a  gift  to  pay  for  what  they  called  for  ; 
And  stuck  not  like  your  mastership.     The  poor 

income 
I  glean'd  from  them  hath  made  me  in  my  parish 
Thought  worthy  to  be  scavenger,  and  in  time 
May  rise  to  be  overseer  of  the  poor ; 
Which  if  I  do,  on  your  petition.  Wellborn, 
I  may  allow  you  thirteen  pence  a  quarter. 
And  you  shall  thank  my  worship. 

Well.  Thus,  you  dog-bolt,^ 
And  thus —  [Beats  and  kicks  him. 

Tap.  [To  his  wife.']  Cry  out  for  help ! 

Well.  Stir,  and  thou  diest : 
Your  potent  prince,  the  constable,  shall  not  save 

you. 
Hear  me,  ungrateful  hellhound !  did  not  I 
Make  purses  for  you  ?  then  you  lick'd  my  boots, 
And  thought  your  holiday  cloak  too  coarse  to 

clean  them. 
'Twas  I  that,  when  I  heard  thee  swear  if  ever 
Thou  couldst  arrive  at  forty  pounds,  thou  wouldst 
Live  like  an  emperor,  'twas  I  that  gave  it 
In  ready  gold.     Deny  this,  wretch ! 

Tap.  I  must,  sir: 
For,  from  the  tavern  to  the  taphouse,  all. 
On  forfeiture  of  their  licences,  stand  bound 
Ne'er  to  remember  who  their  best  guests  were. 
If  they  grew  poor  like  you. 

Well.  They  are  well  rewarded 
That  beggar  themselves  to  make  such  cuckolds 

rich. 
Thou  viper,  thankless  viper  !  impudent  bawd  ! — 
But  since  you  are  grown  forgetful,  I  will  help 
Your  memory,  and  tread  you  into  mortar  ; 
Not  leave  one  bone  unbroken. 

[Beats  him  again. 

Tap.  Oh! 

Froth.  Ask  mercy. 

Enter  Allwortii. 

Well.  'Twill  not  be  granted. 

All.  Hold,  for  my  sake  hold. 
Deny  me,  Frank !  they  are  not  worth  your  anger. 

Well.  For  once  thou  hast  redeem'd  them  from 
this  sceptre ; 
But  let  them  vanish,  creeping  on  their  knees, 
And,  if  they  grumble,  I  revoke  my  pardon. 

Froth.  This  comes  of  your  prating,  husband ; 
you  presumed 
On  your  ambling  wit,  and  must  use  your  glib 

tongue. 
Though  you  are  beaten  lame  for't. 

Tap.  Patience,  Froth ; 
There's  law  to  cure  our  bruises. 

[They  craiol  off  on  their  hands  andlcnees. 

Well.  Sent  to  your  mother  ? 

All.  My  lady,  Frank,  my  patroness,  my  all ! 
She's  such  a  mourner  for  my  father's  death, 
And,  in  her  love  to  him,  so  favours  me. 
That  I  cannot  pay  too  much  observance  to  her: 
There  are  few  such  stepdames. 

Well.  'Tis  a  noble  widow. 
And  keeps  her  reputation  pure,  and  clear 
From  the  least  taint  of  infamy  ;  her  life, 


1  canters — those  who  use   cant ;  a  rogue,  a   sturdy 
beggar. 

2  dog-bolt— See  note  5,  p.  44,  col.  1. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


A17 


With  the   splendour  of  her  actions,  leaves   no 

tongue 
To  envy  or  detraction.    Pr'ythee  tell  me, 
Has  she  no  suitors  ? 

All.  Even  the  best  of  the  shire,  Frank, 
My  lord,  excepted ;  such  as  sue,  and  send, 
And  send,  and  sue  again,  but  to  no  purpose ; 
Their  frequent  visits  have  not  gain'd  her  presence. 
Yet  she's  so  far  from  sullenness  and  pride. 
That  I  dare  undertake  you  shall  meet  from  her 
A  liberal  entertainment :  I  can  give  you 
A  catalogue  of  her  suitors'  names. 

Well.  Forbear  it, 
While  I  give  you  good  counsel :  I  am  bound  to  it. 
Thy  father  was  my  friend ;  and  that  affection 
1  bore  to  him,  in  right  descends  to  thee  ; 
Thou  art  a  handsome  and  a  hopeful  youth, 
Nor  will  I  have  the  least  affront  stick  on  thee, 
If  I  with  any  danger  can  prevent  it. 

All.  I  thank  your  noble  care;  but,  pray  you, 
in  what 
Do  I  run  the  hazard  ? 

Well.  Art  thou  not  in  love  ? 
Put  it  not  off  with  wonder. 

All.  In  love,  at  my  years! 

Well.  You  think  you  walk  in  clouds,  but  are 
transparent. 
I  have  heard  all,  and  the  choice  that  you  have 

made ; 
And,  with  my  finger,  can  point  out  the  north  star 
By  which  the  loadstone  of  your  folly's  guided  ; 
And,  to  confirm  this  true,  what  think  you  of 
Fair  Margaret,  the  only  child  and  heir 
Of  Cormorant  Overreach?    Does  it  blush  and 

start, 
To  hear  her  only  named .'  blush  at  your  want 
Of  wit  and  reason. 

All.  You  are  too  bitter,  sir. 

Well.  Wounds  of  this  nature  are  not  to  be  cured 
With  balms,  but  corrosives.     I  must  be  plain  : 
Art  thou  scarce  manumised  from  the  porter's 

lodge,  1 
And  yet  sworn  servant  to  the  pantofle,^ 
And  dar'st  thou  dream  of  marriage .''  I  fearl 
'Twill  be  concluded  for  impossible. 
That  there  is  now,  or  e'er  shall  be  hereafter, 
A  handsome  page,  or  player's  boy  of  fourteen. 
But  either  loves  a  wench,  or  drabs  love  him  ; 
Court-waiters  not  exempted. 

All.  This  is  madness. 
Howe'er  you  have  discover'd  my  intents. 
You  know  my  aims  are  lawful ;  and  if  ever 
The  queen  of  flowers,  the  glory  of  the  spring. 
The  sweetest  comfort  to  our  smell,  the  rose. 
Sprang  from,  an  envious  briar,  I  may  infer 
There's  such  disparity  in  their  conditions, 
Between  the  goodness  of  my  soul,  the  daughter. 
And  the  base  churl  her  father. 

Well.  Grant  this  true. 
As  I  believe  it,'  canst  thou  ever  hope 
To  enjoy  a  quiet  bed  with  her,  whose  father 
Kuin'd  thy  state  ? 

All.  And  yours  too. 

Well.  I  confess  it. 
True  ;  I  must  tell  you  as  a  friend,  and  freely. 
That,  where  impossibilities  are  apparent, 
'Tis  indiscretion  to  nourish  hopes. 
Canst  thou  imagine  (let  not  self-love  blind  thee) 
That  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  that,  to  make  her  great 
In  swelling  titles,  without  touch  of  conscience. 


•  the  porter's  lodge — the  first  degree  of  servitude. — 

GiFFORD. 

^  pantofle — slipper.  One  page  was  considered  as 
attached  to  the  pantofles,  it  hting  his  duty  to  bring 
them. 


Will  cut  his  neighbour's  throat, — and  I  hope  his 

own  too, — 
Will  e'er  consent  to  make  her  thine  ?     Give  o'er, 
And  think  of  some  course  suitable  to  thy  rank. 
And  prosper  in  it. 

All.  You  have  well  advised  me. 
But,  in  the  meantime,  you,  that  are  so  studious 
Of  my  affairs,  wholly  neglect  your  own  : 
Remember  yourself,  and  in  what  plight  yoU'  are. 

Well.  No  matter,  no  matter. 

All.  Yes,  'tis  much  material : 
You  know  my  fortune,  and  my  means ;  yet  some- 
thing 
I  can  spare  from  myself,  to  help  your  wants. 

Well.  How's  this? 

All.  Nay,  be  not  angry  ;  there's  eight  pieces. 
To  put  you  in  better  fashion. 

Well.  Money  from  thee  ! 
From  a  boy !  a  stipendiary !  one  that  lives 
At  the  devotion  of  a  stepmother. 
And  the  uncertain  favour  of  a  lord ! 
I'll  eat  my  arms  first.     Howsoe'er  blind  Fortune 
Hath  spent  the  utmost  of  her  malice  on  me ; 
Though  I  am  vomited  out  of  an  alehouse. 
And  thus  accoutred  ;  know  not  where  to  eat. 
Or  drink,  or  sleep,  but  tinderneath  this  canopy  ; 
Although  I  thank  thee,  I  despise  thy  offer : 
And  as  I,  in  my  madness,  broke  my  state. 
Without  the  assistance  of  another's  brain. 
In  my  right  wits  I'll  piece  it ;  at  the  worst, 
Die  thus,  and  be  forgotten. 

All.  A  strange  humour !  [Exetmt. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  Lady  Allworth's  House. 

Enter  Order,  Amble,  Furnace,  ancf  Watchall. 

Ovd.  Set  all  things  right,  or,  as  my  name  is 
Order, 
And  by  this  staff  of  office,  that  commands  j'ou. 
This  chain  and  double  ruff,  symbols  of  power. 
Whoever  misses  in  his  function. 
For   one   whole  week  makes  forfeiture   of  his 

breakfast. 
And  privilege  in  the  wine-cellar. 

Amb.  You  are  merry. 
Good  master  steward. 

Furn.  Let  him  ;  I'll  be  angry. 

Amb.  Why,  fellow  Furnace,   'tis   not    twelve 
o'clock  yet. 
Nor  dinner  taking  up  ;  then,  'tis  allow'd. 
Cooks,  by  their  places,  may  be  choleric. 

Furn.  You  think  you  have  spoke  wisely,  good- 
man  Amble, 
My  lady's  go-before ! 

Ord.  Nay,  nay,  no  wrangling. 

Furn.  Twit  me   with    the    authority   of    the 
kitchen ! 
At  all  hours,  and  all  places,  I'll  be  angry ; 
And  thus  provoked,  when  I  am  at  my  prayers 
I  will  be  angry. 

Amb.  There  was  no  hurt  meant. 

Furn.  I  am  friends  with  thee ;  and  yet  I  will 
be  angry. 

Ord.  With  whom? 

Furn.  No  matter  whom :  yet,  now  I  think  on  it, 
I  am  angry  with  my  lady. 

Watch.  Heaven  forbid,  man  ! 

Ord.  What  cause  has  she  given  thee  ? 

Furn.  Cause  enougli,  master  steward. 
I  was  entertained  by  her  to  please  her  palate. 
And,  till  she  forswore  eating,  I  pei-furm'd  it. 
Now,  since  our  master,  noble  AUworth,  died. 
Though  I  crack  my  brains  to  find  out  tempting 
sauces. 


438 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS, 


And  raise  fortifications  in  the  pastry,* 

Such  as  might  serve  for  models  in  the  Low 

Countries, 
Which,  if  they  had  been  practised  at  Breda, 
Spinola  might  have  thrown  his  cap  at  it,  and 
ne'er  took  it — 
Artib.  But  you  had  wanted  matter  there  to 

work  on. 
Furn.  Matter!  with  six  eggs,  and  a  strike  of 
rye  meal, 
I  had  kept  the  town  till    doomsday,   perhaps 
longer. 
Ord.  But  what's  this  to  your  pet  against  my 

lady? 
Furn.  What's  this  ?   marry  this ;  when  I  am 
three-parts  roasted. 
And  the  fourth  part  parboil'd,  to  prepare  her 

viands, 
She  keeps  her  chamber,  dines  with  a  panada,^ 
Or  water-gruel,  my  sweat  never  thought  on. 
OiH.  But  your  art  is  seen  in  the  dining-room. 
Furn.  By  whom? 
By  such  as  pretend  love  to  her,  but  come 
To  feed  upon  her.    Tet,  of  all  the  harpies 
That  do  devour  her,  I  am  out  of  charity 
With  none  so  much  as  the  thin-gutted  squire, 
That's  stolen  into  commission. 
Urd.  Justice  Greedy  ? 

Furn.  The  same,  the  same :  meat's  cast  away 
upon  him, 
It  never  thrives  ;  he  holds  this  paradox. 
Who  eats  not  well,  can  ne'er  do  justice  well. 
His  stomach's  as  insatiate  as  the  grave. 
Or  strumpets'  ravenous  appetites. 

{Knocldng  within. 
Watch.  One  knocks.  [^Exit. 

Ord.  Our  late  young  master ! 

Re-enter  Watchall  with  All  worth. 

Amb.  Welcome,  su*. 

Fum.  Tour  hand ; 
If  you  have  a  stomach,  a  cold  bake-meat's  ready. 

Ord.  His  father's  picture  in  little. 

Furn.  We  are  all  your  servants. 

Amb.  In  you  he  lives. 

All.  At  once,  my  thanks  to  all ; 
This  is  yet  some  comfort.     Is  my  lady  stiiTing  ? 

Enter  Ladt  Allworth,  Waiting-woman,  and 
Chambermaid. 

Ord.  Her  presence  answers  for  us. 

L.  All.  Sort  those  silks  well. 
I'll  take  the  air  alone. 

[Exeunt  Waiting- woman  and  Chambermaid. 

Furn.  Ton  air  and  air ; 
But  will  you  never  taste  but  spoonmeat  more  ? 
To  what  use  serve  I  ? 

L.  All.  Pr'ythee  be  not  angry ; 
I  shall  ere  long :  i'  the  meantime,  there  is  gold 
To  buy  thee  aprons  and  a  summer  suit. 

Furn.  I  am  appeased,  and  Fmnace  now  grows 
cool. 

L.  All.    And,    as  I   gave    directions,   if    this 
morning 
I  am  visited  by  any,  entertain  them 
As  heretofore ;  but  say,  in  my  excuse, 
I  am  indisposed. 

Ord.  I  shall,  madam. 


1  fortifications  in  the  pastry— then  a  common  mode  of 
ornamenting  pastry.  The  siege  of  Breda  was  one  of 
tlie  most  celebrated  of  the  time.  Spinola  sat  down 
before  the  town,  August  26,  1624,  and  it  did  not  sur- 
render until  the  1st  of  July  following. — Gifpoed. 

^panada — a  bread  pottage.— N ares. 


L.  All.  Do,  and  leave  me. 
Nay,  stay  you,  Allworth. 

[Exeu7it  Order,  Amble,  Furnace,  and 
Watchall. 

All.  I  shall  gladly  grow  here. 
To  wait  on  your  commands. 

L.  All.  So  soon  turn'd  courtier ! 

All.  Style  not  that  courtship,  madam,  which 
is  duty 
Purchased  on  your  part. 

L.  All.  Well,  you  shall  o  ercome  ; 
I'll  not  contend  in  words.    How  is  it  with 
Your  noble  master  ? 

All.  Ever  like  himself ; 
No  scruple  lessen'd  in  the  full  weight  of  honour : 
He  did  command  me,  pardon  my  presumption, 
As  his  unworthy  deputy,  to  kiss 
Your  ladyship's  fair  hands. 

L.  All.  I  am  honour 'd  in 
His  favour  to  me.    Does  he  hold  his  purpose 
For  the  Low  Countries  ? 

All.  Constantly,  good  madam ; 
But  he  will  in  person  first  present  his  service. 

L.  All.  And  how  approve  you  of  his  course  ? 
you  are  yet 
Like  virgin  parchment,  capable  of  any 
Inscription,  vicious  or  honourable. 
I  will  not  force  your  will,  but  leave  you  free 
To  your  own  election. 

All.  Any  form  you  please 
I  will  put  on  ;  but,  might  I  make  my  choice. 
With  humble  emulation  I  would  follow 
The  path  my  lord  marks  to  me. 

L.  All.  'Tis  well  answer'd, 
And  I  commend  your  spirit :  you  had  a  father, 
Bless'd  be  his  memory !  that  some  few  hours 
Before  the  will  of  Heaven  took  him  from  me, 
Who  did  commend  you,  by  the  dearest  ties 
Of  perfect  love  between  us,  to  my  charge  : 
And,  thei-efore,  what  I  speak  you  are  bound  to 

hear, 
With  such  respect  as  if  he  lived  in  me. 
He  was  my  husband,  and  howe'er  you  are  not 
Son  of  my  womb,  you  may  be  of  my  love. 
Provided  you  deserve  it. 

All.  I  have  found  you. 
Most  honour'd  madam,  the  best  mother  to  me ; 
And,   with  my  utmost  strengths   of    care  and 

service. 
Will  labour  that  you  never  may  repent 
Your  bounties  shower'd  upon  me. 

L.  All.  I  much  hope  it. 
These  were  your  father's  words :  Tfe'er  my  son 
Follow  the  war,  tell  him  it  is  a  school, 
Where  all  the  principles  tending  to  honour 
Are  taught,  if  truly  follow' d:  hut  for  such 
As  repair  thither  as  a  place  in  which 
They  do  presume  they  may  with  licence  practise 
Their  lusts  and  riots,  they  shall  never  merit 
The  noble  name  of  soldiers.     To  dare  boldly 
In  a  fair  cause,  and  for  their  country^s  safety, 
To  run  upon  the  cannon's  mouth  undaunted ; 
To  obey  their  leaders  and  shun  mutinies; 
To  bear  with  patience  the  winter's  cold, 
And  summer''s  scorching  heat,  and  not  to  faint, 
When  plenty  of  provision  fails,  with  hunger, 
Are  the  essential  parts  make  up  a  soldier. 
Not  swearing,  dice,  or  drinking. 

All.  There  is  no  syllable 
You  speak,  but  is  to  me  an  oracle, 
■Which  but  to  doubt  were  impious. 

L.  All.  To  conclude  : 
Beware  ill  company,  for  often  men 
Are  like  to  those  with  whom  they  do  converse ; 
And,   from  one  man  I  warn  you,   and  that's 

Wellborn ; 
Not  'cause  he's  poor,  that  rather  claims  your  pity, 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


439 


But  that  lie's  in  his  mauners  so  debauch'd, 
And  hath  to  vicious  courses  sold  himself. 
'Tis  true  your  father  loved  him,  while  he  was 
Worthy  the  loving  ;  but  if  he  had  lived 
To  have  seen  him  as  he  is,  ho  had  cast  him  off, 
As  you  must  do. 

All.  I  shall  obey  in  all  things. 

L.  All.  Follow  me  to  my  chamber,  you  shall 
have  gold 
To  furnish  yoii  like  my  son,  and  still  supplied. 
As  I  hear  from  you. 

All.  I  am  still  your  creatm-e.  \_ExeuiiL 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 

A  Rail  in  the  same. 

Enter  0\Ti;rpvEAch,  Greedy,  Order,  Amble, 
Furnace,  Watchall,  and  Maruall. 

Greedy.  Not  to  be  seen  ! 

Over.  Still  cloister'd  up !     Her  reason, 
I  hope,  assures  her,  though  she  make  herself 
Close  prisoner  ever  for  her  husband's  loss, 
'Twill  not  recover  him. 

Ord.  Sir,  it  is  her  will, 
Which  we,  that  are  her  servants,  oiight  to  serve, 
And  not  dispute.     Howe'er,  you  are  nobly  wel- 
come ; 
And,  if  you  please  to  stay,  that  you  may  think  so, 
There  came  not  six  days  since,  from  Hull,  a  pipe 
Of  rich  Canary,  which  shall  spend  itself 
For  my  lady's  honour. 

Greedy.  Is  it  of  the  right  race  ? 

Ord.  Yes,  Master  Greedy. 

Avib.  How  his  mouth  runs  o'er ! 

Furn.  I'U  make  it  run,  and  run.     Save  your 
good  worship. 

Greedy.  Honest  master  cook,  thy  hand;  again; 
how  I  love  thee ! 
Are  the  good  dishes  still  in  being  ?  speak,  boy. 

Furn.  If  you  have  a  mind  to  feed,  there  is  a 
Of  beef,  well  season'd.  [chine 

Greedy.  Good ! 

Furn.  A  pheasant,  larded. 

Greedy.  That  I  might  now  give  thanks  for't ! 

Furn.  Other  kickshaws. 
Besides,  there  came  last  night,  from  the  forest 

of  Sherwood, 
The  fattest  stag  I  ever  cook'd. 

Greedy.  A  stag,  man  ! 

Furn.   A  stag,   sir;    part  of  it  prepared  for 
dinner. 
And  baked  in  puff-paste. 

Greedy.  Puff-paste  too  !  Sir  Giles, 
A  ponderous  chine  of  beef !  a  pheasant  larded ! 
And  red-deer  too,  Sir  Giles,  and  baked  in  puff- 
paste  ! 
All  business  set  aside,  let  us  give  thanks  here. 

Furn.  How  the  lean  skeleton's  rapt ! 

Over.  You  know  we  cannot. 

Mar.  Your  worships  are  to  sit  on  a  commission. 
And  if  you  fail  to  come,  you  lose  the  cause. 

Greedy.  Cause  me  no  causes.     I'll  prove't,  for 
Buch  a  dinner'. 
We  may  put  off  a  commission :  you  shall  find  it 
Henrici  decimo  quarto. 

Over.  Fie,  Master  Greedy  ! 
Will    you  lose  me  a  thousand    pounds   for   a 

dinner .' 
No  more,  for  shame  !  we  must  forget  the  belly, 
When  we  think  of  profit. 

Greedy.  Well,  you  shall  o'errule  me ; 
I  could  e'en  cry  now. — Do  you  hear,  master  cook. 
Send  but  a  corner  of  that  immortal  pasty. 
And  I,  in  thankfulness,  will,  by  your  boy. 
Send  you — a  brace  of  threepences. 

Furn.  Will  you  be  so  prodigal  ? 


Enter  Wellborn. 

Over.  Eemember  me  to  your  lady.    Who  have 

we  here  ? 
Well.  You  know  me. 
Over.  I  did  once,  but  now  I  will  not ; 
Thou  art  no   blood  of    mine.      Avaunt,    thon 

beggar ! 
If  ever  thou  presume  to  own  me  more, 
I'll  have  thee  caged  and  whipp'd. 

Greedy.  I'll  grant  the  warrant. — 
Think  of  pie-corner.  Furnace  ! 

\_Exeunt  Overreach,  Greedy,  and 
Marrall. 
Watch.  Will  you  out,  sir  ? 
I  wonder  how  you  durst  creep  in. 

Ord.  This  is  rudeness, 
And  saucy  impudence. 

Amb.  Cannot  you  stay 
To  be   serv'd,   among  your  fellows,   from   the 

basket,! 
But  you  must  press  into  the  hall  ? 

Furn.  Pr'ythee,  vanish 
Into  some  outhouse,  though  it  be  the  pigsty ; 
My  scullion  shall  come  to  thee. 

Enter  Allworth. 

Well.  This  is  rare. 
Oil,  here's  Tom  Allworth.     Tom ! 

All.  We  must  be  strangers  ; 
Nor  would  I  have  you  seen  here  for  a  million. 

[Exit. 

Well.  Better  and  better.     He  contemns  me  too ! 

Enter  Waiting-woman  and  Chambermaid. 
Woman.  Foh,   what   a  smell's  here!      What 

thing's  this  ? 
Cham.  A  creature 
Made  out  of  the  privy ;  let  us  hence,  for  love's 

sake. 
Or  I  shall  swoon. 

Woman.  I  begin  to  faint  already. 

[Exeunt  Waiting-woman  and  Chambermaid. 
Watch.  Will  you  know  your  way  ? 
Amh.  Or  shall  we  teach  it  you,  , 

By  the  head  and  shoulders  ? 
Well.  No;  I  will  not  stir; 
Do  you  mark,  I  will  not :  let  me  see  the  wretch 
That   dares   attempt  to  force  me.     Why,    you 

slaves. 
Created  only  to  make  legs,^  and  cringe  ; 
To  carry  in  a  dish,  and  shift  a  trencher  ; 
That  have  not  souls  only  to  hope  a  blessing 
Beyond  black  jacks  or  flagons;    you,  that  were 

born 
Only  to  consume  meat  and  drink,  and  batten 
Upon  reversions ! — who  advances  ?  who 
Shows  me  the  way  ? 
Ord.  My  lady! 

Enter  Lady  Allworth,  Waiting- woman,  and 
Chambermaid. 

Cham.  Here's  the  monster. 

Woman.  Sweet  madam,  keep  your  glove   to 
your  nose. 

Cham.  Or  let  me 
Fetch  some  perfumes  may  be  predominant ; 
You  wrong  yourself  else. 

Well.  Madam,  my  designs 
Bear  me  to  you. 

L.  All.  To  me ! 

Well.  And  though  I  have  met  with 

'^  from,  the  basket — i.e.  from  the  troken  bread  and 
meat,  which,  in  great  houses,  were  distributed  to  the 
Ijoor  and  other  necessitous  persons. 

2  make  legs — ^bows. 


440 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


But  ragged  entertainment  from  your  grooms  here, 
I  hope  from  you  to  receive  that  noble  usage 
As  may  become  the  true  friend  of  your  husband, 
And  then  I  shall  forget  these. 

L.  All.  I  am  amazed 
To  see  and  hear  this  rudeness.  Barest  thou  think, 
Though  sworn,  that  it  can  ever  find  belief. 
That  I,  who  to  the  best  men  of  this  country 
Denied  my  presence,  since  my  husband's  death, 
Can  fall  so  low  as  to  change  words  with  thee  ? 
Thou  son  of  infamy  !  forbear  my  house, 
And   know   and   keep   the   distance   that's   be- 
tween us ; 
Or,  though  it  be  against  my  gentle  temper, 
I  shall  take  order  you  no  more  shall  be 
An  eyesore  to  me. 

Well.  Scorn  me  not,  good  lady; 
But,  as  in  form  you  are  angelical. 
Imitate  the  heavenly  natures,  and  vouchsafe 
At  the  least  awhile  to  hear  me.     You  will  grant 
The  blood  that  runs  in  this  arm  is  as  noble 
As  that  which  fills  your  veins ;    those   costly 

jewels, 
And  those  rich  clothes  you  wear,  your  men's 

observance. 
And  women's  flattery,  are  in  you  no  virtues ; 
Nor  these  rags,  with  my  poverty,  in  me  vices. 
You  have  a  fair  fame,  and,  I  know,  deserve  it ; 
Yet  lady,  I  must  say,  in  nothing  more 
Than  in  the  pious  soitow  you  have  shown 
For  your  late  noble  husband. 

Ord.  How  she  starts  ! 

Furn.  And  hardly  can  keep  finger  from  the  eye. 
To  hear  hhn  named. 

L.  All.  Have  you  aught  else  to  say? 

Well.  That  husband,  madam,  was  once  in  his 
fortune 
Almost  as  low  as  I ;  want,  debts,  and  quarrels 
Lay  heavy  on  him  :  let  it  not  be  thought 
A  boast  in  me,  though  I  say,  I  relieved  him. 
'Twas  I  that  gave  him  fashion  ;  mine  the  sword. 
That  did  on  all  occasions  second  his  : 
I  brought  him  on  and  off  with  honour,  lady  ; 
And  when  in  all  men's  judgments  he  was  sunk. 
And,  in  his  own  hopes,  not  to  be  buoy'd  up, 
I  stepp'd  unto  him,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
And  set  him  upright. 

Furn.  Are  not  we  base  rogues, 
That  could  forget  this  ? 

Well.  I  confess,  you  made  him 
Master  of  your  estate ;  nor  could  your  friends, 
Though  he  brought  no  wealth  with  him,  blame 

you  for  it ; 
For  he  had  a  shape,  and  to  that  shape  a  mind 
Made  up  of  all  parts,  either  great  or  uoble ; 
So  winning  a  behaviour,  not  to  be 
Resisted,  madam. 

L.  All.  'Tis  most  true,  he  had. 

Well.  For  his  sake,  then,  in  that  I  was  his 
friend. 
Do  not  contemn  me. 

L.  All.  For  what's  past  excuse  me, 
I  will  redeem  it.     Order,  give  the  gentleman 
A  hundred  pounds. 

Well.  No,  madam,  on  no  terms  : 
I  will  nor  beg  nor  borrow  sixpence  of  you. 
But  be  supplied  elsewhere,  or  want  thus  ever. 
Only  one  suit  I  make,  which  you  deny  not 
To  strangers  ;  and  'tis  this. 

[  Whispers  to  her. 

L.  All.  Fie !  nothing  else  ? 

Well.  Nothing,  unless  you  please  to  charge 
your  servants, 
To  throw  away  a  little  respect  upon  me. 

L.  All.  What  you  demand  is  yours. 
^  Well.  I  thank  you,  lady. 
Now  what  can  be  wrought  out  of  such  a  suit 


Is  yet  in  supposition — \_Aside.\ — I  have  said  all ; 
When  you  please,  you  may  retire.     [JExlt  Lady 
Allavorth.] — Nay,  all's  forgotten  ; 

[To  the  Servants. 
And,  for  a  lucky  omen  to  my  project, 
Shake  hands,  and  end  all  quarrels  in  the  cellar. 
Ord.  Agreed,  agreed. 
Furn.  Still  merry  Master  Wellborn. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  L 
A  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 
Enter  Overreach  and  Marrall. 

Over.  He's  gone,  I  warrant  thee ;  this  commis- 
sion crush'd  him. 
Mai:  Your  worships  have  the  way  on't,   and 
ne'er  miss 
To  squeeze  these  unthrifts  into  air :  and  yet. 
The  chapfall'n  justice  did  his  part,  returning, 
For  your  advantage,  the  certificate, 
Against  his  conscience, — and  his  knowledge  too, 
With  your  good  favour, — to  the  utter  ruin 
Of  the  poor  farmer. 

Over.  'Twas  for  these  good  ends 
I  made  him  a  justice  :  he  that  bribes  his  belly. 
Is  certain  to  command  his  soul. 

Mar.  I  wonder. 
Still  with  your  licence,  why,  your  worship  having 
The  power  to  put  this  thin-gut  in  commission, 
You  are  not  in't  yourself  ? 

Over.  Thou  art  a  fool ; 
In  being  out  of  office,  I  aiu  out  of  danger  ; 
Where,  if  I  were  a  justice,  besides  the  trouble, 
I  might  or  out  of  wilfulness,  or  error. 
Run  myself  finely  into  a  premunire. 
And  so  become  a  prey  to  the  informer. 
No,  I'll  have  none  oft ;  'tis  enough  I  keep 
Greedy  at  my  devotion :  so  he  serve 
My  purposes,  let  him  hang,  or  damn,  I  care  not ; 
Friendship  is  but  a  word. 

Mar.  You  are  all  wisdom. 

Over.  I  would  be  worldly  wise ;  for  the  other 
wisdom, 
That  does  prescribe  us  a  well-govern'd  life, 
And  to  do  right  to  others  as  ourselves, 
I  value  not  an  atom. 

Mar.  What  course  take  you. 
With  your  good  patience,  to  hedge  in  the  manor 
Of  your  neighbour.  Master  Frugal  ?  as  'tis  said 
He  will  nor  sell,  nor  borrow,  nor  exchange  ; 
And  his  land,  lying  in  the  midst  of  your  many 
Is  a  foul  blemish.  [lordships, 

Over.  I  have  thought  on't,  Marrall, 
And  it  shall  take.     I  must  have  all  men  sellers. 
And  I  the  only  purchaser. 

Mar.  'Tis  most  fit,  sir. 

Over.  I'll  therefore  buy  some  cottage  near  his 
manor. 
Which  done,  I'll  make  my  men  break  ope  his 

fences. 
Ride  o'er  his  standing  corn,  and  in  the  night 
Set  fire  on  his  barns,  or  break  his  cattle's  legs  : 
These  ti-espasses  draw  ou  suits,  and  suits  ex- 
penses. 
Which  I  can  spare,  but  will  soon  beggar  him. 
When  I  have  harried  him  thus  two  or  three  year, 
Though  he  sue  in  forma  pauperis,  in  spite 
Of  all  his  thrift  and  care,  he'll  grow  behind  hand. 

Mar.  The  best  I  ever  heard!  I  could  adore  you. 

Over.  Then,  with  the  favour  of  my  man  of  law, 
I  will  pretend  some  title:  want  will  force  him 
To  put  it  to  arbitremeut ;  then,  if  he  sell 
For  half  the  value,  he  shall  have  ready  money, 
And  I  possess  his  land. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


441 


Mar,  'Tis  above  wonder ! 
AVellborn  was  apt  to  sell,  and  needed  not 
These  fine  arts,  sir,  to  hook  him  in. 

Over,  Well  thought  on. 
This  varlet,  Marrall,  lives  too  long,  to  upbraid  me 
With  my  close  cheat  put  upon  him.     Will  nor 
Nor  hunger  kill  him .'  [cold 

Mar.  I  know  not  what  to  think  on't. 
I  have  used  all  means ;  and  the  last  night  I  caused 
His  host,  the  tapstei",  to  turn  him  out  of  doors ; 
And  have  been  since  with  all  your  friends  and 

tenants. 
And  on  the  forfeit  of  your  favour,  charged  them. 
Though  a  crust  of  mouldy  bread  would  keep  him 

from  starving. 
Yet  they  should  not  relieve  him.    This  is  done, 
sir. 

Over.  That  was  something,  Marrall ;  but  thou 
must  go  further. 
And  suddenly,  Marrall. 

Mar.  Where,  and  when  you  please,  sir. 

Over.  I  would  have  thee  seek  him  out,  and,  if 
thou  canst, 
Persuade  him  that  'tis  better  steal  than  beg ; 
Then,  if  I  prove  he  has  but  robb'd  a  henroost, 
Not  all  the  world  shall  save  him  from  the  gallows. 
Do  anything  to  work  him  to  despair ; 
And  'tis  thy  masterpiece. 

Mar.  I  will  do  my  best,  sir. 

Over.  I  am  now  on  my  main  work  with  the 
Lord  Level], 
The  gallant-minded,  popular  Lord  Lovell, 
The  minion  of  the  people's  love.     I  hear 
He's  come  into  the  country,  and  my  aims  are 
To  insinuate  myself  into  his  knowledge, 
And  then  invite  him  to  my  house. 

Mar.  I  have  you : 
This  points  at  my  young  mistress. 

Over.  She  must  part  with 
That  humble  title,  and  write  honourable, 
Bight  honourable,  Marrall,  my  right  honourable 

daughter ; 
If  all  I  have,  or  e'er  shall  get,  will  do  it. 
I'll  have  her  well  attended ;  there  are  ladies 
Of  errant  knights  decay'd,  and  brought  so  low. 
That  for  cast  clothes  and  meat  will  gladly  serve 

her. 
And  'tis  my  glory,  though  I  come  from  the  city, 
To  have  their  issue  whom  I  have  undone 
To  kneel  to  mine  as  bondslaves. 

Mar.  'Tis  fit  state,  sir. 

Over.  And  therefore,  I'll  not  have  a  chamber- 
maid 
That  ties  her  shoes,  or  any  meaner  office. 
But  such  whose  fathers  were  right  worshipful. 
'Tis  a  rich  man's  pride !  there  having  ever  been 
More  than  a  feud,  a  strange  antipathy, 
Between  us  and  true  gentry. 

Enter  Wellboen. 

Mar.  See,  who's  here,  sir. 

Over.  Hence,  monster !  prodigy  ! 

Well.  Sir,  your  wife's  nephew ; 
She  and  my  father  tumbled  in  one  belly. 

Over.  Avoid  my  sight !  thy  breath's  infectious, 
rogue ! 
I  shun  thee  as  a  leprosy,  or  the  plague. — 
Come  hither,  Marrall — this  is  the  time  to  work 
him.  \Aiide^  and  Exit. 

Mar.  1  warrant  you,  sir. 

Well.  By  this  light,  I  think  he's  mad. 

Mar.  Mad !  had  you  ta'en  compassion  on  your- 
You  long  since  had  been  mad.  [self. 

Well.  You  have  ta'en  a  course 
Between  you  and  my  venerable  uncle, 
To  make  me  so. 


Mar.  The  more  pale-spirited  you, 
That  would  not  be  instructed.  I  swear  deeply — 
Well.  By  what  ?    ^ 
Mar.  By  my  religion. 
Well.  Thy  religion ! 
The  devil's  creed: — but  what  would  you  have 
done  ? 
3far.  Had  there  been  but  one  tree  in  all  the 
shire. 
Nor  any  hope  to  compass  a  penny  halter, 
Before,  like  you,  I  had  outlived  ray  fortunes, 
A  withe  had  served  my  turn  to  hang  mj'self. 
I  am  zealous  in  your  cause ;  pray  you  hang  your- 
And  presently,  as  you  love  your  credit.         [self, 
Well.  I  thank  you. 

J/aj'.  Will  you  stay  till  you  die  in  a  ditch,  or 
lice  devour  you  ? — 
Or,  if  you  dare  not  do  the  feat  yourself. 
But  that  you'll  put  the  state  to  charge  and  trouble, 
Is  there  no  purse  to  be  cut,  house  to  be  broken. 
Or  market-woman   with   eggs,   that   you   may 
And  so  despatch  the  business  ?  [murder. 

Well.  Here's  variety, 
I  must  confess  ;  but  I'll  accept  of  none 
Of  all  your  gentle  offers,  I  assure  you. 

Mar.  Why,  have  you  hope  ever  to  eat  again, 
Or  drink.'  or  be  the  master  of  three  farthings  ? 
If  you  like  not  hanging,  drown  yourself ;  take 
For  your  reputation.  [some  course 

Well.  'Twill  not  do,  dear  tempter. 
With  all  the  rhetoric  the  fiend  hath  taught  you. 
I  am  as  far  as  thou  art  from  despair ; 
Nay,  I  have  confidence,  which  is  more  than  hope. 
To  live,  and  suddenly,  better  than  ever. 

Mar.  Ha !  ha !  these  castles  you  build  in  the 
Will  not  persuade  me  or  to  give,  or  lend,  [air, 
A  token  to  you. 

Well.  I'll  be  more  kind  to  thee  : 
Come,  thou  shalt  dine  with  me. 
Mar.  With  you ! 
Well.  Nay  mox-e,  dine  gratis. 
Mar.  Under  what  hedge,  I  pray  you?  or  at 
whose  cost  ? 
Are  they  padders  or  abram-men '  that  are  your 
consorts  ? 
Well.   Thou  art  incredulous:   but  thou  shalt 
dine, 
Not  alone  at  her  house,  but  with  a  gallant  lady ; 
With  me,  and  with  a  lady. 
Mar.  Lady  !  what  lady  ? 
With  the  lady  of  the  lake,*  or  queen  of  faii-ies  ? 
For  I  know  it  must  be  an  enchanted  dinner. 
Well.  With  the  Lady  Allworth,  knave. 
3far.  Nay,  now  there's  hope 
Thy  brain  is  crack'd. 

Well.  Mark  there,  with  what  respect 
I  am  entertain'd. 

Mar.  With  choice,  no  doubt,  of  dog-whips. 
Why,  dost  thou  ever  hope  to  pass  her  porter .' 
Well.  'Tis  not  far  off,  go  with  me ;  trust  thine 

own  eyes. 
Mar.  Troth,   in  my  hope,   or  my  assurance 
rather, 
To  see  thee  curvet,  and  mount  like  a  dog  in  a 

blanket. 
If  ever  thou  presume  to  pass  her  threshold, 
I  will  endure  thy  company. 

Well.  Come  along  then.  lExeunt. 


'  padders  or  abram-men.  Padders  are  lurkers  about 
tlie  highways,  foot-pads  ;  abram-men  were  impudent 
iinposters,  who,  under  the  garb  and  appearance  of  lu- 
natics, wandered  about  the  country,  and  compelled  the 
servants  of  small  families  to  give  them,  through  fear, 
whatever  they  demanded. — Gifford. 

-  lady  of  the  lake— a.  prominent  character  in  Mortt 
d' Arthur,  and  other  old  romances. 


442 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  Lady  Allwoeth's  House. 

Enter    Allwokth,    Waiting-woman,    Chamber- 
maid, Order,  Amble,  Furnace,  awcZ  Watchall. 

Woman.  Could  you  not  command  your  leisure 

one  hour  longer .? 
Cham.  Or  half  an  hour  ? 
All.  I  have  told  you  what  my  haste  is  : 
Besides,  being  now  another's,  not  mine  own, 
Howe'er  I  much  desire  to  enjoy  you  longer, 
My  duty  suffers,  if,  to  please  myself, 
I  should  neglect  my  lord. 

Woman.  Pray  you  do  me  the  favour 
To  put  these  few  quince- cakes  into  your  pocket; 
They  are  of  mine  own  preserving. 

Cham.  And  this  marmalade ; 
'Tis  comfortable  for  your  stomach. 

Woman.  And,  at  parting. 
Excuse  me  if  I  beg  a  farewell  from  you. 

Cham.  You  are  still  before  me.     I  move  the 
same  suit,  sir. 

[Allwoeth  Icisses  them  severally. 
Furn.  How  greedy  these  chamberers  are  of  a 
beardless  chin ! 
I  think  the  tits  will  ravish  him. 

All.  My  service 
To  both. 

Woman.  Ours  waits  on  you. 
Cham.  And  shall  do  ever. 
Ord.  You  are  my  lady's  charge,  be  therefore 
That  you  sustain  your  parts.  [careful 

Woman.  We  can  bear,  I  warrant  you. 

[^Exeunt  Waiting- woman  and  Chambermaid. 
Furn.  Here,  drink  it  off;  the  ingredients  are 
cordial, 
And  this  the  true  elixir ;  it  hath  boil'd 
Since  midnight  for  you.     'Tis  the  quintessence 
Of  five  cocks  of  the  game,  ten  dozen  of  sparrows. 
Knuckles  of  veal,  potato-roots,  and  marrow. 
Coral  and  ambergris :  were  you  two  years  older. 
And  I  had  a  wife,  or  gamesome  mistress, 
I  durst  trust  you  with  neither :  you  need  not  bait 
After  this,  I  warrant  you,  though  your  journey's 

long; 
You  may  ride  on  the  strength  of  this  till  to- 
morrow morning. 
All.  Your  courtesies  overwhelm  me:  I  much 
grieve 
To  part  from  such  true  friends;  and  yet  find 

comfort. 
My  attendance  on  my  honourable  lord, 
Whose  resolution  holds  to  visit  my  lady. 
Will  speedily  bring  me  back. 

[^Knocking  within.    Exit  Watchall. 
Mar.  Uoithin.']  Dar'st  thou  venture  further? 
Well,  [within.']  Yes,  yes,  and  knock  again. 
Ord.  'Tis  he ;  disperse ! 
Amb.  Perform  it  bravely. 
Fum.  I  know  my  cue,  ne'er  doubt  me. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Allwortii. 

Re-enter  Watchall,  ceremoniously  introducing 
Wellborx  and  Marrall. 

Watch.  Beast  that  I  was,  to  make  you  stay ! 
most  welcome ; 
You  were  long  since  expected. 

Well.  Say  so  much 
To  my  friend,  I  pray  you. 

Watch.  For  your  sake,  I  will,  sir. 

Mar.  For  his  sake ! 

Well.  Mum  ;  this  is  nothing. 

Mar.  More  than  ever 
I  would  have  believed,  though  I  had  found  it  in 
my  primer. 


All.  When  I  have  given  you  reasons  for  my 
late  harshness. 
You'll  pardon  and  excuse  me  ;  for,  believe  me, 
Though  now  I  part  abruptly,  in  my  service 
I  will  deserve  it. 

Mar.  Service !  with  a  vengeance ! 

Well.  I  am  satisfied :  farewell,  Tom. 

All.  All  joy  stay  with  you!  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Abible. 

Amb.  You  are  happily  encounter'd ;  I  yet  never 
Presented  one  so  welcome  as,  I  know, 
You  will  be  to  my  lady. 

Mar.  This  is  some  vision ; 
Or,  sure,  these  men  are  mad,  to  worship  a  dung- 
It  cannot  be  a  truth.  [hill ; 

Well.  Be  still  a  pagan. 
An  unbelieving  infidel ;  be  so,  miscreant, 
And  meditate  on  blankets,  and  on  dog-whips  ! 

Re-enter  Furnace. 

Furn.  I  am  glad  you  are  come ;  until  I  know 
your  pleasure, 
I  knew  not  how  to  serve  up  my  lady's  dinner. 
Mar.  His  pleasm-e !  is  it  possible  ? 
Well.  What's  thy  will  ? 

Furn.    Marry,  sir,   I  have  some  grouse,  and 
turkey  chicken, 
Some  rails  and  quails,  and  my  lady  will'd  me  ask 

you 
What  kind  of  sauces  best  affect  your  palate, 
That  I  may  use  my  utmost  skill  to  please  it. 
Mar.  The  devil's  enter'd  this  cook :  sauce  for 
his  palate ! 
That,  on  my  knowledge,  for  almost  this  twelve- 
month, 
Durst  wish  but  cheeseparings  and  brown  bread 
on  Sundays.  [Aside. 

Well.  That  way  I  like  them  best. 
Furn.  It  shall  be  done,  sir.  [Exit. 

Well.  What  think  you  of  the  hedge  toe  shall  dine 
Shall  we  feed  gratis  ?  [ujider  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not  what  to  think ; 
Pray  you  make  me  not  mad. 

Re-enter  Order. 

Ord.  This  place  becomes  you  not; 
Pray  you  walk,  sir,  to  the  dining-room. 

Well.  I  am  well  here. 
Till  her  ladyship  quits  her  chamber. 

Mar.  Well  here,  say  you? 
'Tis  a  rare  change !  but  yesterday  you  thought 
Yourself  well  in  a  barn,  wrapp'd  up  in  pease- 
straw. 

Re-enter  Waiting-woman  and  Chambermaid. 

Woman.  Oh !  sir,  you  are  wish'd  for. 

Cham.  My  lady  dreamt,  sir,  of  you. 

Woman.    And  the  first  command  she  gave, 
after  she  rose, 

Was  (her  devotions  done)  to  give  her  notice 
When  you  approach'd  here. 

Cham.  Which  is  done,  on  my  virtue. 

Mar.  I  shall  be  converted ;  I  begin  to  grow 
Into  a  new  belief,  which  saints,  nor  angels, 
Could  have  won  me  to  have  faith  in. 

Woman.  Sir,  my  lady ! 

Enter  Lady  Allworth. 

L.  All.  I  come  to  meet  you,  and  languish'd  till 
I  saw  you. 
This  first  kiss  is  for  form ;  I  allow  a  second 
To  such  a  friend.  [Kisses  Wellborn. 

Mar.  To  such  a  friend !  Heaven  bless  me  ! 

Well.  I  am  wholly  youi's :  yet,  madam,  if  you 


To  grace  this  gentleman  with  a  salute — 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


443 


Mar.  Salute  me  at  his  bidding ! 
Wdl.  I  shall  receive  it 
As  a  most  high  favour. 
L.  All.  Sir,  you  may  command  me. 

\Advances  to  salute  Maerall,  who  retires. 
Well.  Eun  backward  from  a  lady  !  and  such  a 

lady! 
Mar.  To  kiss  her  foot  is,  to  poor  me,  a  favour 
I  am  unworthy  of. 

{^Offers  to  kiss  her  foot. 
L.  All.  Nay,  pray  you  rise ; 
And  since  you  are  so  humble,  I'll  exalt  you : 
You  shall  dine  with  me  to-day,  at  mine  own 
table. 
Mar.  Your  ladyship's  table!  I  -am  not  good 
enough 
To  sit  at  your  steward's  board. 
L.  All.  You  are  too  modest: 
I  will  not  be  denied. 

Re-enter  Furnace. 

Furn.  Will  you  still  be  babbling 
Till  your  meat  freeze  on  the  table  ?  the  old  trick 

still: 
My  art  ne'er  thought  on ! 

L.  All.  Your  arm,  Master  Wellborn: — 
Nay,  keep  us  company.  [To  Mareai>l. 

Mar.  I  was  ne'er  so  graced. 

[Exeunt  Wellborn,   Lady    Allworth, 
Amble,   Marrall,  Waiting-woman, 
and  Chambermaid. 
Ord.  So!    we  have  play'd  our  parts,  and  are 
come  off  well ; 
But  if  I  know  the  mystery,  why  my  lady 
Consented  to  it,  or  why  Master  Wellborn 
Desu'ed  it,  may  I  perish ! 

Furn.  Would  I  had 
The  roasting  of  his  heart  that  cheated  Mm, 
And  forces  the  poor  gentleman  to  these  shifts ! 
By  fire !  for  cooks  are  Persians,  and  swear  by  it. 
Of  aU  the  griping  and  extorting  tyrants 
I  ever  heard  or  read  of,  I  ne'er  met 
A  match  to  Sir  Giles  Overreach. 

Watch.  What  will  you  take 
To  tell  him  so,  fellow  Fm-nace  ? 

Fur.  Just  as  much 
As  my  throat  is  worth,  for  that  would  be  the 

price  on't. 
To  have  a  usurer  that  starves  himself, 
And  wears  a  cloak  of  one  and  twenty  years 
On  a  suit  of  fourteen  groats,  bought  of  the  hang- 
man. 
To  grow  rich,  and  then  purchase,  is  too  common  : 
But  this  Sir  Giles  feeds  high,  keeps  many  ser- 
vants, 
Who  must  at  his  command  do  any  outrage ; 
Eich  in  his  habit,  vast  in  his  expenses ; 
Yet  he  to  admiration  still  increases 
In  wealth,  and  lordships. 

Ord.  He  frights  men  out  of  their  estates, 
And  breaks  through  all  law-nets,  made  to  curb 

ill  men. 
As  they  were  cobwebs.    No  man  dares  reprove 

him. 
Such  a  spirit  to  dare,  and  power  to  do,  were 

never 
Lodged  so  unluckily. 

Re-enter  Ajible  laughing. 

Amh.  Ha !  ha !  I  shall  burst. 

Ord.  Contain  thyself,  man. 

Furn.  Or  make  us  partakers 
Of  your  sudden  mirth. 

Amh.  Ha !  ha !  my  lady  has  got 
Such  a  guest  at  her  table! — this  term-driver, 

Marrall, 
This  snip  of  an  attorney — 


Furn.  What  ofiim,  man.' 

Amh.  The  knave  thinks  still  he's  at  the  cook's 
shop  in  Earn  Alley, 
Where  the  clerks   divide,   and  the  elder  is  to 

choose ; 
And  feeds  so  slovenly ! 

Furn.  Is  this  all  ? 

Amh.  My  lady 
Drank  to   him  for  fashion  sake,   or  to  please 

Master  Wellborn : 
As  I  live,  he  rises,  and  takes  up  a  dish 
In  which  there  were  some  remnants  of  a  boil'd 

capon. 
And  pledges  her  in  white  broth! 

Furn.  Nay,  'tis  like 
The  rest  of  his  tribe. 

Amb.  And  when  I  brought  him  wine. 
He  leaves  his  stool,  and,  after  a  leg  or  two, 
Most  humbly  thanks  my  worship. 

Ord.  Eisen  already ! 

Amb.  I  shall  be  chid. 

Re-enter  Lady  Allwokth,  Wellborn,  and 
Marrall. 

Furn.  My  lady  frowns. 

L.  All.  You  wait  well!  [To  Amble. 

Let  me  have  no  more  of  this ;  I  observed  your 

jeering : 
Sirrah,  I'll  have  you  know,  whom  I  think  worthy 
To  sit  at  my  table,  be  he  ne'er  so  mean, 
When  I  am  present,  is  not  your  companion. 

Ord.  Nay,  she'll  preserve  what's  due  to  her. 

Furn.  This  refreshing 
Follows  your  flux  of  laughter. 

L.  All.  [To  Wellborn.]  Yon  are  master 
Of  your  own  will.    I  know  so  much  of  manners, 
As  not  to  enquire  your  purposes ;  in  a  word. 
To  me  you  are  ever  welcome,  as  to  a  house 
That  is  your  own. 

Well.  Mark  that.  [Aside  to  Marrall. 

Mar.  With  reverence,  sir. 
An  it  like  your  worship. 

Well.  Trouble  yourself  no  further. 
Dear  madam ;  my  heart's  full  of  zeal  and  service, 
However  in  my  language  I  am  sparing. 
Come,  Master  Marrall. 

3Iar.  I  attend  your  worship. 

[Exeunt  Wellborn  and  Maerall. 

L.  All.  1  see  in  your  looks  you  are  sorry,  and 
you  know  me 
An  easy  mistress :  be  merry ;  I  have  forgot  all. 
Order  and  Furnace,  come  with  me ;  I  must  give 

you 
Further  directions. 

Ord.  What  you  please. 

Furn.  We  are  ready.  [Exeunt. 


'    ACT  II.— SCENE  in. 
The  Country  near  Lady  Allworth's  Eouse. 
Enter  Wellborn,  and  Marrall  bareheaded. 

Well.  1  think  I  am  in  a  good  way. 

Mar.  Good !  sir  ;  the  best  way. 
The  certain  best  way.  / 

Well.  There  are  casualties 
That  men  are  subject  to. 

3far.  You  are  above  them ; 
And  as  you  are  akeady  worshipful, 
I  hope  ere  long  you  will  increase  in  worship. 
And  be  right  worshipful. 

Well.  Pr'ythee  do  not  flout  me  : 
What  I  shall  be,  I  shall  be.    Is't  for  your  ease 
You  keep  your  hat  off  ? 

3far.  Ease !  an  it  like  your  worship ! 
I  hope  Jack  Marrall  shall  not  live  so  long, 


444 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


To  prove  himself  such  an  unmannerly  beast, 
Though  it  hail  hazel-nuts,  as  to  be  cover'd 
When  your  worship's  present. 

Well.  Is  not  this  a  true  rogue, 
That,  out  of  mere  hope  of  a  future  cozenage. 
Can  turn  thus  suddenly  ?  'tis  rank  already. 

{Aside. 
Mar.  I  know  your  worship's  wise,  and  needs 
no  counsel: 
Yet  if,  in  my  desire  to  do  you  service, 
I  humbly  offer  my  advice  (but  still 
Under  correction),  I  hope  I  shall  not 
Incur  your  high  displeasure. 
Well.  No ;  speak  freely. 

Mar.  Then,  in  my  judgment,  sir,  my  simple 
judgment  , 
(Still  with  your  worship's  favour),  I  could  wish 

you 
A  better  habit,  for  this  cannot  be 
But  much  distasteful  to  the  noble  lady 
(I  say  no  more)  that  loves  you :  for,  this  morning, 
To  me,  and  I  am  but  a  swine  to  her, 
Before  the  assurance  of  her  wealth  perfumed  you, 
You  savour'd  not  of  amber. 
Well.  I  do  now  then ! 

Mar.    This  your  batoon  hath  got  a  touch  of 
it.— 

\Kisses  the  end  of  his  cudgel. 
Yet,  if   you  please,  for  change,  I  have  twenty 

pounds  here, 
Which,  oiit  of  my  true  love,  I'll  presently 
Lay  down  at  your  worship's  feet ;  'twill  serve  to 

buy  you 
A  riding-suit. 

Well.  But  Where's  the  horse  ? 
Mar.  My  gelding 
Is  at  your  service  :  nay,  you  shall  ride  me, 
Before  your  worship  shall  be  put  to  the  trouble 
To  walk  afoot.     Alas !  when  you  are  lord 
Of  this  lady's  manor,  as  I  know  you  will  be, 
You  may  with   the  lease   of   glebe  land,  call'd 

Knave's-acre, 
A  place  I  would  manure,  requite  your  vassal. 
Well.  I  thank  thy  love,  but  must  make  no  use 
of  it; 
What's  twenty  pounds  ? 

Mar.  'Tis  all  that  I  can  make,  sir. 
Well.  Dost  thou  think,  though  1  want  clothes, 
I  could  not  have  them. 
For  one  word  to  my  lady  ? 
Mar.  As  I  know  not  that ! 
Well.  Come,  I  will  tell  thee  a  secret,  and  so 
leave  thee. 
I'll  not  give  her  the  advantage,  though  she  be 
A  gallant-minded  lady,  after  wo  are  married 
(There    being    no    woman,    but    is    sometimes 

froward). 
To  hit  me  in  the  teeth,  and  say,  she  was  forced 
To  buy  my  wedding-clothes,  and  took  me  on, 
AVith  a  plain  riding-suit,  and  an  ambling  nag. 
No,  I'll  be  furnish'd  something  like  myself, 
And  so  farewell :  for  thy  suit  touching  Knave's- 
acre, 
When  it  is  mine,  'tis  thine.  {Exit. 

Mar.  I  thank  your  worship. 
How  was  I  cozen'd  in  the  calculation 
Of  this  man's  fortune !  my  master  cozen'd  too, 
AVbose  pupil  I  am  in  the  art  of  undoing  men ; 
For  that  is  our  profession!     Well,  well,  Master 

Wellborn, 
You  are  of  a  sweet  nature,  and  fit  again  to  be 

cheated ; 
Which,  if  the  Fates  please,  when  you  are  pos- 

sess'd 
Of  the  land  and  lady,  you,  sans  question,  shall  be, 
I'll  presently  think  of  the  means. 

[  Walks  by,  musing. 


Enter  Overreach,  sjjeaMng  to  a  Servant  within. 

Over.  Sirrah,  take  my  horse. 
I'll  walk  to  get  me  an  appetite ;  'tis  but  a  mile, 
And  exercise  will  keep  me  from  being  pursey. 
Ha !  Marrall !  is  he  conjuring  ?     Perhaps 
The  knave  has  wrought  the  prodigal  to  do 
Some  outrage  on  himself,  and  now  he  feels 
Compunction  in  his  conscience  for't :  no  matter. 
So  it  be  done.     Marrall ! 

3far.  Sir. 

Over.  How  succeed  we 
In  our  plot  on  Wellborn  ? 

3Iar.  Never  better,  sir. 

Over.  Has  he  hang'd  or  drown'd  himself? 

Mar.  No,  sir,  he  lives : 
Lives  once  more  to  be  made  a  prey  to  you, 
A  greater  prey  than  ever. 

Over.  .\rt  thou  in  thy  wits  ? 
If  thou  art,  reveal  this  miracle,  and  briefly. 

3far.  A  lady,  sir,  is  fall'n  in  love  with  him. 

Over.  With  him !  what  lady  ? 

Mar,  The  rich  Lady  AUworth. 

Over.  Thou  dolt !  how  dar'st  thou  speak  this  ? 

3far.  I  speak  truth. 
And  I  do  so  but  once  a  year,  unless 
It  be  to  you,  sir:  we  dined  with  her  ladyship, 
I  thank  his  worship. 

Over.  His  worship ! 

Mar.  As  I  live,  sir, 
I  dined  with  him,  at  the  great  lady's  table. 
Simple  as  I  stand  here ;  and  saw  when  she  kiss'd 

him, 
And  would,  at  his  request,  have  kiss'd  me  too ; 
But  I  was  not  so  audacious  as  some  youths  are, 
That  dare  do  anything,  be  it  ne'er  so  absurd, 
And  sad  after  performance. 

Ove}:  Why,  thou  rascal ! 
To  tell  me  these  impossibilities. 
Dine  at  her  table !  and  kiss  him !  or  thee ! — 
Impudent  varlet,  have  not  I  myself. 
To  whom  great  countesses'  doors  have  oft  flew 

open. 
Ten  times  attempted,  since  her  husband's  death, 
In  vain  to  see  her,  though  I  came — a  suitor  ? 
And   yet   your   good   solicitorship,    and    rogue 

Wellborn, 
Were  brought  into  her  presence,  feasted  with 

her!— 
But  that  I  know  thee  a  dog  that  cannot  blush. 
This  most  incredible  lie  would  call  up  one 
On  thy  buttermilk  cheeks. 

3far.  Shall  I  not  trust  my  eyes,  sir, 
Or  taste  ?     1  feel  her  good  cheer  in  my  belly. 

Over.  You  shall  feel  me,  if  you  give  not  over, 
sirrah : 
Kecover  your  brains  again,    and  be   no   more 

gull'd 
With  a  beggar's  plot,  assisted  by  the  aids 
Of  serving-men  and  chambermaids, — for  beyond 

these 
Thou  never  saw'st  a  woman, — or  I'll  quit  you 
From  my  employments. 

3Iar.  Will  you  credit  this  yet  ? 
On  my  confidence  of   their  marriage,  I  offci'J 

Wellborn — 
I  would   give  a   crown  now   I   durst   say   his 
worship —  {Aside. 

My  nag,  and  twentj^  pounds. 

Over.  Did  you  so,  idiot! 

{Strikes  him  doicn. 
Was  this  the  way  to  work  him  to  despair, 
Or  rather  to  cross  me  ? 

3far.  Will  j'our  worship  kill  me  ? 

Over.  No,  no;  but  drive  the  lying  spirit  out 
of  you. 

Mar.  He's  gone. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


445 


Over.  I  have  done  then  :  now,  forgetting 
Tour  late  imaginary  feast  and  lady, 
Know  my  Lord  Lovell  dines  with  me  to-morrow. 
Be  careful  nouglit  be  wanting  to  receive  him ; 
And  bid  my  daughter's  women  trim  her  up. 
Though  they  paint  her,   so  she  catch  the  lord, 

ril  thank  them: 
There's  a  piece  for  my  late  blows. 

Mar.  I  must  yet  suffer : 
But  there  may  be  a  time —  \Asxde. 

Over.  Do  you  grumble  ? 

Mar.  No,  sir,  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

The  Country  near  Overkeach's  House. 

Enter  Lord  Lovell,  Allworth,  and  Servants. 

Lov.  Walk  the  horses  down  the  hill :    some- 
thing in  private 
I  must  impart  to  Allworth. 

[^Exeunt  Servants. 

All.  Oh,  my  lord, 
What  sacrifice  of  reverence,  duty,  watching, 
Although  I  could  put  off  the  use  of  sleep, 
And  ever  wait  on  your  commands  to  serve  them ; 
What  dangers,  though  in  ne'er  so  horrid  shapes. 
Nay,  death  itself,  though  I  should  run  to  meet  it, 
Can  I,  and  with  a  thankful  willingness,  suffer; 
But  still  the  retribution  will  fall  short 
Of  your  bounties  shower'd  upon  me  ? 

Lov.  Loving  youth ; 
Till  what  I  purpose  be  put  into  act. 
Do  not  o'erprize  it ;  since  you  have  trusted  me 
With  your  soul's  nearest,  nay,  her  dearest  secret, 
Eest  confident  'tis  in  a  cabinet  lock'd 
Treachery  shall  never  open.     I  have  found  you 
(For  so  much  to  your  face  I  must  profess, 
Howe'er  you  guard  your  modesty  with  a  blush 

for't) 
More  zealous  in  your  love  and  service  to  me. 
Than  I  have  been  in  my  rewards. 

All.  Still  great  ones, 
Above  my  merit. 

Lov.  Such  your  gratitude  calls  them: 
Nor  am  I  of  that  harsh  and  rugged  temper 
As  some  great  men  are  taxed  with,  who  imagine 
They  part  from  the  respect  due  to  their  honours, 
If  they  use  not  all  such  as  follow  them. 
Without  distinction  of  their  births,  like  slaves. 
I  am  not  so  condition'd :  I  can  make 
A  fitting  difference  between  my  footboy, 
And  a  gentleman  by  want  compell'd  to  serve  me. 

All.  'Tis  thankfully  acknowledged  ;  you  have 
been 
More  like  a  father  to  me  than  a  master : 
Pray  you,  pardon  the  comparison. 

Lov.  I  allow  it; 
And  to  give  you  assurance  I  am  pleased  in't, 
My  carriage  and  demeanour  to  your  mistress. 
Fair  Margaret,  shall  truly  witness  for  me 
I  can  command  my  passions. 

All.  'Tis  a  conquest 
Few  lords  can  boast  of  when  they  are  tempted 

Lov.  Why  do  you  sigh  ?  can  you  be  doubtful 
of  me .' 
By  that  fair  name  I  in  the  wars  have  purchased, 
And  all  my  actions,  hitherto  untainted, 
I  vnW  not  be  more  true  to  mine  own  honour. 
Than  to  my  Allworth  ! 

All.  As  you  are  the  brave  Lord  Lovell, 
Tour  bare  word  only  given  is  an  assurance 


Of  more  validity  aud  weight  to  me. 

Than  all  the  oaths,  bound  up  with  imprecations, 

Which,  when  they  would  deceive,  most  courtiers 

practise : 
Yet  being  a  man  (for,  sure,  to  style  you  more 
Would  relish  of  gross  flattery),  I  am  forced. 
Against  my  confidence  of  your  worth  and  virtues, 
To  doubt,  nay  more,  to  fear. 

Lov-  So  young,  and  jealous ! 

All.  Were  you  to  encounter  with  a  single  foe. 
The  victory  were  certain ;  but  to  stand 
The  charge  of  two  such  potent  enemies, 
At  once  assaulting  you,  as  wealth  and  beauty, 
And  those  two  seconded  with  power,  is  odds 
Too  great  for  Hercules. 

Lov.  Speak  your  doubts  and  fears. 
Since  you  will  nourish  them,  in  plainer  language, 
That  I  may  undei'stand  them. 

All.  What's  your  will, 
Though  I  lend  arms  against  myself  (provided 
They  may  advantage  you),  must  be  obey'd. 
My  much-loved  lord,  were  Margaret  only  fair, 
The  cannon  of  her  more  than  earthly  form. 
Though  mounted  high,  commanding  all  beneath 

^^ 
And  ramm'd  with  bullets  of  her  sparkling  eyes. 

Of  all  the  bulwarks  that  defend  your  senses 
Could  batter  none,  but  that  which  guards  your 

sight. 
But  when  the  well-tuned  accents  of  her  tongue 
Make  music  to  you,  and  with  numerous  soimds 
Assault  your  hearing  (such  as  Ulysses,  if  [he] 
Now  lived  again,  howe'er  he  stood  the  Syrens, 
Could  not  resist),  the  combat  must  grow  doubtful 
Between  your  reason  and  rebellious  passions. 
Add  this  too:   when   you  feel  her  touch,  and 

breath 
Like  a  soft  western  wind,  when  it  glides  o'er 
Arabia,  creating  gum  and  spices  ; 
And  in  the  van,  the  nectar  of  her  lips, 
Which  you  must  taste,  bring  the  battalia  on. 
Well   arm'd,  and   strongly  lined  with   her   dis- 
course, 
And  knowing  manners,  to  give  entertainment ; — 
Hippolytus  himself  would  leave  Diana, 
To  follow  such  a  Venus. 

Lov.  Love  hath  made  you 
Poetical,  Allworth. 

All.  Grant  all  these  beat  off. 
Which  if  it  be  in  man  to  do,  you'll  do  it. 
Mammon,  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  steps  in 
With  heaps  of  ill-got  gold,  and  so  much  land. 
To  make  her  more  remarkable,  as  would  tire 
A  falcon's  wings  in  one  day  to  fly  over. 
Oh  my  good   lord!  these  powerful  aids,  which 

would 
Make  a  misshapen  negro  beautiful 
(Yet  are  but  ornaments  to  give  her  lustre. 
That  in  herself  is  all  perfection),  must 
Prevail  for  her.    I  here  release  your  trust ; 
'Tis  happiness  enough  for  me  to  serve  you, 
And  sometimes,  with  chaste  eyes,  to  look  upon 
her. 

Lov.  Why,  shall  I  swear  ? 

All.  Oh,  by  no  means,  my  lord; 
And  wrong  not  so  your  judgment  to  the  world. 
As  from  your  fond  indulgence  to  a  boy. 
Your  page,  your  servant,  to  refuse  a  blessing 
Divers  great  men  are  rivals  for. 

Lov.  Suspend 
Tour  judgment  till  the  trial.     How  far  is  it 
To  Overreach's  house? 

All.  At  the  most,  some  half-hour's  riding ; 
Tou'll  soon  be  there. 

Lov.  And  you  the  sooner  freed 
From  your  jealous  fears. 

All.  Oh  that  I  dui'st  but  hope  it!  \_ExeuTit. 


446 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 

Enter  Overreach,  Greedy,  and  Marrall. 

Over.  Spare  for  no  cost ;  let  my  dressers  crack 
with  the  weight 
Of  curious  viands. 

Greedy.  Store  indeed's  no  sore,  sir. 
Over.  That  proverb  fits  your  stomach,  Master 
Greedy. 
And  let  no  plate  be  seen  but  -what's  pure  gold, 
Or  such  whose  workmanship  exceeds  the  matter 
That  it  is  made  of ;  let  my  choicest  linen 
Perfume   the  room,   and,  when  we  wash,   the 

water, 
With  precious  powders  mix'd,  so  please  my  lord. 
That  he  may  with  envy  wish  to  bathe  so  ever. 
Mar.  'Twill  be  very  chargeable. 
Ove7:  Avaunt,  you  drudge  ! 
Now  all  my  labour'd  ends  are  at  the  stake, 
Is't  a  time  to  think  of    thrift?     Call  in  my 
daughter. 

[^Exit  Mareall. 
And,  Master  Justice,  since  you  love  choice  dishes. 
And  plenty  of  them — 

Greedy.  As  I  do,  indeed,  sir, 
Almost  as  much  as  to  give  thanks  for  them. 
Over.  I  do  confer  that  providence,  ^  with  my 
power 
Of  absolute  command  to  have  abundance, 
To  your  best  care. 

Greedy.  I'll  punctually  discharge  it. 
And  give  the  best  directions.    Now  am  I, 
In  mine  own  conceit,  a  monarch ;  at  the  least, 
Arch-president   of    the    boil'd,    the   roast,    the 

baked. 
For  which  I  will  eat  often  ;  and  give  thanks 
When  my  belly's  braced  up  like  a  drum,  and 
that's  pure  justice.  i^Exit. 

Over.  It  must  be  so  : — should  the  foolish  girl 
prove  modest. 
She  may  spoil  all :  she  had  it  not  from  me, 
But  from  her  mother  ;  I  was  ever  forward, 
As  she  must  be,  and  therefore  I'll  prepare  her. 

Enter  Margaret. 

Alone — and  let  your  women  wait  without. 

Marg.  Your  pleasure,  sir? 

Over.  Ha !  this  is  a  neat  dressing ! 
These  orient  pearls  and  diamonds  well-placed 

too! 
The  gown  affects  me  not,  it  should  have  been 
Embroider'd  o'er  and  o'er  with  flowers  of  gold  ; 
But  these  rich  jewels  and  quaint  fashion  help  it. 
And  how  below  ?  since  oft  the  wanton  eye, 
The  face  observed,  descends  unto  the  foot, 
Which  being  well-proportion'd,  as  yours  is, 
Invites  as  much  as  perfect  white  and  red. 
Though  without  art.    How  like  you  your  new 

woman, 
The  Lady  Downf alien? 

Marg.  Well,  for  a  companion  ; 
Not  as  a  servant. 

Over.  Is  she  humble,  Meg, 
And  careful  too,  her  ladyship  forgotten  ? 

Marg.  I  pity  her  fortune. 

Over.  Pity  her !  trample  on  her. 
I  took  her  up  in  an  old  tamin  ^  gown 
(Even  starv'd  for  want  of  twopenny  chops),  to 
serve  thee ; 


1  providence — province. 

2  tamin — a  sort  of  coarse  linsey-woolsey  stuff,  prob- 
ably the  same  as  is  now  called  taminy,  or  tammy. — 

GiFFOBD. 


And  if  I  understand  she  but  repines 

To  do  thee  any  duty,  though  ne'er  so  servile, 

I'll  pack  her  to  her  knight,  where  I  have  lodged 
him. 

Into  the  counter,  and  there  let  them  howl  to- 
gether. 
Marg.  You  know  your  own  ways ;  but  for  me 
1  blush 

When  I  command  her,  that  was  once  attended 

With  persons  not  inferior  to  myself 

In  bu-th. 

Over.  In  birth !  why,  art  thou  not  iny  daugh- 
ter. 

The  blest  child  of  my  industry  and  wealth  ? 

Why,  foolish  girl,  was't  not  to  make  thee  great. 

That  I  have  run,  and  still  pursue,  those  ways 

That  hale  down  curses  on  me,  which  I  mind  not ! 

Part  with  these  humble  thoughts,  and  apt  thj'self 

To  the  noble  state  I  labour  to  advance  thee ; 

Or,  by  my  hopes  to  see  thee  honourable, 

I  will  adopt  a  stranger  to  my  heir, 

And  throw  thee  from  my  care :  do  not  provoke 
me. 
Marg.  I  will  not,  sir;  mould  me  which  way 
you  please. 

Re-enter  Greedt. 

Over.  How!  interrupted! 

Greedy.  'Tis  matter  of  importance. 
The  cook,  sir,  is  self-will'd,  and  will  not  learn 
From  my  experience  :  there's  a  fawn  brought  in, 

sir, 
And,  for  my  life,  I  cannot  make  him  roast  it 
With  a  Norfolk  dumpling  in  the  belly  of  it ; 
And,  sir,  we  wise  men  know,  without  the  dump- 
ling 
'Tis  not  worth  three  pence. 

Over.  Would  it  were  whole  in  thy  belly, 
To  stuff  it  out !  cook  it  any  way ;  pr'ythee,  leave 
me. 

Greedy.  Without  order  for  the  dumpling  ? 

Over.  Let  it  be  dumpled 
Which  way  thou  wilt;  or,  tell  him,  I  will  scald 

him 
In  his  own  caldron. 

Greedy.  I  had  lost  my  stomach 
Had  I  lost  my  mistress  dumpling;  111  give  thanks 
for't.  [Exit. 

Over.    But  to  our  business,  Meg;   you  have 
heard  who  dines  here  ? 

Marg.  I  have,  sir. 

Over.  'Tis  an  honourable  man  ; 
A  lord,  Meg,  and  commands  a  regiment 
Of  soldiers,  and,  what's  rare,  is  one  himself, 
A  bold  and  understanding  one :  and  to  be 
A  lord,  and  a  good  leader,  in  one  volume. 
Is  granted  unto  few  but  such  as  rise  up 
The  kingdom's  glory. 

Re-enter  Greedy. 

Greedy.  I'll  resign  my  office. 
If  1  be  not  better  obey'd. 

Over.  'Slight,  art  thou  frantic  ? 

Greedy.  Frantic !  'twould  make  me  frantic,  and 
stark  mad, 
Were  I  not  a  justice  of  peace  and  quorum  too, 
Which  this  rebellious  cook  cares  not  a  straw  for. 
There  are  a  dozen  of  woodcocks — 

Over.  Make  thyself 
Thirteen,  the  baker's  dozen. 

Gi'eedy.  I  am  contented, 
So  they  may  be  dress'd  to  my  mind;  he  has 

found  out 
A  new  device  for  sauce,  and  will  not  dish  them 
With  toasts  and  butter ;  my  father  was  a  tailor, 
And  my  name,  though  a  justice,  Greedy  Wood- 
cock; 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


447 


And,  ere  I'll  see  my  lineage  so  abused, 
I'll  give  up  my  commission. 

Ovtr.  \aloudr\  Cook ! — Eogue,  obey  him ! 
I  have  given  the  word,  pray  you  now  remove 

yourself 
To  a  collar  of  brawn,  and  trouble  me  no  further. 
Greedy.    1  wiU,  and  meditate  what  to  eat  at 
dinner.  \_Exit. 

Over.  And  as  I  said,  Meg,  when  this  gull  dis- 
tiu'b'd  us. 
This  honourable  lord,  this  colonel, 
I  would  have  thy  husband. 

Marg.  There's  too  much  disparity 
Between  his  quality  and  mine,  to  hope  it. 

Over.  I  more  than  hope,   and  doubt  not  to 
effect  it. 
Be  thoii  no  enemy  to  thyself ;  my  wealth 
Shall  weigh  his  titles    down,   and  make    you 

equals.  * 

Now  for   the   means  to  assure  him  thine,  ob- 
serve me : 
Kemember  he's  a  courtier,  and  a  soldier. 
And  not  to  be  trifled  with ;  and,  therefore,  when 
He  comes  to  woo  you,  see  you  do  not  coy  it : 
This  mincing  modesty  has  spoil'd  many  a  match 
By  a  first  refusal,  in  vain  after  hoped  for. 
Marg.  You'U  have  me,  sir,  preserve  the  dis- 
tance that 
Confines  a  virgin  ? 

Over.  Virgin  me  no  virgins ! 
I  must  have  you  lose  that  name,  or  yo\i  lose  me. 
I  will  have  you  private — start  not — I  say,  private: 
If  thou  art  my  true  daughter,  not  a  bastard. 
Thou  wilt  venture  alone  with  one  man,  though 

he  came 
Like  Jupiter  to  Semele,  and  come  off  too ; 
And  therefore,  when  he  kisses  you,  kiss  close. 
Marg.  I  have  heard  this  is  the    strumpet's 
fashion,  sir, 
Wliich  I  must  never  learn. 

Over.  Learn  anything. 
And  from  any  creature  that  may  make  thee 

great ;  , 

From  the  devil  himself. 

Marg.  This  is  but  devilish  doctrine ! 

[^Aside. 
Over.  Or,  if  his  blood  grow  hot,  suppose  he 
offer 
Beyond  this,  do  not  you  stay  till  it  cool, 
But  meet  his  ardour. 

Marg.  In  your  house. 
Tour  own  house,  sir !  for  Heaven's  sake,  what 

are  you,  then  ? 
Or  what  shall  I  be,  sir  ? 

Over.  Stand  not  on  form ; 
TT'ords  are  no  substances. 

Marg.  Though  you  could  dispense 
With  your  own  honour,  cast  aside  religion, 
The  hopes  of  heaven,  or  fear  of  hell ;  excuse  me, 
In  worldly  policy,  this  is  not  the  way 
To  make  me  his  wife;  his  whore,  I  grant  it  may 

do. 
My  maiden  honour  so  soon  yielded  up. 
Nay,  prostituted,  cannot  but  assure  him 
I,  that  am  light  to  him,  will  not  hold  weight 
Whene'er  tempted  by  others  :  so,  in  judgment, 
When  to  his  lust  I  have  given  up  my  honour, 
He  must  and  will  forsake  me. 
Over.  How !  forsake  thee  ! 
Do  I  wear  a  sword  for  fashion,  or  is  this  arm 
Shrunk  up,  or  withered  ?  does  there  live  a  man 
Of  that  large  list  I  have  encounter'd  with, 
Can  truly  say  I  e'er  gave  inch  of  ground 
Not  purchased  with  his  blood  that  did  oppose 

me? 
Forsake  thee  when  the  thing  is  done !  he  dares 
not. 


Give  me  but  proof  he  has  enjoyed  thy  person, 
Though  all  his  captains,  echoes  to  his  will. 
Stood  arm'd  by  his  side  to  justify  the  wrong. 
And  he  himself  in  the  head  of  his  bold  troop. 
Spite  of  his  lordship,  and  his  colonelship. 
Or  the  judge's  favour,  I  will  make  him  render 
A  bloody  and  a  strict  accompt,  and  force  him. 
By  marrying  thee,  to  cure  thy  wounded  honom*! 
I  have  said  it. 

Re-enter  Marrall. 

Mar.  Sir,  the  man  of  honour's  come, 
Newly  alighted. 

Over.  In,  without  reply ; 
And  do  as  I  command,  or  thou  art  lost. 

[^Exit  Maegaket. 
Is  the  loud  music  I  gave  order  tor 
Keady  to  receive  him  ? 

Mar.  'Tis,  sir. 

Over.  Let  them  sound 
A  princely  welcome.   [Exit  Makeall.]  Eough- 

ness  awhile  leave  me  : 
For  fawning  now,  a  stranger  to  my  nature. 
Must  make  way  for  me. 

Loud  music.    Enter  Loed  Lovell,,  Greedy, 
Allwoeth,  and  Mareall. 

Lov.  Sir,  you  meet  your  trouble. 
Over.  What  you  are  pleased  to  style  so,  is  an 
honour 
Above  my  worth  and  fortunes. 
All.  Strange!  so  humble.  [Aside. 

Over.  A  justice  of  peace,  my  lord. 

\ Presents  Geeedt  to  him. 
Lov.  Tour  hand,  good  sir. 
Greedy.  This  is  a  lord,  and  some  think  this  a 
favour ; 
But  I  had  rather  have  my  hand  in  my  dumpling. 

[Aside. 
Over.  Eoom  for  my  lord. 
Lov.  I  miss,  sir,  your  fair  daughter 
To  crown  my  welcome. 

Ct^e?-.  May  it  please  my  lord' 
To  taste  a  glass  of  Greek  wine  first,  and  suddenly 
She  shall  attend  my  lord. 
Lov.  Tou'll  be  obeyed,  sir. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Oveeeeach. 
Over.  'Tis  to  my  wish :  as  soon  as  come,  ask 

for  her ! 
Why,  Meg !  Meg  Overreach. — 

Re-enter  Maegaeet. 

How  !  tears  in  your  eyes ! 
Hah !  dry  them  quickly,  or  I'll  dig  them  out. 
Is  this  a  time  to  whimper  ?  meet  that  greatness 
That  flies  into  thy  bosom,  think  what  'tis 
For  me  to  say.  My  honourable  daughter ; 
And  thou,  when  I  stand  bare,  to  say.  Put  on ;  i 
Or,  Father,  you  forget  yourself.     No  more. 
But  be  instructed,  or  expect —    He  comes. 

Re-enter  Loed  Lovell,  Greedy,  Allworth,  and 
Marrall. 

A  black-brow'd  girl,  my  lord. 

[Lord  Lovell  salutes  Maegaeet. 

Lov.  As  I  live,  a  rare  one. 

All.  He's  ta'en  already :  I  am  lost.  [Aside. 

Over.  That  kiss 
Came  twanging  off,  I  like  it ;  quit  the  room. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Over.  Lov.  and  Marg.    , 
A  little  bashful,  my  good  lord,  but  you, 
I  hope,  will  teach  her  boldness. 

Lov.  I  am  happy 
In  such  a  scholar  :  but — 


1  Put  on — i.e.  tie  covered.— Giffokd. 


448 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Over.  I  am  past  learning, 
And  therefore  leave  you  to  yourselves.  —  Ee- 
member.  [/4  stae  <o  Margaret,  and  exit. 

Lov.  You  see,  fair  lady,  your  father  is  solicitous 
To  have  you  change  the  barren  name  of  virgin 
Into  a  hopeful  wife. 

Marg.  His  haste,  my  lord, 
Holds  no  power  o'er  my  will. 

Lov.  But  o'er  your  duty. 

Marg.  Which,  forced  too  much,  may  break. 

Lov.  Bend  rathei-,  sweetest : 
Think  of  your  years. 

Marg.  Too  few  to  match  with  yours  ; 
And  choicest  fruits  too  soon  plucked,  rot  and 
wither. 

Lov.  Do  you  think  I  am  old .' 

Marg.  I  am  sure  I  am  too  young. 

Lov.  I  can  advance  you. 

Marg.  To  a  hill  of  sorrow ; 
"Where  every  hour  I  may  expect  to  fall, 
But  never  hope  firm  footing.     You  are  noble, 
I  of  a  low  descent,  however  rich  ; 
And  tissues  match'd  with  scarlet  suit  but  ill. 
Oh,  my  good  lord,  I  could  say  more,  but  that 
I  dare  not  trust  these  walls. 

Lov.  Pray  you,  trust  my  ear  then. 

Re-enter  Overreach  behind,  listening. 

Over.  Close  at  it!  whispering!  this  is  excellent! 
And,  by  their  postures,  a  consent  on  both  parts. 

Re-enter  Greedy  hehind. 

Greedy.  Sir  Giles,  Sir  Giles  ! 
Over.  The  great  fiend  stop  that  clapper ! 
Greedy.  It  must  ring  out,  sir,  when  my  belly 
rings  noon. 
The  baked-meats  are  run  out,  the  roast  turn'd 
powder. 
Over.  I  shall  powder  you. 
Greedy.  Beat  me  to  dust,  I  care  not ; 
In  such  a  cause  as  this,  I'll  die  a  martyr. 

Over.  Marry,  and  shall,  you  barathrum  of  the 
shambles!  i  [^Strikes  him. 

Greedy.  How !   strike  a  justice  of  peace !  'tis 
petty  treason, 
Edivardi  qiiinti:  but  that  you  are  my  friend, 
I  would  commit  you  without  bail  or  mainprize. 
Over.  Leave  your  bawling,  sir,  or  I  shall  com- 
mit you 
Where  you  shall  not  dine  to-day:    disturb  my 

lord. 
When  he  is  in  discourse ! 

Greedy.  Is't  a  time  to  talk 
When  we  should  be  munching  ? 
Lov.  Hah !  I  heard  some  noise. 
Over.  Mum,  villain,  vanish !  shall  we  break  a 
bargain 
Almost  made  up  ?  [Thricsts  Greedy  off. 

Lov.  Lady,  I  understand  you, 
And  rest  most  happy  in  your  choice,  believe  it ; 
I'll  be  a  careful  pilot  to  direct 
Your  yet  uncertain  bark  to  a  port  of  safety. 
Marg.  So  shall  your  honour  save  two  lives, 
and  bind  us 
Tour  slaves  for  ever. 

Lov.  I  am  in  the  act  rewarded, 
Since  it  is  good ;  howe'er,  you  must  put  on 
An  amorous  carriage  towards  me,  to  delude 
Your  subtle  father. 

Marg.  I  am  prone  to  that. 


1  barathrum  of  the  shambles.  Literally  from  Horace. 
Barathrum  is  frequently  used  by  our  old  poets  in  the 
classical  sense  of  an  abyss  or  devouring  gulf.— Giffobd. 


Lov.  Now  break  we  off  our  conference. — Sir 
Giles ! 
Where  is  Sir  Giles? 

[Overreach  comes  foiioard. 

Re-enter  Allworth,  Mareall,  and  Greedy. 

Over.  My  noble  lord  ;  and  how 
Does  yoiir  lordship  find  her  ? 

Lov.  Apt,  Sir  Giles,  and  coming ; 
And  I  like  her  the  better. 

Over.  So  do  I  too. 

Lov.  Yet  should  we  take  forts  at  the  first  assault, 
'Twere  poor  in  the  defendant;  I  must  confirm  her 
With  a  love-letter  or  two,  which  I  must  have 
Deliver'd  by  my  page,  and  you  give  way  to't. 

Over.  With  all  my  soul : — a  towardly  gentle- 
man! 
Your  hand,  good  Master  Allworth;    know  my 

house 
Is  ever  open  to  you. 

All.  'Twas  shut  till  now.  [^Aside. 

Over.  Well  done,  well  done,  my  honourable 
daughter ! 
Thou'rt  so  already:  know  this  gentle  youth, 
And  cherish  him,  my  honourable  daughter. 

Marg.  I  shall,  with  my  best  care. 

[Noise  within,  as  of  a  coach. 

Over.  A  coach ! 

Greedy.  More  stops 
Before  we  go  to  dinner !  Oh  my  guts ! 

Enter  Lady  Allworth  and  Wellborn. 

L.  All.  If  I  find  welcome, 
You  share  in  it ;  if  not,  I'll  back  again, 
Now  I  know  your  ends  ;  for  I  come  arm'd  for  all 
Can  be  objected. 

Lov.  How !  the  Lady  Allworth ! 

Over.  And  thus  attended  ! 

[LovELL  salutes  Lady  Allworth,  Lady 
Allworth  salutes  Margaret. 

Mat:  No,  /  am  a  dolt ! 
The  spirit  of  lies  hath  entered  me! 

Over.  Peace,  Patch ;  ^ 
'Tis  more  than  wonder!  an  astonishment 
That  does  possess  me  wholly  ! 

Lov.  Noble  lady. 
This  is  a  favour,  to  pffvent  *  my  visit. 
The  service  of  my  life  can  never  equal. 

L.  All.  My  lord,  I  laid  wait  for  you,  and  much 
hoped 
You  would  have  made  my  poor  house  your  first 

inn : 
And  therefore  doubting  that  you  might  forget  me, 
Or  too  long  dwell  here,  having  such  ample  cause. 
In  this  unequall'd  beauty,  for  your  stay  ; 
And  fearing  to  trust  any  but  myself 
With  the  relation  of  my  service  to  you, 
I  borrow'd  so  much  from  my  long  restraint, 
And  took  the  air  in  person  to  invite  you. 

Lov.  Your  bounties  are  so  great,  they  rob  me, 
madam, 
Of  words,  to  give  you  thanks. 

L.  All.  Good  Sir  Giles  Overreach. 

[Salutes  him. 
— How  dost  thou,  Marrall  ?    Liked  you  my  meat 

so  ill, 
You'll  dine  no  more  with  me  ? 

Greedy.  I  will,  when  you  please, 
An  it  like  your  ladyship. 

L.  All.  When  you  please,  Master  Greedy ; 


1  Patch  was  the  cant  name  of  a  fool  kept  by  Cardinal 
Wolsey;  but  Nares  thinks  the  name  may  be  derived 
from  fools  wearing  a  patched  or  parti-colourcd  gar- 
ment. 

2  prevent — anticipate. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


449 


If  meat  can  do  it,  you  shall  be  satisfied. — 

Aud  now,  my  lord,  pray  take  into  your  knowledge 

This  gentleman,  howe'er  his  outside's  coarse, 

{Presents  Wellborx. 
His  inward  linings  are  as  fine  and  fair 
As  any  man's  ;  wonder  not  I  speak  at  large  : 
And  howsoe'er  his  humour  carries  him 
To  be  thus  accoutred,  or  what  taint  soever, 
Por  his  wild  life,  hath  stuck  upon  his  fame, 
He  may,  ere  long,  with  boldness,  rank  himself 
With  some  that  have  contemn'd  him.     Sir  Giles 

Overreach, 
If  I  am  welcome,  bid  him  so. 

Over.  My  nephew ! 
He  has  been  too  long  a  stranger :  faith  you  have  ! 
Pray  let  it  be  mended. 

[LovELL  confers  aside  loith  Wellbohn. 

Mar.  Why,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  ? 
This  is  rogue  Wellborn,  monster^  prodirjy.^ 
That  shoidd  hang  or  drown  himself;  no  man  of 

worship, 
Much  less  your  nephew. 

Over.  Well,  sirrah,  we  shall  reckon 
For  this  hereafter. 

Mar.  I'll  not  lose  my  jeer. 
Though  I  be  beaten  dead  for't. 

Well.  Let  my  silence  plead 
In  my  excuse,  my  lord,  till  better  leisure 
Ofifer  itself  to  hear  a  full  relation 
Of  my  poor  fortunes. 
Lov.  I  would  hear,  and  helji  them. 
Over.  Your  dinner  waits  you. 
Lov.  Pray  you  lead,  we  follow. 
L.  All.  Nay,  you  are  my  guest;    come,  dear 
Master  Wellborn. 

{Exeunt  all  hut  Greedy. 

Greedy.  Dear  Master  Wellborn!  So  she  said: 

heaven !  heaven  ! 

If  my  belly  would  give  me  leave,  I  could  ruminate 

All  day  on  this :  I  have  granted  twenty  warrants 

To  have  him  committed,  from  all  prisons  in  the 

shire. 
To   Nottingham  gaol;    and  now,  Dear  Master 

Wellborn! 
And,  My  good  nepheio  ! — but  I  play  the  fool 
To  stand  here  prating,  and  forget  my  dinner. 

Re-enter  Marrall. 
Are  they  set,  Marrall .' 

Mar.  Long  since ;  pray  you  a  word,  sir. 

Greedy.  No  wording  now. 

Mar.  In  troth,  I  must ;  my  master, 
Knowing  you  are  his  good  friend,  makes  bold 

with  you, 
And  does  entreat  you,  more  guests  being  come  in 
Than  he  expected,  especially  his  nephew. 
The  table  being  full  too,  you  would  excuse  him, 
And  sup  with  him  on  the  cold  meat. 

Greedy.  How !  no  dinner, 
After  all  my  care  ? 

Mar.  'Tis  but  a  penance  for 
A  meal ;  besides,  you  broke  your  fast. 

Greedy.  That  was 
But  a  bit  to  stay  my  stomach :  a  man  in  commis- 
sion 
Give  place  to  a  tatterdemalion  ! 

Mar.  No  bug  i  words,  sir ; 
Should  his  worship  hear  you — 

Greedy.  Lose  my  dumpling  too, 
And  butter'd  toasts,  and  woodcocks ! 

•  Mar.  Come,  have  patience. 
If  you  wiU  dispense  a  little  with  your  worship, 


'^  bug — frightful,  ugly;   bug  formerly  was  used  for 
bugbear. 


And  sit  with  the  waiting-women,   you'll  have 

dumpling. 
Woodcock,  and  butter'd  toasts  too. 

Greedy.  This  revives  me : 
I  will  gorge  there  sufficiently. 

Mar.  This  is  the  way,  sir.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IIL 

AnotJier  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 

Enter  Overreach,  asfroin  dinner. 

Over.  She's  caught !  Oh  women  I — she  neglects 

my  lord, 
And  all  her  compliments  applied  to  Wellborn ! 
The  garments  of  her  widowhood  laid  by. 
She  now  appears  as  glorious  as  the  spring. 
Her  eyes  fix'd  on  him,  in  the  wine  she  drinks, 
He   being  her  pledge,  she   sends   him  burning 

kisses, 
And  sits  on  thorns,  till  she  be  private  with  him. 
She  leaves  my  meat,  to  feed  upon  his  looks  ; 
And  if  in  our  discourse  he  be  but  named. 
From  her  a  deep  sigh  follows.    But  why  grieve  I 
At  this.'  it  makes  for  me ;  if  she  prove  his, 
All  that  is  hers  is  mine,  as  I  will  work  him. 

Enter  Marrall. 

Mar.  Sir,  the  whole  board  is  troubled  at  your 

rising. 
Over.  No  matter,  I'll  excuse  it :  pr'ythee,  Mar- 
rall, 
Watch  an  occasion  to  invite  my  nephew 
To  speak  with  me  in  private. 

3Iar.  Who !  the  rogue 

The  lady  scorned  to  look  on  ? 

Over.  You  are  a  wag. 

Enter  Lady  Allworth  and  Wellborn. 

Mar.  See,  sir,  she's  come,  and  cannot  be  with- 
out him. 
L.  All.  With  your  favour,  sir,  after  a  plenteous    i 
dinner, 
I  shall  make  bold  to  walk  a  turn  or  two, 
In  your  rare  garden. 

Over.  There's  an  arbour  too, 
If  your  ladyship  please  to  use  it. 
L.  All.  Come,  Master  Wellborn. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Allworth  and  Wellborn. 
Over.  Grosser  and  grosser !  now  I  believe  tha 
poet 
Feign'd  not,  but  was  historical,  when  he  wrote 
Pasiphae  was  enamour'd  of  a  bull : 
This  lady's  lust's  most  monstrous. — My  good  lord, 

Enter  Lord  Lovell,  Margaret,  and  the  rent. 

Excuse  my  manners. 

Lov.  There  needs  none.  Sir  Giles  ; 
I  may  ere  long  say  Father,  when  it  pleases 
My  dearest  mistress  to  give  warrant  to  it. 

Over.  She  shall  seal  to  it,  my  lord,  and  make 
me  happy. 

Re-enter  Wellborx  and  Lady  Allworth. 

Marg.  My  lady  is  return'd. 

L.  All.  Provide  my  coach, 
I'll  instantly  away  ;  my  thanks.  Sir  Giles, 
For  my  entertainment. 

Over.  'Tis  your  nobleness 
To  think  it  such. 

L.  All.  I  must  do  you  a  further  wrong, 
In  taking  away  your  honourable  guest, 

Lov.  1  wait  on  j'ou,  madam ;    farewell,  t'ood 
Sir  Giles. 


2  F 


450 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


L.  All.  Good  Mistress  Margaret !    Nay,  come, 

Master  Wellborn, 

I  must  not  leave  you  behind ;  in  sooth,  I  must 

not. 

Over.  Eob  me  not,  madam,  of  all  joys  at  once  ; 

Let  my  nephew  stay  behind :  he  shall  have  my 

coach, 
And,  after  some  small  conference  between  us, 
tioon  overtake  your  ladyship. 
L.  All.  Stay  not  long,  sir. 
Lov.  This  parting  kiss: — [^z'sses  Maegaret.J 
— you  shall  every  day  hear  from  me. 
By  my  faithful  page. 

All.  'Tis  a  service  I  am  proud  of. 

[Exeunt  Lokd  Loyell,,  Lady  Allwoeth, 
Allworth,  and  Marrall. 
Over.  Daughter,  to  your  chamber. 

\^Exit  Margabet. 
Tou  may  wonder,  nephew, 
After  so  long  an  enmity  between  us, 
I  should  desire  your  friendship. 

Well  Sol  do,  sir ; 
'Tis  strange  to  me. 

Over.  But  I'll  make  it  no  wonder ; 
And  what  is  more,  unfold  my  nature  to  you. 
We  worldly  men,  when  we  see  friends  and  kins- 
men. 
Past  hope  sunk  in  their  fortunes,  lend  no  hand 
To  lift  them  up,  but  rather  set  our  feet 
Upon  their  heads,  to  press  tliem  to  the  bottom  ; 
As,  I  must  yield,  with  you  I  practised  it : 
But  now  I  see  you  in  a  way  to  rise, 
I  can  and  will  assist  you ;  this  rich  lady 
(And  I  am,  glad  oft)  is  enamour'd  of  you ; 
'Tis  too  apparent,  nephew. 

Well.  No  such  thing ; 
Compassion  rather,  sir. 

Over.  Well,  in  a  word. 
Because  your  stay  is  short,  I'll  have  you  seen 
No  more  in  this  base  shape  ;  nor  shall  she  say. 
She  married  you  like  a  beggar,  or  in  debt. 

Well.  He'll  run  into  the  noose,  and  save  my 

labour.  [Aside. 

Over.  You  have  a  trunk  of  rich  clothes,  not  far 

hence, 

In  pawn;    I  will  redeem  them;    and  that  no 

clamour 
May  taint  your  credit  for  your  petty  debts, 
You  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  to  cut  them  off, 
And  go  a  free  man  to  the  wealthy  lady. 

Well.  This  done,  sir,  out  of  love,  and  no  end 
Over.  As  it  is,  nephew.  [else — 

Well.  Binds  me  still  your  servant. 
Over.  No  compliments ;  you  are  stayed  for :  ere 
you  have  supp'd 
Tou  shall  hear  from  me.    My  coach,  knaves,  for 

my  nephew ! 
To-morrow  I  will  visit  you. 

Well.  Here's  an  uncle 
In  a  man's  extremes !  how  much  they  do  belie  you 
That  say  you  are  hard-hearted ! 

Over.  My  deeds,  nephew. 
Shall  speak  my  love ;  what  men  report  I  weigh 
not.  \_Exeunt. 


AOT  IV.— SCENE  L 
A  Room  in  Ladt  Allwobth's  House. 
Enter  Lord  Lovell  and  Allworth. 

Lov.  'Tis   well:    give  me  my  cloak.    I  now 
discharge  you 
From  further  service ;  mind  your  own  affairs ; 
I  hope  they  will  prove  successful. 

All.  What  is  blest 
With  your  good  wish,  my  lord,  cannot  but  prosper. 


Let  aftertimes  report,  and  to  your  honour. 

How  much  I  stand  engaged,  for  I  want  language 

To  speak  my  debt ;  yet  if  a  tear  or  two 

Of  joy,  for  your  much  goodness,  can  supply 

My  tongue's  defects,  I  could — 

Lov.  Nay,  do  not  melt ; 
This  ceremonial  thanks  to  me's  superfluous. 

Over,  {within.']  Is  my  lord  stirring  ? 

Lov.   'Tis   he!      Oh,    here's  your  letter:    let 
him  in. 

Enter  Overreach,  Greedy,  and  Marrall. 

Over.  A  good  day  to  my  lord ! 

Lov.  You  are  an  early  riser, 
Sir  Giles. 

Over.  And  reason,  to  attend  your  lordship. 

Lov.  And  you  too,  Master  Greedy,  up  so  soon  ? 

Greedy.  In  troth,  my  lord,  after  the  sun  is  up, 
I  cannot  sleep,  for  I  have  a  foolish  stomach 
That  croaks  for  breakfast.     With  your  lordship's 
I  have  a  serious  question  to  demand        [favour, 
Of  my  worthy  friend  Sir  Giles. 

Lov.  Pray  you,  use  your  pleasure. 

Greedy.    How  far.   Sir   Giles,   and   pray    you 
answer  me 
Upon  your  credit,  hold  you  it  to  be 
From  your  manor-house,  to  this   of  my  Lady 
Allworth's  ? 

Over.  Why,  some  four  mile. 

Greedy.  How  !  four  mile,  good  Sir  Giles — 
Upon  your  reputation,  think  better ; 
For  if  you  do  abate  but  one  half  quarter 
Of  five,  you  do  youi-self  the  greatest  wrong 
That  can  be  in  the  world ;  for  four  miles'  riding 
Could  not  have  raised  so  huge  an  appetite 
As  I  feel  gnawing  on  me. 

Mar.  Whether  you  ride. 
Or  go  afoot,  you  are  that  way  still  provided. 
An  it  please  your  worship. 

Over.  How  now,  sirrah  .'*  prating 
Before  my  lord !  no  difference  !  Go  to  my  nephew, 
See  all  his  debts  discharged,  and  help  his  worship 
To  fit  on  his  rich  suit. 

Mar.  I  may  fit  you  too. 
Toss'd  like  a  dog  still !  \_Aside,  and  exit. 

Lov.  I  have  writ  this  morning 
A  few  lines  to  my  mistress,  your  fair  daughter. 

Over.    'Twill  fire  her,  for  she's  wholly  yours 
already. — 
Sweet  Master  Allworth,   take  my  ring;    'twill 

carry  you 
To  her  presence,  I  dare  warrant  you  ;  and  there 

plead 
For  my  good  lord,  if  you  shall  find  occasion. 
That  done,  pray  ride  to  Nottingham,  get  a  licence. 
Still  by  this  token.     I'll  have  it  despatch' d. 
And  suddenly,  my  lord,  that  I  may  say. 
My  honourable,  nay,  right  honourable  daughter. 

Greedy.    Take  my  advice,  young  gentleman, 
get  your  breakfast ; 
'Tis  unwholesome  to  ride  fasting.  I'll  eat  with  you. 
And  eat  to  purpose. 

Over.  Some  Fury's  in  that  gut : 
Hungry  again !  Did  you  not  devour,  this  morning, 
A  shield  of  brawn,  and  a  barrel  of  Colchester 
oysters  ? 

Greedy.  Why,  that  was,  sir,  only  to  scour  my 
stomach, 
A  kind  of  a  preparative.     Come,  gentlemen, 
I  will  not  have  you  feed,  like  the  hangman  of 

Flushing, 
Alone,  while  I  am  here. 

Lov.  Haste  your  return. 

All.  I  will  not  fail,  my  lord. 

Greedy.  Nor  I  to  line 
My  Christmas  coffer. 

\Exeuni  Greedy  and  Allworth.' 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


451 


Over.  To  my  wish ;  we  are  private. 
I  come  not  to  make  offer  with  my  daughter 
A  cei-tain  portion — that  were  poor  and  trivial. 
In  one  word,  I  pronounce  all  that  is  mine, 
In  lands  or  leases,  ready  coin  or  goods. 
With  her,  my  lord,  comes  to  you  ;  nor  shall  you 

have 
One  motive  to  induce  you  to  believe 
I  live  too  long,  since  every  year  I'll  add 
Something  unto  the  heap,  which  shall  be  yours 
too. 

Lov.  You  are  a  right  bind  father. 

Over.  You  shall  have  reason 
To  think'  me  such.     How  do  you  like  this  seat  ? 
It  is  well  wooded  and  well  watered,  the  acres 
Fertile  and  rich  ;  would  it  not  serve  for  change, 
To  entertain  your  friends  in  a  summer  progress .' 
What  thinks  my  noble  lord .' 

Lov.  'Tis  a  wholesome  air. 
And  well-built  pile ;  and  she  that's  mistress  of  it, 
Worthy  the  large  revenue. 

Over.  She  the  mistress ! 
It  may  be  so  for  a  time  ;  but  let  my  lord 
Say  only  that  he  likes  it  and  would  have  it, 
I  say,  ere  long  'tis  his. 

Lov.  Impossible ! 

Over.  You  do  conclude  too  fast,  not  knowing 
me, 
Nor  the  engines  that  I  work  by.     'Tis  not  alone 
The  LadyAUworth's  lands,  for  those  once  Well- 
born's 
(As  by  her  dotage  on  him  I  know  they  will  be), 
Shall  soon  be  mine  ;  but  point  o\it  any  man's 
In  all  the  shire,  and  say  they  lie  convenient 
And  useful  for  your  lordship,  and  once  more 
I  say  aloud,  they  are  yours. 

Lov.  I  dare  not  own 
What's  by  unjust  and  cruel  means  extorted. 
My  fame  and  credit  are  more  dear  to  me, 
Than  so  to  expose  them  to  be  censured  by 
The  public  voice. 

Over.  You  run,  my  lord,  no  hazard. 
Your  reputation  shall  stand  as  fair. 
In  all  good  men's  opinions,  as  now: 
Nor  can  my  actions,  though  condemned  for  ill. 
Cast  any  foul  aspersion  upon  yours. 
For,  though  I  do  contemn  report  myself, 
As  a  mere  sound,  I  still  will  be  so  tender 
Of  what  concerns  you,  in  all  points  of  honour, 
That  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  your  fame. 
Nor  your  unquestioned  integrity. 
Shall  e'er  be  sullied  with  one  taint  or  spot 
That  may  take  from  your  innocence  and  candour. 
All  my  ambition  is  to  have  my  daughter 
Eight  honourable,  which  my  lord  can  make  her. 
And  might  I  live  to  dance  upon  my  knee 
A  young  Lord  Lovell,  born  by  her  unto  you, 
I  write  nil  ultra  to  my  proudest  hopes. 
As  for  possessions  and  annual  rents. 
Equivalent  to  maintain  you  in  the  port 
Your  noble  birth  and  present  state  requires, 
I  do  remove  that  burden  from  your  shoulders, 
And  take  it  on  mine  own  :  for,  though  I  ruin 
The  country  to  supply  your  riotous  waste. 
The  scourge    of   prodigals,   want,    shall   never 
find  you. 

Lov.  Are  you  not  frighted  with  the  imprecations 
And  curses  of  whole  families  made  wretched 
By  your  sinister  pi-actices  ? 

Over.  Yes,  as  rocks  are 
When  foamy  billows  split  themselves  against 
Their  flinty  ribs  ;  or  as  the  moon  is  moved. 
When  wolves,  with  hunger  pined,  howl  at  her 

brightness. 
I  am  of  a  solid  temper,  and,  like  these. 
Steer  on  a  constant  course :  with  mine  own  sword, 
If  call'd  into  the  field,  I  can  make  that  right, 


Which  fearful  enemies  murmur'd  at  as  wrong. 
Now  for  these  other  piddling  complaints 
Breath 'd  out  in  bitterness  ;  as  when  they  call  me 
Extortioner,  tyrant,  cormorant,  or  intruder 
On  my  poor  neighbour's  right,  or  grand  encloser 
Of  what  was  common,  to  my  private  use  ; 
Nay,  when  my  ears  are  pierced  with  widows' cries. 
And    undone    orphans    wash    with    tears    my 

threshold, 
I  only  think  what  'tis  to  have  my  daughter 
Plight  honourable  ;  and  'tis  a  powerful  charm 
Makes  me  insensible  of  remorse,  or  pitj'. 
Or  the  least  sting  of  conscience. 

Lov.  I  admire 
The  toughness  of  your  nature. 

Over.  'Tis  for  you. 
My  lord,  and  for  my  daughter,  I  am  marble. 
Nay  more ;  if  you  will  have  my  character 
In  little,  I  enjoy  more  true  delight 
In  my  arrival  to  my  wealth  these  dark 
And   crooked   ways,  than  you  shall  e'er   take 

pleasure  /  ' 

In  spending  what  my  industry  hath  compass'd. 
My  haste    commands    me  hence ;    in   a  word. 
Is  it  a  match  ?  [therefore, 

Lov.  I  hope  that  is  past  doubt  now. 
Over.  Then  rest  secure,  not   the  hate  of  all 
mankind  here. 
Nor  fear  of  what  can  fall  on  me  hereafter, 
Shall  make  me  study  aught  but  your  advance- 
ment 
One  story  higher :  an  earl !  if  gold  can  do  it. 
Dispute  not  my  religion  nor  my  faith  ; 
Though  I  am  borne  thus  headlong  by  my  will, 
You  may  make  choice  of  what  belief  you  please ; 
To    me    they  are    equal ;     so,   my   lord,    good 
morrow.  \Exit. 

Lov.  He's  gone. — I  wonder  how  the  earth  can 
bear 
Such  a  portent !    I  that  have  lived  a  soldier, 
And  stood  the  enemy's  violent  charge  undaunted, 
To  hear  this  blasphemous  beast  am  bath'd  all  over 
In  a  cold  sweat ;  yet,  like  a  mountain,  he 
(Confirm'd  in  atheistical  assertions) 
Is  no  more  shaken  than  Olympus  is 
When  angry  Boreas  loads  his  double  head 
With  sudden  drifts  of  snow. 

Enter  Lady  Allworth,  Waiting-woman,  and 
Amble. 

L.  All.  Save  you,  my  lord ! 
Disturb  I  not  your  privacy  ? 

Lov.  No,  good  madam  ; 
For  your  own  sake  I  am  glad  you  came  no  sooner. 
Since  this  bold  bad  man,  Sir  Giles  Overreach, 
Made  such  a  plain  discovery  of  himself. 
And  read  this  morning  such  a  devilish  matins, 
That  I  should  think  it  a  sin  next  to  his 
But  to  repeat  it. 

L.  All.  I  ne'er  press'd,  my  lord, 
On  other's  privacies  ;  yet  against  my  will, 
Walking,  ^or  health's  sake,  in  the  gallery 
Adjoining  to  your  lodgings,  I  was  made 
(So  vehement  and  loud  he  was)  partaker 
Of  his  tempting  offers. 

Lov.  Please  you  to  command 
Your  servants  hence,  and  I  shall  gladly  hear 
Your  wiser  counsel. 

L.  All.  'Tis,  my  lord,  a  woman's, 
But  true  and  hearty. — Wait  in  the  next  room. 
But  be  within  call ;  yet  not  so  near  to  force  me 
To  whisper  my  intents. 

Amh.  We  ape  taught  better 
By  you,  good  madam. 

Woman.  And  well  know  our  distance. 

L.  All.    Do  so,   and  talk  not ;    'twill  become 
your  breeding.  [^Exeunt  Amble  and  Woman. 


452 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Now,  my  good  lord,  if  I  may  use  my  freedom, 
As  to  an  honoured  friend — 

Lov.  You  lessen  else 
Tour  favour  to  me. 

L.  All.  I  dare  then  say  thus: 
As  you  are  noble  (howe'er  common  men 
Make  sordid  wealth  the  object  and  sole  end 
Of  their  industrious  aims),  'twill  not  agree 
With  those  of  eminent  blood,  who  are  engaged 
More  to  prefer  their  honours,  than  to  increase 
The  state  left  to  them  by  their  ancestors, 
To  study  large  additions  to  their  fortunes, 
And  quite  neglect  their  births : — though  I  must 

grant, 
Eiches,  well  got,  to  be  a  useful  scrvaut, 
But  a  bad  master. 

Lov.  Madam,  'tis  confess'd ; 
But  what  infer  you  from  it  ? 

L.  All.  This,  my  lord  ; 
That  as  all  wrongs,  though  thrust  into  one  scale, 
Slide  of  themselves  off,  when  right  fills  the  other, 
And  cannot  bide  the  trial ;  so  all  wealth, 
I  mean  if  ill  acquired,  cemented  to  honour 
By  virtuous  ways  achieved,  and  bravely  pur- 
chased, 
Is  but  as  rubbish  pour'd  into  a  river 

i Howe'er  intended  to  make  good  the  bank), 
tendering  the  water,  that  was  pure  before, 
Polluted  and  unwholesome.     I  allow 
The  heir  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  Margaret, 
A  maid  well  qualified,  and  the  richest  match 
Our  north  part  can  make  boast  of;  yet  she  cannot. 
With  all  that  she  brings  with  her,  fill  their  mouths 
That  never  will  forget  who  was  her  father ; 
Or  that  my  husband  AUworth's  lands,  and  Well- 

born's 
(How  wrung  from  both  needs  now  no  repetition), 
Were  real  motives  that  more  work'd  your  lord- 
ship 
To  join  your  families,  than  her  form  and  virtues : 
You  may  conceive  the  rest. 

Lov.  I  do,  sweet  madam, 
And  long  since  have  considered  it.     I  know. 
The  sum  of  all  that  makes  a  just  man  happy 
Consists  in  the  well  choosing  of  his  wife  : 
And  there,  well  to  discharge  it,  does  require 
Equality  of  years,  of  birth,  of  fortune  ; 
For  beauty  being  poor,  and  not  cried  up 
By  birth  or  wealth,  can  truly  mix  with  neither. 
And  wealth,  where  there's  such   difference  in 

years. 
And  fair  descent,  must  make  the  yoke  uneasy  :— 
But  I  come  nearer. 

L.  All.  Pray  you  do,  my  lord. 

Lov.  Were  Overreach'  states  thrice  centupled, 
his  daughter 
Millions  of  degrees  much  fairer  than  she  is, 
Howe'er  I  might  urge  precedents  to  excuse  me, 
I  would  not  so  adulterate  my  blood 
By  marrying  Margaret,  and  so  leave  my  issue 
Made  up  of  several  pieces,  one  j)art  scarlet. 
And  the  other  London  blue.     In  my  own  tomb 
I  will  inter  my  name  first. 

L.  All.  I  am  glad  to  hear  this. —  [Aside. 

Why  then,  my  lord,  pretend  your  marriage  to 

her? 
Dissimulation  but  ties  false  knots 
On  that  straight  line,  by  which  you,  hitherto. 
Have  measured  all  your  actions. 

Lov.  I  make  answer. 
And  aptly,  with  a  question.    Wherefore  have 

That,  since  your  husband's  death,  have  lived  a 
strict 

And  chaste  nun's  life,  on  the  sudden  given  your- 
self 

To  visits  and  entertainments  ?  Think  you,  madam, 


'Tis  not  grown  public  conference  ?  or  the  favours 
Which    you    too    prodigally    have    thrown   ua 

Wellborn, 
Being  too  reserved  before,  incur  not  censure  .' 

L.  All.  I  am  innocent  here ;  and,  on  my  life^ 
I  swear 
My  ends  are  good. 

Lov.  On  my  soul,  so  are  mine 
To  Margaret;  but  leave  both  to  the  event: 
And  since  this  friendly  privacy  does  serve 
But  as  an  offer'd  means  unto  ourselves. 
To  search  each  other  further,  you  having  shown 
Your  care  of  me,  I,  my  respect  to  you ; 
Deny  me  not,  but  still  in  chaste  words,  madam, 
An  afternoon's  discourse. 

L.  All.  So  I  shall  hear  you.  [ExtunU 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 

Before  Tapwei.l's  Uousz. 

Enter  Tapwell.  ami  l'i:orii. 

Tap.  Undone,  undone  !  this  was  j'our  counsel, 

Froth. 
Froth.  Mine !   I  defy  thee :  did  not  Master 
Marrall 
(He  has  marr'd  all,  I  am  sure)  strictly  command 

us, 
On  pain  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach'  displeasure, 
To  turn  the  gentleman  out  of  dooi's .'' 

Tap.  'Tis  true  ; 
But  now  he's  his  uncle's  darling,  and  has  got 
Master  Justice  Greedy,  since  he  fiU'd  his  belly. 
At  his  commandment  to  do  anything ; 
Woe,  woo  to  us ! 
Froth.  He  may  prove  merciful. 
Tap.  Troth,  we  do  not  deserve  it  at  his  hands. 
Though  he  knew  all  the  passages  of  our  house. 
As  the  receiving  of  stolen  goods,  and  bawdry, 
When  he  was  rogue  Wellborn  no  man  would  be- 
lieve him. 
And  then  his  information  could  not  hurt  us  ; 
But  now  he  is  right  worshipful  again, 
Who  dares  but  doubt  his  testimony  ?  Methin'^s 
I  see  thee.  Froth,  already  in  a  cart. 
For  a  close  bawd,  thine  eyes  even  pelted  out 
With  dirt  and  rotten  eggs  ;  and  my  hand  hissing, 
If  I  'scape  the  halter,  with  the  letter  R  i 
Printed  upon  it. 

Froth.  Would  that  were  the  worst ! 
That  were  but  nine  days'  wonder :  as  for  credit, 
We  have  none  to  lose,  but  we  shall  lose  the 

money 

He  owes  us,  and  his  custom ;  there's  the  hell  on't. 

Tap.  He  has  summon'd  all  his  creditors  by  the 

drum. 

And  they  swarm  about  him  like  so  many  soldiers 

On  the  pay  day ;  and  has  found  out  such  a  new 

WAY 

To  PAY  HIS  OLD  DEBTS,  as  'tis  Very  likely 
He  shall  be  chronicled  for  it ! 

Froth.  He  deserves  it 
More  than  ten  pageants.    But  are  you  sure  his 

worship 
Comes  this  way,  to  my  lady's  ? 

\_A  cry  within :  Brave  Master  Wellborn. 

Tap.  Yes ; — I  hear  him. 

Froth.  Be  ready  with  your  petition,  and  pre- 
sent it 
To  his  good  grace. 


» iJ— for  Mogue. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


45: 


Enter  Wellborn  in  a  rich  habit,  followed  by 

Marrall,    Greedy,    Order,   Furnace,   and 

Creditors ;    Tapwell,    kneeling,    delivers    his 

2>etition. 

Well.  How's  this !  petition'd  too  ? — 
But  note  what  miracles  the  payment  of 
A  little  trash,  and  a  rich  suit  of  clothes, 
Can  work  upon  these  rascals !     I  shall  be, 
I  think.  Prince  Wellborn. 

3Iar.  When  your  worship's  married. 
You  may  be  : — I  know  what  I  hope  to  see  you. 

Well.  Then  look  thou  for  advancement. 

Mar.  To  be  known 
Tour  worship's  bailiff,  is  the  mark  I  shoot  at. 

Well.  And  thou  shalt  hit  it. 

3far.  Pray  you,  sir,  despatch 
These  needy  followers,  and  for  my  admittance. 
Provided  you'll  defend  me  from  Sir  Giles, 
Whose  service  I  am  weary  of,  I'll  say  something 
You  shall  give  thanks  for. 

Well.  Fear  me  not  Sir  Giles. 

Greedy.  Whp,  Tapwell  ?  I  remember  thy  wife 
brought  me, 
Last  new-year's  tide,  a  couple  of  fat  tui-keys. 

Tap.  And  shall  do  every  Christmas,  let  your 
worship 
But  stand  my  friend  now. 

Greedy.  How  !  with  Master  Wellborn  ? 
I  can  do  anything  with  him  on  such  terms. — 
See  you  this  honest  couple,  they  are  good  souls 
As  ever  drew  out  fosset ;  have  they  not 
A  pair  of  honest  faces  ? 

Well.  I  o'erheard  you. 
And  the  bribe  be  promised.     You  are  cozen'd  in 

them; 
For,  of  all  the  scum  that  grew  rich  by  my  riots. 
This,  for  a  most  unthankful  knave,  and  this. 
For  a  base  bawd  and  whore,  have  worst  deserv'd 

me, 
And  therefore  speak  not  for  them :  by  your  place 
You  are  rather  to  do  me  justice ;  lend  me  your 

ear: — 
Forget  his  turkeys,  and  call  in  his  licence. 
And,  at  the  next  fair,  I'll  give  you  a  yoke  of 

oxen 
Worth  all  his  poultry. 

Greedy.  I  am  changed  on  the  sudden 
In  my  opinion  ! — Come  near ;  nearer,  rascal. 
And,  now  I  view  Lim  better,  did  you  e'er  see 
One  look  so  like  an  archknave  ?  his  very  counte- 
nance. 
Should  an  understanding  judge  but  look  upon 

him, 
Would  bang  him,  though  he  were  innocent. 

Tap.  Froth.  Worshipful  sir. 

Greedy.  No,  though  the  great  Turk  came,  in- 
stead of  turkeys, 
To  beg  my  favour,  I  am  inexorable. 
T  hou  hast  an  ill  name  :  besides  thy  musty  ale, 
That  hath  destroyed  many  of  the  king's  liege 

people. 
Thou  never  hadst  in  thy  house,  to  stay  men's 

stomachs, 
A  piece  of  Suffolk  cheese,  or  gammon  of  bacon, 
Or  any  esculent,  as  the  leai-ned  call  it. 
For  their  emolument,  but  sheer  drink  only. 
For  which  gross  fault  I  here  do  damn  thy  licence. 
Forbidding  thee  ever  to  tap  or  draw ; 
For  instantly  I  will,  in  mine  own  person. 
Command  the  constable  to  pull  down  thy  sign. 
And  do  it  before  I  eat. 

Froth.  No  mercy  ? 

Greedy.  Vanish! 
If  I  show  any,  may  my  promised  oxen  gore  me ! 

Tap.  Unthankful  knaves  are  ever  so  i-ewarded. 
[^Exeunt  Grekdv,  Tapwell,  and  Froth. 


Well.  Speak  ;  what  are  you .' 
1  Cred.  A  decay 'd  vintner,  sir. 
That  might  have  thrived,  but  that  your  worship 

broke  me 
With  trusting  you  with  muskadine  and  eggs. 
And  five  pound  suppers,  with  your  after  drink- 

ings, 
When  you  lodged  upon  the  Bankside.' 
Well.  I  remember. 

1  Cred.  I  have  not  been  hasty,  nor  e'er  laid  to 
arrest  you ; 

And  therefore,  sir — 

Well.  Thou  art  an  honest  fellow, 
I'll  set  thee  up  again  ;  see  his  bill  paid. — 
What  are  you  ? 

2  Cred.  A  tailor  once,  but  now  mere  botcher. 
I  gave  you  credit  for  a  suit  of  clothes, 

Which  was  all  my  stock ;  but  you  failing  in  pay- 
ment, 
I  was  removed  from  the  shopboard,  and  confined 
Under  a  stall. 

Well.  See  him  paid ;  and  botch  no  more. 

2  Cred.  I  ask  no  interest,  sir. 
Well.  Such  tailors  need  not ; 

If  their  bills  are  paid  in  one  and  twenty  year, 
They  are  seldom  losers. — Oh,  I  know  thy  face : 

\Tod  Creditor. 
Thou  wert  my  surgeon  ;  you  must  tell  no  tales  ; 
Those  days  are  done.     1  will  pay  you  in  private. 

Ord.  A  royal  gentleman  ! 

Furn.  Eoyal  as  an  emperor ! 
He'll  prove  a  brave  master ;  my  good  lady  knew 
To  choose  a  man. 

Well.  See  all  men  else  discharg'd  ; 
And  since  old  debts  are  clear'd  by  a  new  way, 
A  little  bounty  will  not  misbecome  me  ; 
There's   something,    honest  cook,   for  thy  good 

breakfasts ; 
And  this,  for  thy  respect — [To  Order.]— take' t, 

'tis  good  gold. 
And  I  able  to  spare  it. 

Ord.  You  are  too  munificent. 

Furn.  He  was  ever  so. 

Well.  Pray  you,  on  before. 

3  Cred.  Heaven  bless  you  ! 

Mar.  At  four  o'clock  the  rest  know  where  to 
meet  me. 

\_Exeunt  Order,  Furnace,  wicZ  Creditors. 
Well.  Now,  Master  Marrall,  what's  the  weighty 
secret 
You  promised  to  impart  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  time  nor  place 
Allow  me  to  relate  each  circumstance, 
This  only,  in  a  word ;  I  know  Sir  Giles 
Will  come  upon  you  for  security 
For  his  thousand  pounds,  which  you  must  not 

consent  to. 
As  he  grows  in  heat,  so  I  am  sure  he  will. 
Be  you  but  rough,  and  say  he's  in  your  debt 
Ten  times  the  sum,  upon  sale  of  your  land ; 
I  had  a  hand  in't  (I  speak  it  to  my  shame) 
When  you  wei-e  defeated  of  it. 
Well.  That's  forgiven. 

Mar.  I  shall  deserve  it :   then  urge   him  to 
produce 
The  deed  in  which  you  pass'd  it  over  to  him. 
Which  I  know  he'll  have  about  him,  to  deliver 
To  the  Lord  Lovell,  with  many  other  writings, 
And  present  moneys.     I'll  instruct  you  further, 
As  I  wait  on  your  worship:  if  1  play  not  my 

prize 
To  your  full  content)  and  your  uncle's  much 

vexation. 
Hang  up  Jack  Marrall. 

Well.  I  rely  upon  thee.  [_Exeunt. 

1  the  Bankside.—See  note  6,  col.  1,  p.  86. 


454 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 

Enter  Allworth  and  Margaret. 

All.  "Whether  to  yield  the  first  praise  to  my 
lord's 
Unequall'd  temperance,  or  your  constant  sweet- 
ness, 
That  I  yet  live,  my  weak  hands  fasten'd  on 
Hope's  anchoi-,  spite  of  all  storms  of  despaii-, 
I  yet  rest  doubtful. 

Marg.  Give  it  to  Lord  Lovell ; 
For  what  in  him  was  bounty,  in  me's  duty. 
I  make  but  payment  of  a  debt  to  which 
My  vows,  in  that  high  office  register' d, 
Are  faithful  witnesses. 

All.  'Tis  true,   my  dearest : 
Tet,  when  I  call  to  mind  how  many  fair  ones 
Make  wilful  shipwreck  of  their  faiths,  and  oalhs 
To  God  and  man,  to  fill  the  arms  of  greatness ; 
And  you  rise  up  no  less  than  a  glorious  star, 
To  the  amazement  of  the  world, — that  hold  out 
Against  the  stern  authority  of  a  father. 
And  spurn  at  honour,  -when  it  comes  to  court  you ; 
I  am  so  tender  of  your  good,  that  faintly. 
With  your  wrong,  I  can  wish  myself  that  right 
You  yet  are  pleased  to  do  me. 

Marg.  Yet,  and  ever, 
To  me  what's  title,  when  content  is  wanting  ? 
Or  wealth,  raked  up  together  with  much  care. 
And  to  be    kept  with  more,  when  the    heart 

pines, 
In  being  dispossess'd  of  what  it  longs  for, 
Beyond  the  Indian  mines .'  or  the  smooth  brow 
Of  a  pleased  sire,  that  slaves  me  to  his  will ; 
And  so  his  ravenous  humom*  maj^  be  feasted 
By  my  obedience,  and  he  see  me  great, 
Leaves  to  my  soul  nor  faculties  nor  power 
To  make  her  own  election? 

All.  But  the  dangers 
That  follow  the  i-epulse — 

Marg.  To  me  they  are  nothing : 
Let  AUworth  love,  I  cannot  be  unhappy. 
Suppose  the  worst,  that,  in  his  rage,  he  kill  me ; 
A  tear  or  two,  by  you  dropt  on  my  hearse. 
In  sorrow  for  my  fate,  will  call  back  life 
So  far  as  but  to  say,  that  I  die  yours  ; 
I  then  shall  rest  in  peace:  or  should  he  prove 
So  cruel,  as  one  death  would  not  suffice 
His  thirst  of  vengeance,  but  with  lingering  tor- 
ments. 
In  mind  and  body,  I  must  waste  to  air. 
In  poverty  join'd  with  banishment;  so  you  share 
In  my  afflictions,  which  I  dare  not  wish  you, 
So  high  I  prize  you,  I  could  undergo  them 
"With  such  a  patience  as  should  look  down 
With,  scorn  on  his  worst  malice. 

All.  Heaven  avert 
Such  trials  of  your  true  affection  to  me ! 
Nor  will  it  unto  you,  that  are  all  mercy, 
Show  so  much  rigour:  but  since  we  must  run 
Such  desperate  hazards,  let  us  do  our  best 
To  steer  between  them. 

Marg.  Your  lord's  ours,  and  sure ; 
And  though  but  a  young  actor,  second  me 
In  doing  to  the  life  what  he  has  plotted, 
Enter  Overreach  heldnd. 

The  end  may  yet  prove  happy.    Now,  my  All- 
worth.  [Seeing  her  father. 
All.  To  your  letter,   and  put  on  a  seeraing 

anger. 
Marg.  I'U  pay  my  lord  all  debts  due  to  his 
title ; 
And  when  with   terms,   not  taking  from   his 
honour, 


He  does  solicit  me,  I  shall  gladlj^  hear  him. 
But  in  this  peremptorj^,  nay,  commanding  way, 
T'appoint  a  meeting,   and,  without  my  know- 
ledge, 
A  priest  to  tie  the  knot  can  ne'er  be  undone 
Till  death  unloose  it,  is  a  confidence 
In  his  lordship  will  deceive  him. 

All.  I  hope  better. 
Good  lady. 

Marg.  Hope,  sir,  what  j'ou  please :  for  me 
I  must  take  a  safe  and  secure  course ;  I  have 
A  father,  and  without  his  full  consent, 
Though  all  lords  of  the  land  kneel'd  for  my 

favour, 
I  can  grant  nothing. 

Over.  I  like  this  obedience :      [Comes  forward. 
But  whatsoe'er  my  lord  writes,  must  and  shall  be 
Accepted  and  embraced.    Sweet  Master  Allwortb, 
You  show  yourself  a  true  and  faithful  servant 
To  your  good  lord ;  he  has  a  jewel  of  you. 
How!  frowning,  Meg?  are  these  looks  to  receive 
A  messenger  from  my  lord  ?    What's  this  ?  give 
me  it. 
Marg.  A  piece  of  arrogant  paper,  like  the  in- 
scriptions. 
Over.  [Reads]  Fair  mistress,  from  your  servant 
learn,  all  joys 
That  we  can  hope  for,  if  deferr'd,  prove  toys: 
Therefore,  this  instant,  and  in  private,  meet 
A  husband,  thai  will  gladly  at  your  feet 
Lay  doion  his  honours,  tendering  them  to  you 
With  all  C07itent,  the  church  being  paid  her  due. 
— Is  this  the  arrogant  piece  of  paper  ?  fool ! 
Will  you  still  be  one  ?  in  the  name  of  madness, 

what 
Could  his  good  honom'  write  moi'e  to  content 

you? 
Is  there  aught  else  to  be  wish'd  after  these  two, 
That  are  already  offer'd ;  marriage  first, 
And  lawful  pleasure  after :    what   Avould  you 
more  ? 
Marg.  Why,  sir,  I  would  be  married  like  your 
daughter ; 
Not  hurried  away  i'  the  night  I  know  not  whither, 
Without  all  ceremony  ;  no  friends  invited 
To  honour  the  solemnity. 

All.  An't  please  your  honour. 
For  so  before  to-morrow  I  must  style  you, 
My  lord  desires  this  jirivacy,  in  respect 
His  honourable  kinsmen  are  far  off. 
And  his  desires  to  have  it  done,  brook  not 
So  long  delay  as  to  expect  their  coming: 
And  yet  he  stands  resolv'd,  with  all  due  pomp. 
As  running  at  the  ring,  plays,  masks,  and  tilting, 
To  have  his  marriage  at  court  celebrated. 
When  he  has  brought  your  honour  up  to  London. 
Over.  He  tells  you  true;   'tis  the  fashion,  on 
my  knowledge : 
Yet  the  good  lord,  to  please  your  peevishness, 
Must  put  it  off,  forsooth !  and  lose  a  night. 
Tempt  me  no  further ;  if  you  do,  this  goad 

[Points  to  his  sword. 
Shall  prick  you  to  him. 

Marg.  I  could  be  contented. 
Were  you  but  by,  to  do  a  father's  part, 
And  give  me  in  the  church. 

Over.  So  my  lord  have  you, 
What  do  I  care  who  gives  you?  since  my  lord 
Does  purpose  to  be  private,  I'U  not  cross  him. 
I  know  not.  Master  Allworth,  how  my  lord 
May  be  provided,  and  therefoi-e  there's  a  purse 
Of  gold,  'twill  serve  this  night's  expense;  to- 
morrow 
I'll  furnish  him  with  any  sums :  in  the  meantime, 
Use  my  ring  to  my  chaplain ;  he  is  beneficed 
At  my  manor  of  Got'em,  and  call'd  Parson  Wih.o : 
'Tis  no  matter  for  a  licence,  I'll  bear  him  out  ia't. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


455 


Marg.  With  your  favour,  sir,  what  warrant  is 
your  ring  ? 
He  may  suppose  I  got  that  twenty  ways, 
Without  your  knowledge;   and  then  to  be  re- 
fused, 
Were  such  a  stain  upon  me  ! — if  you  pleased,  sir. 
Your  presence  would  do  better. 

Over.  Still  perverse ! 
I  say  again,  I  will  not  cross  my  lord ; 
Yet  I'll  prevent  youi  too. — Paper  and  ink,  there! 
All.  1  can  furnish  you. 

Over.  I  thank  you,  I  can  write  then.    [_Writes. 
All.  You  may,  if  you  please,  put  out  the  name 
of  my  lord, 
In  respect  he  comes  disguised,  and  only  write. 
Marry  her  to  this  gentleman. 

Over.  Well  advised. 
'Tis    done;    away! — [Margaret   'kneels.'\     My 

blessing,  girl?  thou  hast  it. 
Nay,  no  reply,  begone. — Good  Master  Allworth, 
This  shall  be  the  best  night's  work  you  ever 
made. 
All.  1  hope  so,  sir. 

\_Exeunt  Allworth  and  Margaret. 
Over.  Farewell ! — Now  all's  cocksure : 
Methinks  I  hear  already  knights  and  ladies 
Say,  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  how  is  it  with 
Your  honourable  daughter?  has  her  honour 
Slept  well  to-night  ?  or,  will  her  honour  please 
To  accept  this  monkey,  dog,  or  paroqueto 
(This  is  state  in  ladies),  or  my  eldest  son 
To  be  her  page,  and  wait  upon  her  trencher  ? 
My  ends,   my  ends  are   compass'd  —  then  for 

WeUbom 
And  the  lands ;    were  he  once  married  to  the 

widow — 
I  have  him  here — I  can  scarce  contain,  myself, 
I  am  so  full  of  joy,  nay,  joy  all  over.  [_Exit. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  Lady  Allavorth's  House. 

Enter  Lord  Lovell,  Lady  Allworth,  and 
Amble. 

L.  All.  By  this  you  know    how   strong  the 
motives  were 
That  did,  my  lord,  induce  me  to  dispense 
A  little  with  my  gravity,  to  advance. 
In  personating  some  few  favours  to  him. 
The  plots  and  projects  of  the  downtrod  Well- 
bom. 
Nor  shall  I  e'er  repent,  although  I  suffer 
In  some  few  men's  opinions  for't,  the  action  ; 
For  he  that  ventured  all  for  my  dear  husband. 
Might  justly  claim  an  obligation  from  me, 
To  pay  him  siich  a  courtesy ;  which  had  I 
Coyly,  or  over-curiously  denied. 
It  might  have  argued  me  of  little  love 
To  the  deceased. 

Lov.  What  you  intended,  madam, 
For  the  poor  gentleman,  hath  found  good  success ; 
For,  as  I  understand,  his  debts  are  paid, 
And  he  once  more  f ui'nish'd  for  fair  employment : 
But  all  the  arts  that  I  have  used  to  raise 
The  fortunes  of  your  joy  and  mine,  young  All- 
worth, 
Stand  yet  in  supposition,  though  I  hope  well: 
For  the  young  lovers  are  in  wit  more  pregnant 
Than  their  years  can  promise ;    and  for  their 

desires, 
On  my  knowledge,  they  are  equal. 


1  prevent  you — anticipate  yom*  objections, — Gutord. 


L.  All.  As  my  wishes 
Ai'e  with  yours,  my  lord;  yet  give  me  leave  to 

fear 
The  building  though  well-grounded :  to  deceive 
Sir  Giles,  that's  both  a  lion  and  a  fox 
In  his  proceedings,  were  a  M'ork  beyond 
The  strongest  undertakers;  not  the  trial 
Uf  two  weak  innocents. 

Lov.  Despair  not,  madam : 
Hard  things  are  compass'd  oft  by  easy  means ; 
And  judgment,  being  a  gift  derived  from  heaven, 
Though    sometimes    lodged    in  the    hearts    of 

worldly  men. 
That  ne'er  consider  from  whom  they  receive  it, 
Forsakes  such  as  abuse  the  giver  of  it ; 
Which  is  the  reason  that  the  politic 
And  cunning  statesman,  that  believes  he  fathoms 
The  counsels  of  all  kingdoms  on  the  earth, 
Is  by  simplicity  oft  overreach'd. 

L.  All.  May  he  be  so!   yet,  in  his  name  to 
express  it. 
Is  a  good  omen. 

Lou.  May  it  to  myself 
Prove  so,  good  lady,  in  my  suit  to  you! 
What  think  you  of  the  motion  ? 

L.  All.  Troth,  my  lord, 
Mj'  own  unworthiuess  may  answer  for  me ; 
For  had  you,  when  that  I  was  in  my  prime, 
ily  virgin  flower  uncropp'd,  presented  me 
With  this  great  favour ;  looking  on  my  lowness, 
Not  in  a  glass  of  self-love,  but  of  truth, 
I  could  not  but  have  thought  it  as  a  blessing 
Far,  far  beyond  my  merit. 

Lov.  You  are  too  modest. 
And  undervalue  that  which  is  above 
My  title,  or  whatever  I  call  mine. 
I  grant,  were  I  a  Spaniard,  to  marry 
A  widow  might  disparage  me ;  but  being 
A  true-bom  Englishman,  I  cannot  find 
How  it  can  taint  my  honour- :  nay,  what's  more, 
That  which  you  think  a  blemish,  is  to  me 
The  fairest  lustre.     You  already,  madam, 
Have  given  sui-e  proofs  how  dearly  you  can 

cherish 
A  husband  that  deserves  you;   which  confirms 

me. 
That,  if  I  am  not  wanting  in  my  care 
To  do  you  service,  you'll  be  still  the  same 
That  you  were  to  your  Allworth  :  in  a  word, 
0  ur  years,  our  states,  our  births  are  not  unequal, 
You  being  descended  nobly,  and  allied  so ; 
If  then  you  may  be  won  to  make  me  happy, 
But  join  your  lips  to  mine,  and  that  shall  be 
A  solemn  contract. 

L.  All.  I  were  blind  to  my  own  good. 
Should  I  refuse  it — [Kisses  him] ; — yet,  my  lord, 

receive  me 
As  such  a  one,  the  study  of  whose  whole  life 
Shall  know  no  other  object  but  to  please  you. 

Lov.  If  I  return  not,  with  all  tenderness, 
Equal  respect  to  you,  may  I  die  wretched  ! 

L.  All.  There  needs  no  protestation,  my  lord. 
To  her  that  cannot  doubt. — 

Enter  Wellborn,  handsomely  apparelled. 

You  are  welcome,  sir. 
Now  you  look  like  yourself. 

Well.  And  will  continue 
Such  in  my  free  acknowledgment,  that  I  am 
Your  creature,  madam,  and  will  never  hold 
My  life  mine  own,  when  you  please  to  command 
it. 

Lov.  It  is  a  thankfulness  that  well  becomes 
you: 
You  could  not  make  choice  of  a  better  shape 
To  dress  yonr  mind  in. 

L.  All.  For  me,  I  am  happy 


456 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


That  my  endeavours  prosper'd.     Saw  you  of  late 
Sir  Giles,  your  uncle  ? 

Well.  I  heard  of  him,  madam. 
By  his  minister,  Marrall.   He's  grown  into  strange 

passions 
About  his  daughter.    This  last  night  ha  look'd  for 
Your  lordship  at  his  house,  but  missing  you. 
And  she  not  appearing,  his  wise  head 
Is  much  perplex'd  and  troubled. 

Lov.  It  may  be. 
Sweetheart,  my  project  took. 

L.  All.  I  strongly  hope. 

Over.   \wlth'mr\    Ha!    find    her,    booby,    thou 
huge  lump  of  nothing, 
I'll  bore  thine  eyes  out  else. 

Wdl.  May  it  please  your  lordship. 
For  some  ends  of  mine  own,  but  to  withdraw 
A  little  out  of  sight,  though  not  of  hearing, 
You  maj',  perhaps,  have  sport. 

Lov.  You  shall  direct  me.  \Steps  aside. 

Enter  Overreach,  ivith  distracted  looks,  driving 
in  Marrall  before  him,  with  a  box. 

Over.  I  shall  sol  fa  you,  rogue  ! 

Mar.  Sir,  for  what  cause 
Do  you  use  me  thus.' 

Over.  Cause,  slave !  why,  I  am  angry, 
And  thou  a  subject  only  fit  for  beating. 
And  so  to  cool  my  choler.     Look  to  the  writing; 
Let  but  the  seal  be  broke  upon  the  box. 
That  has  slept  in  my  cabinet  these  three  years, 
I'll  rack  thy  soul  for't. 

Mar.  I  may  yet  cry  quittance, 
Though  now  I  suffer,  and  dare  not  resist. 

[_Aside. 

Over.  Lady,  by  your  leave,  did  you  see  my 
daughter,  lady.' 
And  the  lord,  hsr  husband?   are  they  in  your 

house .' 
If  they  are,  discover,  that  I  may  bid  them  joy ; 
And,  as  an  entrance  to  her  jjlace  of  honour, 
See  your  ladj'ship  on  her  left  hand,  and  make 

curtseys 
When  she  nods  on  you ;  which  you  must  receive 
As  a  special  favour. 

L.  All.  When  I  know.  Sir  Giles, 
Her  state  requires  such  ceremony,  I  shall  pay  it ; 
But,  in  the  meantime,  as  I  am  myself, 
I  give  you  to  understand,  I  neither  know 
Nor  care  where  her  honour  is. 

Over.  When  you  once  see  her 
Supported,  and  led  by  the  lord  her  husband, 
You'll  be  better  taught. — Nephew ! 

Well.  Sir. 

Over.  No  more ! 

Well.  'Tis  all  I  owe  you. 

Over.  Have  your  redeem'd  rags 
Made  you  thus  insolent  ? 

Well.  Insolent  to  you ! 
Why,  what  are  you,  sir,  unless  in  your  years. 
At  the  best,  more  than  myself  ? 

Over.  His  fortune  swells  him : 
'Tis  rank,  he's  married.  [Aside. 

L.  All.  This  is  excellent ! 

Over.  Sir,  in  calm  language,  though  I  seldom 
use  it, 
I  am  familiar  with  the  cause  that  makes  you 
Boar  up  thus  bravely ;  there's  a  certain  buz 
Of  a  stolen  marriage,  do  you  hear?  of  a  stolen 

marriage, 
lu  which,  'tis  said,  there's  somebody  hath  been 

cozeu'd ; 
I  name  no  parties. 

Well.  Well,  sir,  and  what  follows? 

Over.  Marry,  this ;  since  you  are  peremptory. 
Remember, 
Upon  mere  hope  of  your  great  match,  I  lent  you 


A  thousand  pounds :  put  me  in  good  security, 
And  suddenlj',  by  mortgage  or  by  statute. 
Of  some  of  your  new  possessions,  or  I'll  have  you 
Dragg'd  in  ^your  lavender  robes'  to   the  gaol: 

you  know  me. 
And  therefore  do  not  trifle. 

Well.  Can  you  be 
So  cruel  to  your  nephew,  now  he's  in 
The  way  to  rise?  Was  this  the  courtesy 
You  did  me  in  pure  love,  and  no  ends  elsef 

Over.    End  me  no  ends!    engage  the   whole 
estate, 
And  force  your  spouse  to  sign  it,  you  shall  have 
Three   or    four    thousand    more,    to    roar    and 

swagger, 
And  revel  in  bawdy  taverns. 

Well.  And  beg  after; 
Mean  you  uot  so  ? 

Over.  My  thoughts  are  mine,  and  free. 
Shall  I  have  security  ? 

Well.  No,  indeed  you  shall  not. 
Nor  bond,  nor  bill,  nor  bare  acknowledgment ; 
Your  great  looks  fright  not  me. 

Over.  But  my  deeds  shall. 
Outbraved !  [Both  draw. 

L.  All.  Help,  murder !  murder ! 

Enter  Servants. 

Well.  Let  him  come  on, 
With  all  his  wrongs  and  injuries  about  him, 
Arm'd  with  his  cutthroat  practices  to  guard  him; 
The  right  that  I  bring  with  me  will  defend  me. 
And  punish  his  extortion. 

Over.  That  I  had  thee 
But  single  in  the  field ! 

L.  All.  You  may;  but  make  not 
Aly  house  your  quarrelling  scene. 

Over.  Were't  in  a  chlirch. 
By  heaven  and  hell,  I'll  do't. 

Mar.  Now  put  him  to 
The  showing  of  the  deed. 

\_Aslde  to  Wellborx. 

Well.  This  rage  is  vain,  sir; 
For  fighting,  fear  not,  you  shall  have  your  hands 

full. 
Upon  the  least  incitement ;  and  whereas 
You  charge  me  with  a  debt  of  a  thousand  pounds. 
If  there  be  law  (howe'er  you  have  no  conscience), 
Either  restore  my  land,  or  I'll  recover 
A  debt,  that's  truly  due  to  me  from  you, 
In  value  ten  times  more  than  what  you  challenge. 

Over.  I  in  thy  debt !  Oh  impudence !  did  I  uot 
purchase 
The  land  left  by  thy  father,  that  rich  land. 
That  had  continued  in  Wellborn's  name 
Twenty  descents ;  which,  like  a  riotous  fool. 
Thou  didst  make  sale  of?     Is  not  here,  enclosed, 
The  deed  that  does  confirm  it  mine  ? 

Mar.  Now,  now! 

Well.  I  do  acknowledge  none ;  I  ne'er  pass'd 
over 
Any  sucli  land :  I  grant,  for  a  year  or  two 
You  had  it  in  trust ;  which  if  you  do  discharge. 
Surrendering  the  possession,  you  shall  ease 
Yourself  and  me  of  chargeable  suits  in  law. 
Which,  if  you  prove  not  honest,  as  I  doubt  it, 
Must  of  necessity  follow. 

L.  All.  In  my  judgment. 
He  does  advise  you  well. 

Over.  Good!  good!  conspire 
With  your  new  husband,  lady;  second  him 
In  his  dishonest  practices ;  but  when 


1  lavender  robes — i.e.  your  clothes  which  liave  just 
been  redeemed  out  of  pawn.  To  lay  a  thing  in  lavender 
was  a  common  phrase  for  pawning  it. — Giffokd. 


PHILIP  MAS'SINGER. 


457 


This  manor  is  extended'  to  my  use, 
You'll  speak  in  an  humbler  key,  and  sue  for 
favour. 

L.  All.  Never:  do  not  hope  it. 

Well.  Let  despair  first  seize  me. 

Over.  Yet,  to  shut  up  thy  mouth,  and  make 
thee  give 
Thyself  the  lie,  the  loud  lie,  I  draw  out 
The  precious  evidence;  if  thou  canst  forswear 
Thy  hand  and  seal,  and  make  a  forfeit  of 

\Opens  the  box,  and  di/iplays  the  hnnd. 
Thy  ears  to  the  pillory,  see !  here's  that  will  make 
My  interest  clear — ha ! 

L.  All.  A  fair  skin  of  parchment. 

Well.  Indented,  I  confess,  and  labels  too  ; 
But  neither  wax  nor  words.     How!    thunder- 

struclc  ? 
Not  a  syllable  to  insult  with  ?     My  wise  uncle, 
Is  this  your  precious  evidence,  this  that  makes 
Your  interest  clear .' 

Over.  I  am  o'erwhelmed  with  Avonder! 
What  prodigy  is  this  ?  what  subtle  devil 
Hath  razed  out  the  inscription  ?  the  wax 
Turn'd  into  dust! — the  rest  of  my  deeds  whole, 
As  when  they  were  deliver'd,  and  this  only 
Made  nothing !  Do  you  deal  with  witches,  rascal  ? 
There  is  a  statute  for  you,  which  will  bring 
Your  neck  in  an  hempen  circle ;  yes,  there  is  ; 
And  now  'tis  better  thought  for,  cheater,  know 
This  juggling  shall  not  save  you. 

Well.  To  save  thee. 
Would  beggar  the  stock  of  mercy. 

Over.  Marrall ! 

3 far.  Sir. 

Over.  Though  the  witnesses   are  dead,  your 
testimony 
TTelp  with  an  oath  or  two  :  and  for  thy  master, 
Thy  liberal  master,  my  good  honest  servant, 
1  know  thou  wilt  swear  anything,  to  dash 
This  cunning  sleight:  besides,  I  know  thou  art 
A  public  notary,  and  such  stand  in  law 
For  a  dozen  witnesses  :  the  deed  being  drawn  too 
By  thee,  my  careful  Marrall,  and  deliver'd 
When  thou  wert  present,  will  make  good  my 

title. 
Wilt  thou  not  swear  this  ? 

[^Aside  to  JTarrall. 

3Iai:  I !  no,  I  assure  you  : 
I  have  a  conscience  not  sear'd  up  like  yours ; 
I  know  no  deeds. 

Over.  Wilt  thou  betray  me  ? 

3Iar.  Keep  him 
From  using  of  his  hands,  I'Jl  use  my  tongue, 
To  bis  no  little  torment. 

Over.  Mine  own  varlet 
Rebel  against  me  ! 

3Iar.  Yes,  and  uncase  you  too. 
The  idiot,  the  Patch,  the  slave,  the  boohj. 
The  property  Jit  only  to  be  beaten 
For  your  morning  exercise,  yonv  fooibcdl,  or 
The  unprofitable  lump  of  flesh,  your  drudge, 
Can  now  anatomize  you,  and  lay  open 
All  your  black  plots,  and  level  with  the  earth 
Your  hill   of  pride :    and,   with    these  gabions 

guarded. 
Unload  my  great  artillery,  and  shake. 
Nay  pulverize,  the  walls  you  think  defend  you. 

L.  All.  How  he  foams  at  the  mouth  with  rage ! 

Well.  To  him  again. 

Over.  Oh  that  I  had  thee  in  my  gripe,  I  would 
tear  thee 
Joint  after  joint! 

Mar.  I  know  you  are  a  tearer. 
But  I'll  have  first  your  fangs  pared  off,  and  then 


1  extended— seized. — Giffoed. 


Come  nearer  to  you  ;  when  I  have  discover'd. 
And  made  it  good  before  the  judge,  what  ways, 
And  devilish  practices,  you  used  to  cozen  with 
An  army  of  whole  families,  who  yet  alive, 
And  but  enroll'd  for  soldiers,  were  able 
To  take  in  Dunkirk. 

Well.  All  will  come  out. 

L.  All.  The  better. 

Over.  But  that  I  will  live,  rogue,  to  torture    | 
thee,  ! 

And  make  thee  wish,  and  kneel  in  vain,  to  die,       j 
These  swords,  that  keep  thee  from  me,  sliould    i 
fix  here,  i 

Although  they  made  my  body  but  one  wound. 
But  I  would  reach  thee.  ! 

Lov.  Heaven's  hand  is  in  this  ;  | 

One  bandog  worry  the  other !  [Aside. 

Over.  I  play  the  fool. 
And  make  my  anger  but  ridiculous  : 
There  will  be  a  time  and  place,  there  will  be, 

cowards. 
When  you  shall  feel  what  I  dare  do. 

Well.  I  think  so  : 
You  dare  do  any  ill,  yet  want  true  valour 
To  be  honest,  and  repent. 

Ovei:  They  ai'e  words  I  know  not. 
Nor  e'er  will  learn.    Patience,  the  beggai"'s  virtue, 

Enter  Greedy  and  Parson  Wii.ldo. 

Shall  find  no  harbour  here  : — after  those  storms 
At  length  a  calm  appears.     Welcome,  most  wel- 
come ! 
There's  comfort  in  thy  looks  ;  is  the  deed  done? 
Is    my  daughter    married?     say    but    so,    my 

chaplain. 
And  I  am  tame. 

Willdo.  Married  !  yes,  I  assure  you. 
Over.  Then  vanish  all  sad  thoughts!   there's 
more  gold  for  thee. 
My  doubts  and  fears  are  in  the  titles  drown'd 
Of  my  honourable,  my  right  honourable  daughter. 
Greedy.  Here  will  be  feasting!  at  least  for  a 
month, 
I  am  provided.    Empty  guts,  croak  no  more. 
You  shall  be  stuff 'd  like  bagpipes,  not  with  wind, 
But  bearing'  dishes. 

Over.  Instantly  be  here  ? 

[Whispering  to  Willdo. 
To  my  wish!  to  my  wish!  Now  you  that  plot 

against  me, 
And  hope  to  trip  my  heels  up,  that  contemn'dme. 
Think  on't  and  tremble: — [Loud  music] — they 

come  !     I  hear  the  music. 
A  lane  there  for  my  lord ! 
Well.  This  sudden  heat 
May  yet  be  cool'd,  sir. 

Over.  Make  way  there  for  my  lord ! 

Enter  Allworth  and  Margaret. 

Marg.  Sir,  first  your  pardon,  then  your  bless- 
ing, with 
Your  full  alIow;ince  of  the  choice  I  have  made. 
As  ever  you  could  make  use  of  your  reason, 

[Kneeling. 
Grow  not  in  passion  ;  since  you  may  as  well 
Call  back  the  day  that's  past,  as  untie  the  knot 
Which  is  too  strongly  fasten'd :  not  to  dwell 
Too  long  on  woi-ds,  this  is  my  husband. 

Over.  How! 

All.  So  I  assure  you ;  all  the  rights  of  marriage, 
With  every  circumstance,  are  past.     Alas !  sir. 
Although  I  am  no  lord,  but  a  lord's  page. 
Your  daughter  and  my  loved  wife  mourns  not 
for  it ; 


*  bearing — portly,  solid,  substantial.— Giffokd. 


458 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


And,  for  right  honourable  son-in-law,  you  may- 
say, 
Your  dutiful  daughter. 

Over.  Devil!  are  they  married? 

Willdo.  Do  a  father's  part,  and  say,  Heaven 

give  them  joy ! 
Over.  Confusion  and  ruin!  speak,  and  speak 
quickly. 
Or  thou  art  dead. 

Willdo.  They  are  married. 
Over.  Thou  hadst  better 
Have  made  a  contract  with  the  king  of  fiends, 
Than  these : — my  brain  turns ! 

Willdo.  Why  this  rage  to  me  ? 
Is  not  this  your  letter,  sir,  and  these  the  words  ? 
Harry  her  to  this  gentleman. 

Over.  It  cannot — 
Nor  will  I  e'er  believe  it,  'sdeath !     I  will  HOt ; 
That  I,  that,  in  all  passages  I  touch'd 
At  worldly  profit,  have  not  left  a  print 
Where  I  have  trod,  for  the  most  curious  search 
To  trace  my  footsteps,  should  be  gull'd  by  chil- 
dren, 
BaflSed  and  fool'd,  and  all  my  hopes  and  labours 
Defeated,  and  made  void. 

Well.  As  it  appears, 
Tou  are  so,  my  grave  uncle. 

Over.  Village  nurses 
Revenge  their  wrongs  with  curses ;  I'll  not  waste 
A  syllable,  but  thus  I  take  the  life 
Which,  wretched,  I  gave  to  thee. 

lAttemj)ts  to  hill  Margaret. 
Lav.  [coming  forward.']     Hold,  for  your  own 
sake! 
Though  charity  to  your  daughter  hath  quite  left 

you, 
WiU  you  do  an  act,  though  in  your  hopes  lost 

here. 
Can  leave  no  hope  for  peace  or  rest  hereafter  ? 
Consider ;  at  the  best  you  are  but  a  man, 
And  cannot  so  create  your  aims,  but  that 
They  may  be  cross'd. 

Over.  Lord !  thus  I  spit  at  thee, 
And  at  thy  counsel ;  and  again  desire  thee, 
And  as  thou  art  a  soldier,  if  thy  valour 
Dares  show  itself,  where  multitude  and  example 
Lead  not  the  way,  let's  quit  the  house,  and  change 
Six  words  in  private. 
Lov.  I  am  ready. 
L.  All.  Stay,  sir, 
Contest  with  one  distracted ! 

Well.  You'U  grow  like  him, 
Should  you  answer  his  vain  challenge. 

Over.  Are  you  pale  ? 
Borrow  his  help,  though  Hercules  call  it  odds, 
I'll  stand  against  both  as  I  a,m,  hemm'd  in  thus. — 
Since,  like  a  Libyan  lion  in  the  toil, 
My  fury  cannot  reach  the  coward  hunters, 
And  only  spends  itself,  I'll  quit  the  place : 
Alone  I  can  do  nothing ;  but  I  have  servants. 
And  friends  to  second  me ;  and  if  I  make  not 
This  house  a  heap  of  ashes  (by  myiwrongs. 
What  I  have  spoke  I  will  make  good !)  or  leave 
One  throat  uncut, — if  it  be  possible, 
HeU,  add  to  my  afflictions !  [Exit. 

Mar.  Is't  not  brave  sport  ? 
Greedy.  Brave  sport!  I  am  sure  it  has  ta'en 
away  my  stomach ; 
I  do  not  like  the  sauce. 

All.  Nay,  weep  not,  dearest, 
Though  it  express  your  pity ;  what's  decreed 
Above,  we  cannot  alter. 

L.  All.  His  threats  move  me 
ITo  scruple,  madam. 

Mar.  Was  it  not  a  rare  trick, ' 
Au  it  please  your  worshiji,  to  make  the  deed 
nothias .' 


I  can  do  twenty  neater,  if  you  please 
To  pm-chase  and  grow  rich;  for  I  will  be 
Such  a  solicitor  and  steward  for  you, 
As  never  worshipful  had. 

Well.  I  do  believe  thee  ; 
But  first  discover  the  quaint  means  you  used 
To  raze  out  the  conveyance  ? 

Mar.  They  are  mysteries 
Not  to  be  spoke  in  public :  certain  minerals 
lucorjDorated  in  the  ink  and  wax. — 
Besides,  he  gave  me  nothing,  but  stiU  fed  me 
With  hopes  and  blows ;  and  that  was  the  induce- 
ment 
To  this  conundrum.     If  it  please  your  worship 
To  call  to  memory,  this  mad  beast  once  caused  me 
To  urge  you,  or  to  drown  or  hang  yourself; 
I'll  do  the  like  to  him  if  you  command  me. 

Well.  You  are  a  rascal !  he  that  dares  be  false 
To  a  master,  though  unjust,  will  ne'er  be  true 
To  any  other.    Look  not  for  reward 
Or  favour  from  me ;  I  will  shun  thy  sight 
As  I  would  do  a  basilisk's ;  thank  my  pity, 
If  thou  keep  thy  ears ;  howe'er,  I  will  take  order 
Your  practice  will  be  silenced. 

Greedy.  I'll  commit  him, 
If  you  will  have  me,  sir. 

Well.  That  were  to  little  purpose; 
His  conscience  be  his  prison. — Not  a  word. 
But  instantly  be  gone. 

Ord.  Take  this  kick  with  you. 

Amb.  And  this. 

Furn.  If  that  I  had  my  cleaver  here, 
I  would  divide  your  knave's  head- 

Mar.  This  is  the  haven 
False  servants  still  arrive  at.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  OvERREAcn. 

L.  All.  Come  again ! 
Lov.  Fear  not,  I  am  your  guard. 
Well.  His  looks  are  gliastlj'. 
Willdo.  Some  little  time  I  have  spent,  under 
your  favours. 
In  physical  studies,  and  if  my  judgment  err  not, 
He's  mad  beyond  recovery ;  but  observe  him, 
And  look  to  yourselves. 

Over.  Why,  is  not  the  whole  world 
Included  in  myself  ?  to  what  use  then 
Are  friends  and  servants?     Say  there  were  a 

squadron 
Of  pikes,  lined  through  with  shot,  when  I  am 

mounted 
Upon  my  injuries,  shall  I  fear  to  charge  them? 
No :  ril  through  the  battalia,  and  that  routed, 

[Flourishing  his  sword  sheathed. 
I'll  fall  to  execution. — Ha !  I  am  feo'^le : 
Some  undone  Avidow  sits  upon  mine  arm. 
And  takes  away  the  use  oft ;  and  my  sword. 
Glued  to  my  scabbard  with  wrong'd  orphans'  tears, 
Will  not  be  drawn.     Ha !  what  are  these  ?  sure, 

hangmen, 
That  come  to  bind  my  hands,  and  then  to  drag  me 
Before  the  judgment-seat:  now  they  are  new 

shapes, 
And  do  appear  like  Furies,  with  steel  whips 
To  scourge  my  ulcerous  soul.     Shall  I  then  fall 
lugloriously,  and  yield  ?  no  ;  spite  of  Fate, 
I  will  be  forced  to  hell  like  to  myself. 
Though  you  were  legions  of  accursed  spirits, 
Thus  would  I  fly  among  you. 

[Rushes  forward,  and  flings  himself  on  ike 
ground. 
Well.  There's  no  help ; 
Disarm  him  first,  then  bind  him. 

Greedy.  Take  a  mittimus,  ' 
And  carry  him  to  Bedlam. 
Lov.  How  be  foams! 
Well.  And  bites  the  earth  I 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


459 


WiUdo.  Carry  liim  to  some  dark  room, 
There  try  what  art  can  do  for  his  recovery. 

Marg.  Oh  my  dear  father ! 

\_They  force  Overreach  off. 

All.  Tou  must  be  patient,  mistress. 

Lov.  Here  is  a  precedent  to  teach  wicked  men, 
That  when  they  leave  religion,  and  turn  atheists, 
Their  own  abilities  leave  them.     Pray  you  take 

comfort, 
I  will  endeavour  you  shall  be  his  guardians 
In  his  distractions;  and  for  your  laud,  Master 

Wellborn, 
Ee  it  good  or  ill  in  law,  I'll  be  an  umpire 
Between  you,  and  this,  the  undoubted  heir 
Of  Sir  Giles  Overreach;  for  me,  here's  the  anchor 
That  I  must  fix  on. 

All.  What  you  shall  determine, 
My  lord,  I  will  allow  of. 

Well.  'Tis  the  language 
That  I  speak  too;  but  there  is  something  else 
Beside  the  repossession  of  my  land. 
And  payment  of  my  debts,  that  I  must  practise. 
I  had  a  reputation,  but  'twas  lost 


In  my  loose  course  ;  and  until  I  redeem  it 
Some  noble  way,  I  am  but  half  made  up. 
It  is  a  time  of  action  ;  if  your  lordship 
Will  please  to  confer  a  company  upon  me. 
In  your  command,  I  doubt  not,  in  my  service 
To  my  king  and  count  rj-,  but  I  shall  do  something 
That  may  make  me  right  again. 

Lov.  Your  suit  is  granted. 
And  you  loved  for  the  motion. 

Well,  [coming  forward.']  i^otldng  loants  then 
But  your  allowance ' — and  in  that  our  all 
Is  comprehended ;  it  being  ]:noion,  nor  %ve, 
Nor  he  that  wrote  the  comedy ,  can  he  free, 
Without  your  manumission ;  tvkich  if  you 
Grant  willingly,  as  a  fair  favour  due 
To  the  pottos,  and  our  laboxirs  (cis  you  may'). 
For  we  despair  not,  gentlemen,  of  the  play  : 
We  jointly  shall  profess  your  grace  hath  might 
To  teach  us  action,  and  him  how  to  lorite. 

[Exeunt. 


1  allowance — appiov&l. 


( 


JOHN    FORD. 


[This  dramatist  belonged  to  a  good  Devonshire  family,  being  tlie  second  son  of  Thomas 
Ford  of  Ilsington,  where  he  was  born  in  April  15S6.  It  is  not  known  how  he  passed 
his  earl}^  years  tiU  his  appearance  as  a  student  of  the  Middle  Temple,  which  he  entered 
in  November  1602.  Here  he  seems  diligently  to  have  prosecuted  his  professional  studies, 
and  apparently  was  so  successful  in  his  career  as  a  lawyer,  as  to  be  quite  independent  of 
literature  as  a  source  of  income.  Both  in  his  student  days  and  afterwards  he  appears  to 
have  led  a  sober,  respectable,  and  somewhat  retired  life,  exhibiting  a  marked  contrast 
in  this  respect  to  most  of  his  brother  dramatists.  He  made  his  first  appearance  as  an 
author  in  1606,  in  the  eighteenth  year  of  his  age,  Avhen  he  published  an  occasional 
poem,  entitled  Fame's  Memorial,  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Charles  Blunt,  Earl  of 
Devonshire.  His  first  essays  in  connection  with  the  drama  were  made  in  conjunction 
with  Webster,  Dekker,  and  others.  As  Ford  was  quite  independent  of  the  stage  for  a 
livelihood,  he  wrote  at  his  leisure,  and  more  for  love  than  reward.  His  first  inde- 
pendent dramatic  composition  was  The  Lover's  Melanclioly,  acted  in  1628  and  published 
in  1629,  although  possibly  'Tis  Pity  She's  a  Whore  had  possession  of  the  stage  previous 
to  the  former.  This  latter,  along  with  The  Broken  Heart  and  Love's  Sacrifice,  made 
its  ajjpearance  in  print  in  1633.  Next  year  appeared  'a  compact  consecutive  repre- 
sentation of  a  portion  of  English  history,'  under  the  title  of  Perkin  Warheck.  This  was 
followed  in  1638  by  a  comedy,  The  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble,  and  in  1639  by  his  tragi- 
comedy. The  Lady's  Trial.  Besides  these.  Ford  wrote  a  number  of  other  dramas,  now  irre- 
coverably lost.  It  has  been  supposed  that  this  dramatist  died  shortly  after  the  publication 
of  his  last  play  (1639)  ;  although  *  inquiries,  too  late  to  arrive  at  certainty,  have  scented 
a  faint  tradition  that  he  withdrew  to  his  native  place,  married,  became  a  father,  lived 
respected,  and  died  at  a  good  old  age. '  From  the  tenor  of  his  works  it  has  been  inferred 
that  Ford  was  of  a  somewhat  irritable  and  melancholy  temperament ;  and  this  opinion  gets 
some  countenance  from  a  contemporary  distich  which  photographs  him  thus : — 

*  Deep  in  a  dump  John  Ford  was  alone  got, 
With  folded  arms  and  melancholy  hat. ' 

Various  estimates  have  been  formed  of  Ford  as  a  dramatist,  although  nearly  all  critics 
agree  that  he  is  inferior  to  Massinger,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher ;  Weber,  however,  thinking 
that  he  excels  them  all  in  point  of  pathetic  effect.  Hazlitt  does  not  admire  him,  and 
says  truly,  that  the  general  characteristic  of  his  style  is  an  artificial  elaborateness, 
and,  of  course,  along  with  all  others,  reprobates  liis  morbid  love  of  repulsive  plots,  low 
characters,  and  filthy  language.  Mr.  Hartley  Coleridge  speaks  of  him  tlius : — 'He  disowned 
aU  courtship  of  the  vulgar  taste  ;  we  might  therefore  suppose  that  the  horrible  stoi'ies  which 
he  has  embraced  in  'Tis  Pity  She's  a  Whore,  The  Broken  Heart,  and  Love's  Sacrifice,  were 
his  own  choice,  and  his  own  taste.  But  it  would  be  unfair  from  hence  to  conclude  that  he 
delighted  in  the  contemplation  of  vice  and  misery,  as  vice  and  misery.  He  delighted  in  the 
sensation  of  intellectual  power,  he  found  himself  strong  in  the  imagination  of  crime  and  of 
agony  ;  his  moral  sense  was  gratified  by  indignation  at  the  dark  possibilities  of  sin,  by 
ctmpaBsiou  for  rare  extremes  of  suffering.      He  abhorred  vice — he  admired  virtue  ;   but 

460 


JOHN  FORD. 


461 


ordinary  vice  or  modern  virtue  were,  to  him,  as  light  wine  to  a  dram-drinker.  His  genius 
was  a  telescope,  ill-adapted  for  neighbouring  objects,  but  powerful  to  bring  within  the  sphere 
of  vision,  what  nature  has  wisely  placed  at  an  unsociable  distance.  Passion  must  be 
incestuous  or  adulterous,  grief  must  be  something  more  than  martyrdom,  before  he  could 
make  them  big  enough  to  be  seen.  UncLuestionably  he  displayed  great  power  in  these 
horrors,  which  was  all  he  desii'ed  ;  but  had  he  been  "  of  the  first  order  of  poets,"  he  would 
have  found  and  displayed  superior  power  in  "familiar  matter  of  to-day,"  in  failings  to  which 
all  are  liable,  virtues  which  all  may  practise,  and  sorrows  for  which  all  may  be  the  better. ' 

After  much  consideration  we  have  deemed  2Vie  Lady's  Trial  most  suitable  for  insertion 
in  these  pages.] 


THE     LADY'S    TRIAL: 

ACTED  BY  BOTH  THEIR  MAJESTIES'  SERVANTS  AT  THE  PRIVATE  HOUSE 

m  DRURY  LANE. 


FIDE  HONOR.! 

London.     1630. 


TO  MY  DE.SERVINGLT  HONOURED 

JOHN     WYRLEY,     ESQUIRE, 

AND   TO   THE  VIRTUOUS  AND   RIGHT  WORTHY  GENTLEWOMAN 

MRS.     MARY    WYRLEY,     HIS    WIFE, 

THIS  SERVICE. 


The  inequality  of  retribution  turns  to  a  pity, 
wheu  there  is  not  ability  sufficient  for  acknow- 
ledgment. Your  equal  respects  may  yet  admit 
the  readiness  of  endeavour,  though  the  very 
hazard  in  it  betray  my  defect.  I  have  enjoyed 
freely  acquaintance  with  the  sweetness  of  your 
dispositions,  and  can  justly  account,  from  the 
nobleness  of  them,  an  evident  distinction  be- 
twixt friendship  and  friends.  The  latter  (ac- 
cording to  the  practice  of  compliment)  are  usually 
met  with,  and  often  without  search  ;  the  other, 
many  have  searched  for,  I  have  found.  For 
which,  though  I  partake  a  benefit  of  the  fortune. 


yet  to  you,  most  equal  pair,  must  remain  the 
honour  of  that  bounty.  In  presenting  this  issue 
of  some  less  serious  hours  to  your  tuition,  I 
appeal  from  the  severity  of  censure  to  the  mercy 
of  your  judgments ;  and  shall  rate  it  at  a  higher 
value  than  when  it  was  mine  own,  if  you  only 
allow  it  the  favour  of  adoption.  Thus,  as  your 
happiness  in  the  fruition  of  each  other's  love 
proceeds  to  a  constancy ;  so  the  truth  of  mine 
shall  appear  less  unshaken,  as  you  shall  please  to 
continue  in  your  good  opinions. 

John  For.D. 


^ramaiis  Ifrsonic. 


AuRiA,  a  nolle  Genoese. 
Adurni,  a  young  Lord. 
AuRELio,  Frieiul  to  Auria. 
Malfato,  a  discontented  Lover. 
Trelcatio,)  (.^^.^^^^^  of  Genoa. 
Martino,    j  •' 

PiERO,      }  Dependents  on  Adukni. 


G  UZMAN,  a  hragqadocio  Spaniard. 
FULGOSO,  an  upstart  Gallant. 
Benatzi,  Husband  to  Leviuolche. 

Spinella,  Wife  to  Auria. 
Castanna,  her  Sister. 
Amoretta,  a  fantastic  Maid. 
Levidolche,  a  Wanton. 


Scene — Genoa. 


'  Fide  Honor.    An  anagram  on  Ford's  name,  sometimes  spelled  Forde. 


462 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


PROLOGXIE. 


Language  and  matter,  with  a  fit  of  mirth, 
That  sharply  savours  more  of  air  than  earth, 
Like  midwives,  bring  a  play  to  timely  birth. 

But  Where's  now  such  a  one,  in  which  these  three 
Are  handsomely  contriv'd  ?  or,  if  they  be, 
Are  understood  by  all  who  hear  to  see  ? 

"Wit,  wit's  the  word  in  fashion,  that  alone 
Cries  up  the  poet,  which,  though  neatly  shown. 
Is  rather  censui'ed,  oftentimes,  than  known. 

He  who  will  venture  on  a  jest,  that  can 
Eail  on  another's  pain,  or  idly  scan 
Affairs  of  state,  oh  !  he's  the  only  man  ! 


A  goodly  appi'obation,  which  must  bring 
Fame  with  contempt,  by  such  a  deadly  sting! 
The  Muses  chatter,  who  were  wont  to  sing. 

Your  favours  in  what  we  present  to-day ; 
Our  fearless  author  boldly  bids  me  say. 
He  tenders  you  no  satire,  but  a  play ; 

In  which,  if  so  he  have  not  hit  all  right, 

For  wit,  words,  mirth,  and  matter,  as  he  might. 

He  wishes  yet  he  had,  for  your  delight. 

Master  Bird.* 


1  Theophilus  Bird  was  a  celebrated  actor,  who  edited 
the  plays  of  various  dramatists. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  L 

A  Room  in  the  House  of  Avria. 

Enter  Piero  and  Futelli  at  opposite  doors. 

Piero.  Accomplished  man  of  fashion ! 

Fut.  The  times'  wonder  ! 
Gallant  of  gallants,  Genoa's  Piero  ! 

Piero.    Italy's   darling,  Europe's  joy,  and  so 
forth ! 
The  newest  news  unvamp'd.* 

Fut.  I  am  no  foot-post. 
No  pedlar  of  Avisos,  no  monopolist 
Of  forged  Corantos,  monger  of  gazettes. 

Piero.  Monger  of  courtezans,  fine  Futelli ; 
In  certain  land  a  merchant  of  the  staple 
For  wares  of  use  and  trade ;  a  taker-up, 
Eather  indeed  a  knocker-down ;  the  word 
"Will  carry  either  sense.     But  in  j)ure  earnest, 
How  trowls-  the  common  noise  ? 

Ftif.  Auria,  who  lately 
Wedded  and  bedded  to  the  fair  Spinella, 
Tired  with  the  enjoyments  of  delights,  is  hasting 
To  cuff  the  Turldsh  pirates  in  the  service 
Of  the  great  Duke  of  Florence. 

Piero.  Does  not  carry 
His  pretty  thing  along. 

Fut.  Leaves  her  to  buffet 
Land-pirates  here  at  home. 

Piero.  That's  thou  and  I ; 
Futelli,  sirrah,  and  Piero. — Blockhead  ! 
To  run  from  such  an  armful  of  pleasures, 
For  gaining — what  ? — a  bloody  nose  of  honour. 
Most  sottish  and  abominable! 

Fut.  Wicked, 
Shameful  and  cowardly,  I  will  maintain. 

Piero.  Is  all  my  signer's  hospitality, 
Huge  banquetings,  deep  revels,  costly  trappings. 
Shrunk  to  a  cabin,  and  a  single  welcome 
To  beverage  and  biscuit  ? 

Fut.  Hold  thy  peace,  man  ; 
It  makes  for  us.     He  comes ;  let's  part  demurely. 
[They  talce  different  sides. 


'  vnvamp'd.  I  have  not  met  with  this  singular  word. 
To  vamp,  is  to  cover  an  old  thing  with  a  new  part,  and 
the  word  in  the  text,  therefore,  signifies  uncovered, 
disclosed.  Perhaps  we  should  read  unva7np't—i.e.  dis- 
close it. — Weber. 

2  irotvls  — pauses  or  goes  round.  The  meaning  is, 
'What  is  the  common  talk  ? ' 


Enter  Adurni  and  Auria. 

Adzir.  We  wish  thee,  honour'd  Auria,  life  and 
safety ; 
Eeturn  ci^own'd  with  a  victory,  whose  wreath 
Of  triumph  may  advance  thy  country's  glory. 
Worthy  your  name  and  ancestors ! 

Aur.  My  lord, 
I  shall  not  live  to  thrive  in  any  action 
Deserving  memory,  when  I  forget 
Adurni's  love  and  favoiur. 

Piero.  I  present  you 
My  service  for  a  farewell ;  let  few  words 
Excuse  all  arts  of  compliment. 

Fut.  For  my  own  part, 
Kill  or  be  kill'd  (for  there's  the  short  and  long 
Call  me  your  shadow's  hench-boy.  [on't)) 

Aur.  Gentlemen, 
My  business  urging  on  a  present  haste, 
Enforceth  short  reply. 

Adur.  "We  dare  not  hinder 
Tour  resolution  wing'd  with  thoughts  so  constant. 
All  happiness ! 

Piero  and  Fut.  Contents  ! 

[Exeunt  Adurni,  Piero,  awcf  Futelli. 

Aur.  So  leave  the  winter'd  people  of  the  north, 
The  minutes  of  their  summer,  when  the  sun 
Departing  leaves  them  in  cold  robes  of  ice, 
As  I  leave  Genoa. — 

Enter  Trelcatio,  Spinella,  and  Castanna. 

Now  appears  the  object 
Of  my  apprenticed  heart.  Thoubring'st,  Spinella, 
A  welcome  in  a  farewell — souls  and  bodies 
Are  sever'd  for  a  time,  a  span  of  time, 
To  join  again,  without  all  separation, 
In  a  confirmed  unity  for  ever : 
Such  will  our  next  embraces  be,  for  life ; 
And  then  to  take  the  wreck  of  our  divisions. 
Will  sweeten  the  remembrance  of  past  dangers. 
Will  fasten  love  in  perpetuity. 
Will  force  our  sleeps  to  steal  upon  our  stories. 
These  days  must  come,  and  shall,  without  a  cloud. 
Or  night  of  fear  or  envy.    To  your  charge, 
Trelcatio,  our  good  uncle,  and  the  comfort 
Of  my  Spinella's  sister,  fair  Castanna, 
I  do  entrust  this  treasure. 

Trel.  I  dare  promise 
My  husbanding  that  trust  with  truth  and  care. 

Cast.  My  sister  shall  to  me  stand  an  example, 
Of  pouring  free  devotions  for  your  safety. 

Aur.    Gentle   Castanna,   thou'rt  a  branch  of 
goodness, 


JOHN  FORD. 


463 


Grown  on  the  selfsame  stock  with  my  Spinella. — 
But  why,  my  dear,  hast  thou  lock'd  up  thy  speech 

\To  Spin. 
Tn  so  much  silent  sadness  ?     Oh !  at  parting, 
Belike  one  private  whisper  must  be  sigh'd. — 
Uncle,  the  best  of  peace  enrich  your  family ! 
I  take  my  leave. 

Trd.  Blessings  and  health  preserve  you ! 

\Exlt. 

Aur.  Nay,  nay,  Castanna,  you  may  hear  our 
counsels : 
A  while  you  are    design'd    your  sister's  hus- 
band. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Spinella :  you  did  promise 
To  send  me  from  you  with  more  cheerful  looks, 
Without  a  grudge  or  tear ;  'deed,  love,  you  did. 

Spi.  What  friend  have  I  left  in  your  absence  ? 

Aur.  Many : 
Thy  virtues  are  such  friends,  they  cannot  fail 

thee; 
Faith,  purity  of  thoughts,  and  such  a  meekness 
As  would  force  scandal  to  a  blush. 

S^i.  Admit,  sir. 
The  patent  of  your  life  should  be  call'd  in ; 
How  am  I  then  left  to  account  with  griefs. 
More  slav'd  to  pity  than  a  broken  heart  ? 
Auria,  soul  of  my  comforts,  I  let  fall 
No  eye  on  breach  of  fortune;  I  contemn 
No  entertainment  to  divided  hopes, 
I  urge  no  pressures  by  the  scorn  of  change ; 
And  yet,  my  Auria,  when  I  but  conceive 
How  easy  'tis  (without  impossibility) 
Never  to  see  thee  more,  foi-give  me  then, 
If  I  conclude  I  may  be  miserable, 
Most  miserable. 

Cast.  And  such  conclusion,  sister, 
Argues  effects  of  a  distrust  more  voluntary, 
Than  cause  by  likelihood. 

Aur.  'Tis  true,  Castanna. 

Spi.  I  grant  it  truth ;  yet,  Auria,  I'm  a  woman. 
And  therefore  apt  to  fear :  to  show  my  diity, 
And  not  to  take  heart  from  you,  I'll  walk  from 

you. 

At  your  command,  and  not  as  m.uch  as  trouble 
Your  thought  with  one  poor  looking  back. 

Aur.  I  thank  thee, 
My  worthy  wife  !     Before  we  kiss,  receive 
This  caution  from  thine  Auria  :  first — Castanna, 
Let  us  bid  farewell. 

[C^VST.  walks  aside. 

Spi.  Speak,  good,  speak. 

Aur.  The  steps 
Young  ladies  tread,  left  to  their  own  discretion, 
However  wisely  piinted,  are  observed. 
And  construed  as  the  lookers-on  presume  : 
Point  out  thy  ways,  then,  in  such  even  paths. 
As  thine  own  jealousies  from  others'  tongues 
May  not  intrude  a  guilt,  though  undeserv'd. 
Admit  of  visits  as  of  physic  forced, 
Not  to  procure  health,  but  for  safe  prevention 
Against  a  growing  sickness ;  in  thy  use 
Of  time  and  of  discourse  be  found  so  thrifty, 
As  no  i-emembi'ance  may  impeach  thy  rest. 
Appear  not  in  a  fashion  that  can  prompt 
The  gazer's  eye,  or  holla,  to  report 
Some  widowed  neglect  of  handsome  value  : 
In  recreations  be  both  wise  and  free ; 
Live  still  at  home,  home  to  thyself,  howe'er 
Enrich'd  with  noble  company :  remember, 
A  woman's  virtue,  in  her  lifetime,  writes 
The  epitaph  all  covet  on  their  tombs  : 
In  short,  I  know  thou  never  wilt  forget 
Whose  wife  thou  art,  or  howixpon  thy  lips 
Thy  husband  at  his  parting  seal'd  this  kiss. — 
No  more.  [Kisses  her. 

Spi.  Dear  heaven !  go,  sister,  go. 

[^Exeunt  Spinella  and  Castanna, 


Aur.  Done  bravely, 
And  Hke  the  choice  of  glory,  to  know  mine- 
One  of  earth's  best  I  have  foregone — 

Enter  Aueelio. 

See,  see! 
Yet  in  another  I  am  rich,  a  friend, 
A  perfect  one,  Aurelio. 

Aurel.  Had  I  been 
No  stranger  to  your  bosom,  sir,  ere  now, 
You  might  have  sorted '  me  in  your  resolves, 
Companion  of  your  fortunes. 

Aur.  So  the  wrongs 
I  should  have  ventured  on  against  thy  fate 
Must  have  denied  all  pardon.     Not  to  hold 
Dispute  with  reputations,  why,  before 
This  present  instant,  I  conceal'd  the  stealth 
Of  my  adventures  from  thy  counsels, — know, 
My  wants  do  drive  me  hence. 
Aurel.  Wants  !  so  you  said, 
xind  'twas  not  friendly  spoken. 
Aur.  Hear  me  further. 

Aurel.  Auria,  take  heed  the  covert  of  a  folly 
Willing  to  range,  be  not,  without  excuse, 
Discover'd  in  the  coinage  of  untruths ; 
I  use  no  harder  language.     Thou  art  near 
Already  on  a  shipwreck,  in  forsaking 
The  holy  land  of  friendship  [and  forbearing] 
To  talk  your  wants. — Fie  ! 

Aur.  By  that  sacred  thing 
Last  issued  from  the  temple  where  it  dwelt, 
I  mean  our  friendship,  I  am  sunk  so  low 
In  my  estate,  that,  bid  me  live  in  Genoa 
But  six  months  longer,  I  survive  the  remnant 
Of  all  my  store. 
Aurel.  Umph! 
Aur.  In  my  country,  friend, 
Where  I  have  sided  2  my  superior,  friend, 
Sway'd  opposition,  friend ;  friend,  here  to  fall 
Subject  to  scorn,  or  rarely-found  compassion. 
Were  more  than  man  that  hath  a  soul  could  bear, 
xV  soul  not  stoop'd  to  servitude. 

Aurel.  You  show 
Nor  certainty  nor  weak  assurance  yet, 
Of  reparation  in  this  course,  in  case 
Command  be  proffei-'d. 

Aur.  He  who  cannot  merit 
Preferment  by  employments,  let  him  bare 
His  throat  unto  the  Turkish  cruelty. 
Or  die,  or  live  a  slave  without  redemption ! 
Aurel.  For  that,  so!    but  you  have  a  wife,  a 
young, 
A  fair  wife ;  she,  though  she  could  never  claim 
Plight  in  prosperity,  was  never  tempted 
By  trial  of  extremes  ;  to  youth  and  beauty 
Baits  for  dishonour,  and  a  pei-ish'd  fame. 
Aur.  Show  me  the  man  that  lives,  and  to  my 
face 
Dare  speak,  scarce  think,  such  tyranny  against 
Spinella's  constancy,  except  Aurelio — 
He  is  my  friend. 

Aurel.  There  lives  not  then  a  friend 
Dares  love  you  like  Aurelio  :  that  Aurelio 
Who,  late  and  early,  often  said,  and  truly. 
Your  marriage  with  Spinella  would  entangle 
As  much  the  opinion  due  to  your  discretion, 
As  your  estate  ;  it  hath  done  so  to  both. 
Aur.  I  find  it  hath. 
Aurel.  He  who  prescribes  no  law. 
No  limits  of  condition  to  the  objects 
Of  his  affection,  but  will  merely  wed 
A  face,  because  'tis  round,  or  limn'd  by  nature 
In  purest  red  and  white  ;  or,  at  the  best, 


'  sorted — chosen,  allotted. 

*  sided — equallecl,  matched. — Webek. 


464 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


For  that  his  mistress  owes  an  excellence 
Of  qualities,  knows  when  and  how  to  speak, 
Where  to  keep  silence,  with  fit  reasons  why ; 
Whose  virtues  are  her  only  dower  else  1 

In  either  kind,  ought  of  himself  to  master 
Such  fortunes  as  add  fuel  to  their  loves  ; 
For  otherwise — but  herein  I  am  idle,* 
Have  fool'd  to  little  purpose. 

Aur.  She's  my  wife. 

Aurel.  And  being  so,  it  is  not  manly  done 
To  leave  her  to  the  trial  of  her  wits, 
Her  modesty,  her  innocence,  her  vows  : 
This  is  the  way  that  points  her  out  an  art 
Of  wanton  life. 

Aur.  Sir,  said  ye? 

Aurd.  You  form  reasons, 
Just  ones,  for  your  abandoning  the  storms 
Which  threaten  your  own  ruin ;  but  propose 
No  shelter  for  her  honour  :  what  my  tongue 
Hath  utter'd,  Auria,  is  but  honest  doubt, 
And  you  are  wise  enough  in  the  construction. 

Aur.  Necessity  must  arm  my  confidence, 
Which,  if  I  live  to  triumph  over  friend, 
And  e'er  come  back  in  plenty,  I  pronounce 
Aurelio  heir  of  what  I  can  bequeath  ; 
Some  fit  deduction  for  a  worthy  widow 
AUow'd,  with  caution  she  bo  like  to  prove  so. 

Aurel.  Who  ?    I  your  heir  I    your  wife  being 
yet  so  young, 
In  every  probability  so  forward 
To  make  you  a  father .' — leave  such  thoughts. 

Aur.  Believe  it. 
Without  replies,  Aurelio  :  keep  this  note, 
A  warrant  for  receiving  from  Martino 
Two  hundred  ducats;  as  you  find  occasion 
Dispose  them  in  my  absence  to  Spinella  : 
I  would  not  trust  her  uncle, — he,  good  man, 
Is  at  an  ebb  himself ;  another  hundred 
I  left  with  her,  a  fourth  I  carry  with  me. 
Am  I  not  poor,  Aurelio,  now?     Exchange 
Of  more  debates  between  us,  would  undo 
My  resolution ;  walk  a  little,  pr'ythee, 
Friends  we  are,  and  will  embrace ;  but  let's  not 

speak 
Another  word. 

Aurel.  I'll  follow  you  to  your  horse.     [Exeunt. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 
A  Boom  la  the  House  q/ADURNi. 

Enter  Adurxi,  and  Futeli.i  with  a  letter, 
which  he  presents  to  Adurni. 

Adur.  With  her  own  hand  ? 

Fut.  She  never  used,  my  lord, 
A  second  means,  but  kiss'd  the  letter  fii'st, 
O'erlook'd  the  superscription  ;  then  let  fall 
Some  amorous  drops,  kiss'd  it  again,  talk'd  to  it 
Twenty  times  over,  set  it  to  her  mouth, 
Then  gave  it  me,  then  snatch'd  it  back  again, 
Then  cry'd,  '  Oh,  my  poor  heart ! '    and,  in  an 

instant, 
•Commend  my  truth  and  secrecy.'    Such  medley 
Of  passion  yet  I  never  saw  in  woman. 

Adur.  In  woman  ?  thou'rt  deceived ;  but  that 
we  both 
Had  mothers,  I  could  say  how  women  are, 
In  their  own  natures,  models  of  mere  change  ; 
Of  change  of  what  is  naught  to  what  is  worse. — 
She  fee'd  you  liberally? 

Fut.  Twenty  ducats 


'  else,  &.C.    There  is  apparently  some  defect  here. 
2  idle — foolish,  wealt Webek. 


She  forced  on  me  ;  vow'd,  by  the  precious  lovo 
She  bore  the  best  of  men  (I  use,  my  lord, 
Her  very  words),  the  miracle  of  men, 
Malfato, — then  she  sighed, — this  mite  of  gold 
Was  only  entrance  to  a  farther  bounty : 
'Tis  meant,  my  lord,  belike,  press-money. 

Adur.  Devil ! 
How  durst  she  tempt  thee,  Futelli,  knowing 
Thy  love  to  me  ? 

Fut.  There  lies,  my  lord,  her  cunning, 
Rather  her  craft ;  first  she  began,  what  pity 
It  was  that  men  should  differ  in  estates 
Without  proportion ;  some  so  strangely  rich, 
Others  so  miserable  poor ;  'and  yet,' 
Quoth  she,  '  since  'tis  [in]  very  deed  unfit 
All  should  be  equals,  so  I  must  confess. 
It  were  good  justice  that  the  properest  men 
Should  be  preferr'd  to  fortune,  such  as  nature 
Had  mark'd  with  fair  abilities  ;  of  which 
Genoa,  for  aught  I  know,  had  wond'rous  few, 
Not  two  to  boast  of.' 

Adur.  Here  began  her  itch. 

Fut.  I  answer'd  she  was  happy  then,  whose 
choice 
In  you,  my  lord,  was  singular. 

Adur.  Well  urg'd. 

Fut.  She  smiled,  and  said,  it  might  be  so;  and 
yet- 
There  stopp'd:  then  I  closed  with  her,  and  con- 
cluded 
The  title  of  a  lord  was  not  enough 
For  absolute  perfection  ;  I  had  seen 
Persons  of  meaner  quality,  much  more 
Exact  in  fair  endowments — but  your  lordship 
Will  pardon  me,  I  hope. 

Adur.  And  love  thee  for  it. 

Fut.  'Phew,  let  that  pass,'  quoth  she;   'and 
now  we  prattle 
Of  handsome  gentlemen,  in  my  opinion, 
Malfato  is  a  very  pretty  fellow ; 
Is  he  not,  pray,  sir  ?  '     I  had  then  the  truth 
Of  what  I  roved '  at,  and  with  more  than  praise 
Approv'd  her  judgment  in  so  hi^h  a  strain, 
Without  comparison,  my  honour  d  lord, 
That  soon  we  both  concluded  of  the  man, 
The  match  and  business. 

Adu7:  For  delivering 
A  letter  to  Malfato  ? 

Fut.  Whereto  I 
No  sooner  had  consented,  with  protests — 
(I  did  protest,  my  lord) — of  secrecy 
And  service,  but  she  kiss'd  me,  as  I  live. 
Of  her  own  free  accord — I  trust  your  lordship 
Conceives  not  me  amiss— pray  rip  the  seal. 
My  lord,  you'll  find  sweet  stuff,  I  dai-o  beliove. 

Adur.  \_reads.]  Present  to  the  most  accomjjlished 
of  men,  Malfata,  ivith  this  love  a  service. 
Kind  superscription  !  pr'ythee,  find  him  out. 
Deliver  it  with  compliment ;  observe 
How  ceremoniously  he  does  receive  it. 
Fut.  Will  not  your  lordship  peruse  the  con- 
tents ? 
Adur.  Enough,  I  know  too  much;  be  just  and 
cunning ; 
A  wanton  mistress  is  a  common  .^ewer. — 
Much  newer  project  labours  in  my  brain. 

Enter  Piero. 

Your  friend !  here's  now  the  Gemini  of  wit : 
What  odd  conceit  is  next  on  foot?  some  cast 
Of  neat  invention,  ha,  sirs? 

Piero.  Very  fine, 
I  do  protest,  my  lord. 


1  rot'ecZ— aimed,  a  term  in  archery. 


JOHN  FORD. 


46- 


Fut.  Your  lordship's  ear 
Shall  share  i'  th'  plot. 
Adur.  As  how  ? 
Piero.  You  know,  my  lord, 
Young  Amoretta,  old  Trelcatio's  daughter ; 
An  honest  man,  but  poor. 

Fut.  And,  my  good  lord, 
He  that  is  honest  must  be  poor,  my  lord  ; 
It  is  a  common  rule. 

Adur.  Well, — Amoretta. — 
Pray,  one  at  once — my  knowledge  is  not  much 
Of  her,  instruct  me. 
Piero.  Speak,  FutellL 
Fut.  Spare  me. 
Piero  has  the  tongue  more  pregnant.' 

Piero.  Fie! 
Play  on  your  creature? 
Fut.  Shall  be  yoixrs. 
Piero.  Nay,  good. 

Adur.  AVefl,  keep  your  mirth,  my  dainty  lionej-s ; 
agree 
Some  two  days  hence,  till  when — 

Piero.  Bj'  any  means. 
Partake  the  sport,  my  lord;  this  thing  of  youth — 
Fut.  Handsome  enough,  good  face,  quick  eye, 

well  bred. 
Piero.  Is  yet  possest  so  strangely — 
Fut.  With  an  humour 
Of  thinking  she  deserves — 

Piero.  A  duke,  a  count. 
At  least  a  viscount,  for  her  husband,  that — 

Fut.  She  scorns  all  mention  of  a  match  beneath 
One  of  the  foresaid  nobles ;  will  not  ride 
In  a  carocli  without  eight  horses. 

Piero.  Six 
She  may  be  drawn  to  ;  four — 

Fut.  Are  for  the  poor  : 
But  for  two  horses  iu  a  coach — 

Piero.  She  saj'S, 
They're  not  for  creatures  of  Heaven's  making  ; 
fitter— 
Fut.  Fitter  for  litters  to  convey  hounds  in. 
Than  people  Christian  :  yet  hei-self — 

Piero.  Herself 
Walks  evermore  a-foot,  and  knows  not  whether 
A  coach  doth  trot  or  amble — 
Fut.  But  by  hearsay. 

Adur.  Stop,  gentlemen,  you  run  a  gallop  both; 
Are  out  of  breath,  sure:  'tis  a  kind  of  compliment 
Scarce  euter'd  to  the  times ;  but  certainly 
You  coin  a  humour;  let  me  understand 
Deliberately  your  fancy. 

Piero.  Jn  plain  troth. 
My  lord,  the  she  whom  we  describe  is  such. 
And  lives  here,  here  iu  Genoa,  this  city, 
This  very  city,  now,  the  very  now. 
Adur.  Trelcatio's  daughter? 
Fut.  Has  refused  suitors 
Of  worthy  rank,  substantial  and  free  parts, 
Onl}''  for  that  they  are  not  dukes,  or  counts  ; 
Yet  she  herself,  with  all  her  father's  store, 
Can  hardly  -weigh  above  four  hundred  ducats. 
Adur.  Now,  your  design  for  sport  ? 
Piero.  Without  prevention : 
Guzman,    the    Spaniard    late    cashier'd,    most 

gravely 
Observes  the  full  punctilios  of  his  nation ; 
And  him  have  we  beleaguer'd  to  accost 
This  she-piece,  under  a  pretence  of  being 
Grandee  of  Spain,  and  cousin  to  twelve  j^rinces. 

Fut.  For  rival  unto  whom  we  have  enraged 
Fulgoso,  the  rich  coxcomb  lately  started 
A  gentleman,  out  of  a  sutler's  hut. 
In  the  late  Flemish  wars;  we  have  resolv'd  *  him 


^  pregnant — able,  ready. — Webek. 
*  resolv'd — satisfied,  convinced. 


He  is  descended  from  Pantagruel, 

Of  famous  memory,  by  the  father's  side. 

And  by  the  mother  from  dame  Fusti-Bunga, 

Who,  troubled  long  time  with  a  strangury, 

Vented  at  last  salt-water  so  abundautlj^. 

As  drown 'd  the  land  'twixt  Zirick-see  and  Vei-e, 

Where  steeples'  tops  are  only  seen.     He  casts 

Beyond  the  moon,  and  will  be  greater  yet, 

In  spite  of  Don. 

Adur.  You  must  abuse  the  maid, 
Beyond  amends. 

Fut.  But  countenance  the  course. 
My  lord,  and  it  may  chance,  beside  the  mirth, 
To  work  a  reformation  on  the  maiden : 
Her  father's  leave  is  granted,  and  thanks  pro- 
mised ; 
Our  ends  are  harmless  trials. 

Adur.  I  betray 
No  secrets  of  such  use. 

Piero  and  Fut.  Your  lordship's  humblest. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III. 
A  Room  in  Malfato's  House. 
Enter  Aurelio  and  Malfato. 

Aurel.  A  melancholy,  grounded,  and  resolv'd, 
Received  into  a  habit,  argues  love. 
Or  deep  impression  of  strong  discontents. 
In  cases  of  these  rarities  a  friend. 
Upon  whose  faith  and  confidence  we  may 
Vent  with  security  our  grief,  becomes 
Oft-times  the  best  physician ;  for,  admit 
We  find  no  remedy,  we  cannot  miss 
Advice  instead  of  comfort;  and  believe, 
It  is  an  ease,  Malfato,  to  disburthen 
Our  souls  of  secret  clogs,  where  they  may  find 
A  rest  in  pity,  though  not  in  redress. 

Mai.  Let  all  this  sense  be  yielded  to. 

Aurel.  Perhaps 
You  measure  what  I  say,  the  common  nature 
Of  an  officious  curiosity. 

Mai.  Not  I,  sir. 

Aurel.  Or  that  other  private  ends 
Sift  your  retirements. — 

Mai.  Neither. 

Enter  Futelli. 

Fut.  Under  favour, 
Signor  Malfato,  I  am  sent  to  crave 
Your  leisure,  for  a  word  or  two  in  private. 

Mai.  Tome!     Your  mind. 

Fut.  This  letter  will  inform  ye. 

\_Gives  Mm  the  letter. 

Mai.  Letter  ?  how's  this  ?  what's  here  ? 

Fut.  Speak  you  to  me,  sir  ? 

Mai.  Brave  riddle !  I'll  endeavour  to  unfold  it. 

Aurel.  How  fares  the  Lord  Adurni  ? 

Fut.  Sure  in  health,  sir. 

Aurel.  He  is  a  noble  gentleman,  withal_ 
Happy  in  his  endeavours :  the  general  voice 
Sounds  him  for  courtesy,  behaviour,  language, 
And  every  fair  demeanour,  an  example  ; 
Titles  of  honour  add  not  to  his  worth, 
Who  is  himself  an  honour  to  his  titles. 

Mai.  You  know  from  whence  this  comes  ? 

Fut.  I  do. 

Mai.  D'ye  laugh ! 
But  that  I  must  consider  such  as  spaniels 
To  those  who  feed  and  clothe  them,  I  would 

print 
Thy  pandarism  upon  thy  forehead: — there ! 

[Throios  him  the  letter. 
Bear  back  that  paper  to  the  hell  from  whence 
It  gave  thee  thy  directions !  tell  this  lord, 


2a 


466 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


He  ventured  on  a  foolish  policy, 

In  aiming  at  the  scandal  of  my  blood  ; 

The  trick  is  childish,  base, — ^say  base. 

Fut.  You  wrong  him. 

Auvel.  Be  wise,  Malfato. 

Mai.  Say,  I  know  this  whore. 
She  who  sent  this  temptation,  was  wife 
To  his  abused  servant ;  and  divorced 
From  poor  Benatzi,  senseless  of  the  wrongs, 
That  Madam  Levidolche  and  Adurni 
Might  revel  in  their  sports  without  control, 
Secure,  uncheck'd. 

Aurel.  You  range  too  wildly  now, 
Are  too  much  inconsiderate. 

Mai.  1  am 
A  gentleman  free-born  ;  I  never  wore 
The  rags  of  any  great  man's  looks,  nor  fed 
Upon  their  after-meals  ;  I  never  crouch'd 
Unto  the  offal  of  an  office  promised 
(Keward  for  long  attendance),  and  then  miss'd. 
I  read  no  difference  between  this  huge. 
This  monstrous  big  word  lord,  and  gentleman. 
More  than  the  title  sounds ;  for  aught  I  learn, 
The  latter  is  as  noble  as  the  first, 
I  am  sure  more  ancient. 

Aurel.  Let  me  tell  you  then. 
You  are  too  bitter,  talk  you  know  not  what. 
Make  all  men  equals,  and  confound  all  course 
Of  order,  and  of  nature  !  this  is  madness. 

Mai.  'Tis  so  ;  and  I  have  reason  to  be  mad. 
Reason,  Aurelio,  by  my  truth  and  hopes. 
This  wit  Futelli  brings  a  suit  of  love 
From  Levidolche,  one,  however  mask'd 
In  colourable  privacy,  is  famed 
The  Lord  Adurni's  pensioner,  at  least. 
Am  I  a  husband  pick'd  out  for  a  strumpet  ? 
For  a  cast  suit  of  bawdry  ?     Aurelio, 
You  are  as  I  am,  you  could  ill  digest 
The  trial  of  a  patience  so  unfit. — 
Begone,  Futelli,  do  not  mince  one  syllable 
Of  what  you  hear ;  another  fetch  like  this 
May  tempt  a  peace  to  rage :  so  say ;  begone ! 

Fut.  I  shall  report  your  answer.  \_Exit. 

Mai.  What  have  I 
Deserv'd  to  be  so  used !     In  colder  blood, 
I  do  confess  nobility  requires 
Duty  and  love ;  it  is  a  badge  of  virtue. 
By  action  first  acquired,  and  next  in  rank 
Unto  anointed  royalty. — Wherein 
Have  I  neglected  distance,  or  forgot 
Observance  to  superiors  ?  sure,  my  namo 
Was  in  the  note  mistook. 

Aurel.  We  will  consider 
The  meaning  of  this  mystery. 

Mai.  Not  so ; 
Let  them  fear  bondage  who  are  slaves  to  fear. 
The  sweetest  freedom  is  an  honest  heart. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IL— SCENE  L 

A  Street. 
Enter  Futelli  and  Guzman. 

Fut.  Dexterity  and  sufferance,  brave  Don, 
Are  engines  the  pure  politic  must  work  with. 

Guz.  We  understand. 

Fut.  In  subtleties  of  war,^ 
I  talk  t'ye  now  in  your  own  occupation, 
Your  trade,  or  what  you  please — unto  a  soldier, 
Surprisal  of  an  enemy  by  stratagem. 
Or  downright  cutting  throats,  is  all  one  thing. 

Guz.  Most  certain :  on,  proceed. 

Fut.  By  way  of  parallel ; 
You  drill  or  exercise  your  company 
(No  matter  which,  for  terms),  before  you  draw 


Into  the  field ;  so  in  the  feats  of  courtship, 
Fii'st,   choice  is  made  of  thoughts,   behaviour, 

words. 
The  set  of  looks,  the  posture  of  the  beard, 
Beso  las  manos,^  cringes  of  the  knee, 
The  very  hums  and  ha's,  thumps,  and  ah  me's ! 

Guz.  We  understand  all  these :  advance. 

Fut.  Then  next, 
Your  enemy  in  face, — ^your  mistress,  mark  it ! 
Now  you  consult  either  to  skirmish  slightly, 
That's  careless  amours, — or  to  enter  battle  ; 
Then  fall  to  open  treaty,  or  to  work 
By  secret  spies  or  gold  :  here  you  corrupt 
The  chambermaid,  a  fatal  engine,  or 
Place  there  an  ambuscado, — that's  contract 
With  some  of  her  near  friends,  for  half  her  por- 
tion ; 
Or  offer  truce,  and  in  the  interim, 
Eun  upon  slaughter,  'tis  a  noble  treachery. 
That's  swear  and  lie  ;  steal  her  away,  and  to  her 
Cast  caps,  and  cry  victoria/  the  field's 
Thine  own,  my  Don,  she's  thine. 

Guz.  We  do  vouchsafe  her. 

Fut.  Hold  her  then  fast. 

Guz.  As  fast  as  can  the  arms 
Of  strong  imagination  hold  her. 

Fut.  No, 
She  has  skipt  your  hold  ;  my  imagination's  eyes 
Perceive,  she  not  endures  the  touch  or  scent 
Of  your  war  over-worn  habiliments. 
Which  I  forgot  in  my  instructions 
To  warn  you  of:  therefore,  my  warlike  Don, 
Apparel  speedily  your  imaginations 
With  a  more  courtly  outside. 

Guz.  'Tis  soon  done. 

Fut.  As  soon  as  said ;  in  all  the  clothes  thou 
hast. 
More  than  that  walking  wardrobe  on  thy  back. 

\_Aside, 

Guz.  Imagine  first  our  rich  mockado  ^  doublet. 
With  our  cut  cloth -of -gold  sleeves,  and  our 

quellio,^ 
Our  diamond-button'd  callamanco  hose, 
Our  plume  of  ostrich,  with  the  embroider'd  scarf, 
The  Duchess  Infantasgo  roll'd  our  aim  in. 

Fut.  Ay,  this  is  brave  *  indeed  ! 

Guz.  Our  cloak,  whose  cape  is 
Larded  with  pearls,  which  the  Indian  caoiquo 
Presented  to  our  countryman  De  Cortez, 
For  ransom  of  his  life  ;  rated  in  value 
At  thirteen  thousand  pistolets  ;  the  guerdon 
Of  our  achievement,  when  we  rescued 
The  infanta  from  the  boar,  in  single  duel, 
Near  to  the  Austrian  forest,  with  this  rapier, 
This  only,  very,  naked,  single  rapier.  > 

Fttt.  Top  and  top-gallant  brave! 

Guz.  We  will  appear 
Before  our  Amoretta,  like  the  issue 
Of  our  progenitors. 

Fvt.  Imagine  so, 
And  that  this  rich  suit  of  imagination 
Is  on  already  now  (which  is  most  pi-obable) 
As  that  apparel : — here  stands  your  Amoreita, 
Make  your  approach  and  court  her. 

Guz.  Lustre  of  beauty. 
Not  to  affright  your  tender  soul  with  hon-oi, 
We  may  descend  to  tales  of  peace  and  love. 
Soft  whispers  fitting  ladies'  closets  ;  for 
Thunder  of  cannon,  roaring  smoke  and  fire. 
As  if  hell's  maw  had  vomited  confusion. 


1  'Kissing  hands.* 

2  mockado— a.  stuff  made  in  imitation  of  velvet,  and 
sometimes  of  silk. — Nares. 

3  qudiio—a.  corruption  of  the  Spanish  cueUo,  a  collar. 
— 'Weeer. 

*  trave— Scotch,  hraw;  gallant,  gorgeous. 


JOHN  FORD. 


4.67 


The  clash  of  steel,  the  neighs  of  barbed  steeds, 
Wounds  spouting  blood,  towns  capering  in  the 

air, 
Castles  push'd  down,  and  cities  plough'd  with 

swords, 
Become  great  Guzman's  oratory  best. 
Who,  though  victorious  (and  during  lifa 
Must  be),  yet  now  grants  parley  to  thy  smiles. 
Fitt.  S'foot,  Don,  you  talk  too  big,  you  make 
her  tremble ; 
Do  you  not  see't  imaginarily  ? 
I  do,  as  plainly  as  you  saw  the  death 
Of  the  Austrian  boar :  she  rather  hears 
Of  feasting  than  of  fighting ;  take  her  that  way. 
Guz.  Yes,  we  will  feast;  my  queen,  my  em- 
press, saint, 
Shalt  taste  no  delicates  but  what  are  drest 
With  costlier  spices  than  the  Arabian  bird 
Sweetens  her  funeral  bed  with  ;  we  will  riot 
With  every  change  of  meats,  which  may  renew 
Our  blood  unto  a  spring,  so  pure,  so  high, 
That  from  our  pleasures  shall  proceed  a  race 
Of  sceptre-beai'ing  princes,  who  at  once 
Must  reign  in  every  qiiarter  of  the  globe. 
Fut.  Can  more  be  said  by  one  that  feeds  on 
herring 
And  garlic  constantly  ?  \_Asidc. 

Guz.  Yes,  we  will  feast — 
Fut.  Enough!  she's  taken,  and  will  love  you 
now. 
As  well  in  buff,  as  your  imagined  bravery. 
Your  dainty  ten-times  drest  buff,  with  this  lan- 
guage, 
Bold  man  of  arms,  shall  win  upon  her,  doubt  not, 
Beyond  all  silken  puppetry.     Think  no  more 
Of  your  '  mockadoes,  callamancoes,  quellios. 
Pearl  -  larded    capes,    and    diamond  -  button'd 

breeches ; ' 
Leave  such  poor  outside  helps  to  puling  lovers. 
Such  as  Fulgoso,  your  weak  rival,  is, 
That  starveling-brain'd  companion  ;  appear  you. 
At  first  at  least,  in  your  own  warlike  fashion : 
I  pray  be  ruled,  and  change  not  a  thread  about 
you. 
Guz.    The  humour  takes ;  for  I,  sir,  am  a  man 
Affects  not  shifts :  I  will  adventure  thus. 

Fut.  Why,  so!  you  carry  her  from  all  the  world. 
I'm  proud  my  stars  design'd  me  out  an  instru- 
ment 
In  such  an  high  employment. 

Guz.  Gravely  spoken ; 
You  may  be  proud  on't. — 

Entei;  on  the  opposite  side,  Fulgoso  and  Pieko. 

Fid.  What  is  lost  is  lost. 
Money  is  trash,  and  ladies  are  et  CBSteras, 
Play's  play,  luck's  luck,  fortune's  an — I  know 

what ; 
You  see  the  worst  of  me,  and  what's  all  this  now  ? 

Piero.  A  very  spark,  I  vow  ;  you  will  be  styled 
Fulgoso  the  invincible.    But  did 
The  fair  Spinella  lose  an  equal  part  ? 
How  much  in  all,  d'you  say  ? 

Ful.  Bare  threescore  ducats, 
Thirty  apiece,  we  need  not  care  who  know  it. 
She  play'd ;    I  went  her  half,  walk'd  by,  and 

whistled — 
After  my  usual  manner  thus — unmoved, 

\  Whistles. 
As  no  such  thing  had  ever  been,  as  it  were, 
Although  I  saw  the  winners  share  my  money : 
His  lordship  and  an  honest  gentleman 
Purs'd  it,  but  not  so  merrily  as  I 
Whistled  it  off. 

Piero.  A  noble  confidence. 

Ful.  D'you  note  your  rival  ? 

Guz.  With  contempt  I  do. 


Ful.  I  can  forego  things  nearer  than  my  gold, 
Allied  to  my  affections,  and  my  blood  ; 
Yea,  honour,  as  it  were,  with  the  same  kind 
Of  careless  confidence,  and  come  off  fairly 
Too,  as  it  were. 

Piero.  But  not  your  love,  Fulgoso. 

Ful.  No,  she's  inherent,  and  mine  own  past 
losing. 

Piero.  It  tickles  me  to  think  with  how  much 
state, 
You,  as  it  were,  did  run  at  tilt  in  love. 
Before  your  Amoretta. 

Ful.  Broke  my  lance. 

Piero.  Of  wit !  of  wit ! 

Ful.  I  mean  so,  as  it  were, 
And  laid,  flat  on  her  back,  both  horse  and  woman. 

Piero.  Eight,  as  it  were. 

Ful.  What  else,  man,  as  it  were  ? 

Guz.  [crossing  over  to  Ful.]     Did  you  do  this 
to  her  ?  dare  you  to  vaunt 
Your  triumph,  we  being  present  ?  mot,  ha,  um. 

[Fulgoso  whistles  the  Spanish  Pavin.^ 

Fut.  What  think  you,  Don,  of  this  brave  man? 

Guz.  A  man ! 
It  is  some  truss  of  reeds,  or  empty  cask. 
In  which  the  wind  with  whistling  sports  itself. 

Fut.  Bear  up,  sir,  he's  your  rival,  budge  not 
from  him 
An  inch ;  your  grounds  are  honour. 

Piero.  Stoutly  ventured, 
Don,  hold  him  to't. 

Ful.  'Protest,  a  fine  conceit, 
A  very  fine  conceit ;  and  thus  I  told  her, 
That  for  mine  own  part,  if  she  lik'd  me,  so! 
If  not,  not ;  for  '  my  duck,  or  doe,'  said  I, 
'  It  is  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  am  noble: 
Grant  it ;  another  may  be  noble,  too. 
And  then  we're  both  one  noble  ;'  2  better  still ! — 
Hab-nab's  3  good  ;  wink  and  choose ;  if  one  must 

have  her. 
The  other  goes  without  her, — best  of  all ! — 
My  spirit  is  too  high  to  fight  for  woman, 
I  am  too  full  of  mercy  to  be  angry  ; 
A  foolish  generous  quality,  from  which 
No  might  of  man  can  beat  me,  I'm  resolv'd. 

Guz.  Hast  thou  a  spirit  then,  ha  ?  speaks  thy 
weapon 
Toledo  language,  Bilboa,  or  dull  Pisa  ?  * 
If  an  Italian  blade,  or  Spanish  metal. 
Be  brief,  we  challenge  answer. 

Fut.  Famous  Don. 

Ful.  What  does  he  talk?  my  weapon  speaks 
no  language, 
'Tis  a  Dutch  iron  truncheon. 

Guz.  Dutch! 

Fut.  And,  if  need  be, 
'Twill  maul  one's  hide,  in  spite  of  who  says  nay. 

Guz.  Dutch  to  a  Spaniard  !  hold  me. 

Ful.  Hold  me  too. 
Sirrah,    if    thou'rt   my   friend,    for    I    love   no 

fighting ; 
Yet  hold  me,  lest  in  pity  I  fly  off : 
If  I  must  fight,  I  must ;  in  a  scurvy  quarrel 
I  defy  he's  and  she's :  twit  me  with  Dutch ! 
Hang  Dutch  and  French,   hang   Spanish    and 

Italians, 
Christians  and  Turks.    Pew-waw,  all's  one  to  me ! 


'  Pavin — a  grave  and  majestic  dance,  from  Lat.  pavo, 
a  peacock. 

^  one  noble  —  a  quibble  upon  the  coin  so  named. — 
■Weber. 

3  //a6-na6— generally  spelled  hob-nob,  signifies,  '  let  it 
liappen  or  not,  it  is  all  one.' — Webek. 

*  Toledo  and  Bilboa  were  famous  for  tlieir  excellent 
sword- blades;  only  a  very  common  and  coarse  Idnd 
were  produced  at  Pisa.— Webee. 


468 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


I  know  what's  what,  I  know  upon  which  side 
My  bread  is  butter'd. 

Guz.  Butter'd  ?     Dutch  again  : 
You  come  not  with  intention  to  affront  us  ? 

Ful.  Front  me  no  fronts ;  if  thou  be'st  angry, 
squabble — 
Here's  my  defence,  and  thy  destruction. 

[  Whistles  a  charge. 
If  friends,  shake  hands,  and  go  with  me  to  dinner. 

Guz.  We  will  embrace  the  motion,  it  doth  relish 
The  cavaliero  treats  on  terms  of  honour  ; 
Peace  is  not  to  be  baulk'd  on  fair  conditions. 

Fut.  Still  Don  is  Don  the  great. 

Piero.  He  shows  the  greatness 
Of  his  vast  stomach  in  the  quick  embracement 
Of  th'  other's  dinner. 

Fut.  'Twas  the  ready  means 
To  catch  his  friendship. 

Piero.  You're  a  pair  of  worthies, 
That  make  the  Nino  no  wonder. 

Fut.  Now,  since  fate 
Ordains  that  one  of  two  must  be  the  man, 
The  man  of  men  which  must  enjoy  alone 
Love's  darling,  Amoretta  ;  both  take  liberty 
To  show  himself  before  her,  without  cross 
Of  interruption,  one  of  th'  other :  he 
Whose  sacred  mystery  of  earthly  blessings 
Crowns  the  pursuit,  be  happy. 

Piero.  And,  till  then. 
Live  brothers  in  society. 

Guz.  We  are  fast. 

Ful.  I  vow  a  match ;  I'll  feast  the  Don  to-day. 
And  fast  with  him  to-morrow. 

Guz.  Fair  conditions. 

Adurni,  Spimella,  Amoretta,  and  Castanna 
j)ass  over  the  Stage. 

Adur.  Futelli  and  Piero,  follow  speedily. 

Piero.  My  lord,  we  wait  you. 

Fut.  We  shall  soon  return. 

\^Exeunt  all  but  Ful.  and  Guz. 

Ful.  What's  that  I  saw  ? — a  sound. — 

Guz.  A  voice  for  certain. 

Ful.  It  named  a  lord. 

Guz.  Here  are  lords  too,  we  take  it ; 
We  carry  blood  about  us,  rich  and  haughty 
As  any  o'  the  twelve  Cajsars. 

Ful.  Gulls  or  Moguls, 
Tag,  rag,  or  other,  hogen-mogen,  vanden, 
Ship-jacks,  or  chouses.'     Whoo!   the  brace  are 

flinch'd, 
The  pair  of  shavers  are  sneak'd  from  us,  Don: 
Why,  what  are  we  ! 

Guz.  The  valiant  will  stand  to't. 

Ful.  So  say  I ;  we  will  eat  and  drink,  and 
squander, 
Till  all  do  sjjlit  again. 

Cue.  March  on  with  greediness.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  the  House  o/'Martino. 

Enter  Martino  and  Levidolcue. 

Mart.   You    cannot   answer  what  a  general 
tongue 
Objects  against  your  folly ;  I  may  curse 
The  interest  you  lay  claim  to  in  my  blood. 
Your  mother,  my  dear  niece,  did  die,  I  thought, 


1  chouses.  See  note  2,  col.  1,  p.  147.  Hogen-mogen 
and  vanden  (properly  van-der)  were  commonly  used  for 
ludicrously  denoting  a  Dutchman.  —  Weber.  Siip- 
jacks  were  youtlis  who  rode  hoises  up  and  down  for  the 
sight  of  purchasers.— Nabes. 


Too  soon,  but  she  is  happy :  had  she  lived 
Till  now,  and  known  the  vanities  your  life 
Hath  dealt  in,  she  had  wish'd  herself  a  grave 
Before  a  timely  houi-. 

Lev.  Sir,  consider 
My  sex;  were  1  mankind,  my  sword  should  quit' 
A  wounded  honour,  and  reprieve  a  name 
From  injury,  by  printing  on  their  bosoms 
Some  deadly  character,  whose  drunken  surfeits 
Vomit  such  base  aspersions :  as  I  am. 
Scorn  and  contempt  is  virtue ;  my  desert 
Stands  far  above  their  malice. 

Mart.  Levidolche, 
Hypocrisy  puts  on  a  holy  robe, 
Yet  never  changeth  nature  ;  call  to  mind 
How,  in  your  girl's  days,  you  fell,  forsooth, 
In  love,  and  mai-ried, — married  (hark  ye !)  whom? 
A  trencher- waiter ;  shrewd  preferment !  but 
Your  childhood  then  excused  that  fault ;  for  so 
Footmen  have  run  away  with  lusty  heirs. 
And  stable-grooms  reach'd  to  some  fair  one's 
chambers. 

Lev.  Pray  let  me  not  be  bandied,  sir,  and  baffled, 
By  your  intelligence. 

Mart.  So  touch'd  to  the  quick! 
Fine  mistress,  1  will  then  rip  up  at  length 
The  progress  of  your  infamy:  in  colour 
Of  disagreement,  you  must  be  divorced  ; 
Were  so,  and  I  must  countenance  the  reasons : 
On  better  hopes  I  did,  nay,  took  you  home. 
Provided  you  my  care,  nay,  justified 
Your  alteration ;  joy'd  to  entertain 
Such  visitants  of  worth  and  rank  as  tendcr'd 
Civil  respects  :  but  then,  even  then — 

Lev.  What  then  ? 
Sweet  uncle,  do  not  spare  me. 

Mart.  I  more  shame 
To  fear  my  hospitality  was  bawd, 
And  name  it  so,  to  your  unchaste  desires, 
Than  you  to  hear  and  know  it. 

Lev.  Whose  whore  am  I  ? 
For  that's  your  plainest  meaning. 

Mart.  Were  you  modest. 
The  word  you  utter'd  last  would  force  a  blush. 
Adurui  is  a  bounteous  lord,  'tis  said. 
He  parts  with  gold  and  jewels  like  a  free 
And  liberal  purchaser !  he  wriggles  in 
To  ladies'  pleasures  by  a  right  uf  pension ; 
But  you  know  none  of  this!  you  are  grown  a 

tavern-talk, 
Matters  for  fiddlers'  songs.     I  toil  to  build 
The  credit  of  my  family,  and  you 
To  pluck  up  the  foundation:  even  this  morning, 
Before  the  common-council,  young  Malfato — 
(Convented  ^  for  some  lands  he  held,  supposed 
Belong'd  to  certain  orphans),  as  I  questiou'd 
His  tenure  in  particulars,  he  answer'd. 
My  worship  needed  not  to  flaw  his  right ; 
For  if  the  humour  held  him,  he  could  make 
A  jointure  to  my  over-loving  niece. 
Without  oppression  ;  bade  me  tell  her  too, 
She  was  a  kind  young  soul,  and  might  in  time 
Be  sued  to  by  a  loving  man  :  no  doubt, 
Here  was  a  jolly  breakfast ! 

Lev.  Uncles  are  privileged 
More  than  our  parents ;  some  wise  man  in  stato 
Hath  rectified,  no  doubt,  your  knowledge,  sir. 
Whilst  all  the  policy  for  public  business 
Was  spent, — for  want  of  matter,  I  by  chance 
Fell  into  grave  discourse ;  but.  by  your  leave, 
I  from  a  stranger's  table  rather  wish 
To  earn  my  bread,  than  from  a  friend's  by  gift 
Be  daily  subject  to  unfit  reproofs. 


'  quit — requite. 

'  Vonvented  seems  here  to  mean  summoned. 


JOHN  FORD. 


469 


Mart.  Come,  come,  to  the  point. 

Lev.  All  the  curses 
Duo  to  a  ravisher  of  sober  trntb, 
Dam  up  their  graceless  mouths! 

Mart.  Now  you  turn  rampant, 
Just  in  the  wenches'  trim  and  garb ;  these  prayers 
Speak  your  devotions  purely. 

Lev.  Sir,  alas!  [Weeps. 

What  would  you  have  me  do?   I  have  no  orators, 
More  than  my  tears,  to  plead  my  innocence. 
Since  you  forsake  me,  and  are  pleas'd  to  lend 
An  open  ear  against  my  honest  fame. 
Would  all  their  spite  could  harry  '  my  contents 
Unto  a  desperate  ruin !     Oh,  dear  goodness  ! 
There  is  a  right  for  wrongs. 

Mart.  There  is  ;  but  first 
Sit  in  commission  on  your  own  defects. 
Accuse  yourself  ;  be  your  own  jury,  judge, 
And  executioner ;  I  make  no  sport 
Of  my  vexation. 

Lev.  All  the  short  remains 
Of  undesired  life  shall  only  speak 
The  extremity  of  penance ;  your  opinion 
Enjoins  it  too. 

Mart.  Enough  ;  thy  tears  prevail 
Against  credulity. 

Lev.  My  miseries. 
As  in  a  glass,  present  me  the  rent  face 
Of  an  unguided  youth. 

Mart.  No  more. 

Enter  Trelcatio  with  an  ojjen  letter. 

Trelcatio ! 
Some  business  speeds  you  hither. 

Trel.  Happy  news — 
Signor  Martino,  pray  your  ear:  my  nephew, 
Auria,  hath  done  brave  service ;  and  I  hear — 
Let's  be  exceeding  private — is  return'd 
High  in  the  Duke  of  Floi-ence's  respects ; 
'Tis  said — but  make  no  words— that  he  hasfirk'd- 
And  mumbled  the  rogue  Turks. 
Mart.  Why  would  you  have 
His  mei'its  so  unknown  ? 
,  Trel.  I  am  not  yet 
Confirm'd  at  full :— withdraw,  and  you  shall  read 
All  what  this  paper  talks. 
Mart.  So ! — Levidolche, 
You  know  our  mind,  be  cheerful. — Come,  Trel- 
catio,— 
Hauses  of  joy  or  grief  do  seldom  happen 
Without  companions  near;  thy  resolutions 
Have  given  another  birth  to  my  contents. 

\_Excunt  Maet.  and  Trel. 
Lev.  Even  so,  wise  uncle  !  much  good  do  ye. — 
Discover'd ! 
I  could  fly  out,  mix  vengeance  with  my  love — 
Unworthy  man,  Malfato  ! — my  good  lord. 
My  hot  in  blood,  rare  lord,  grows  cold  too !  well, 
Kise  dotage  into  rage,  and  sleep  no  longer ; 
Affection  turn'd  to  hati'ed  threatens  mischief. 

[Exit. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  III. 

An  Apartment  in  Adurxi's  House. 

Enter   Piero,    Amoretta,    Futelli,    and  Cas- 

TANNA. 

Piero.  In  the  next  gallery  you  may  behold 
Such  living  pictures,  lady,  such  rich  pieces, 
Of  kings,   and  queens,  and  princes,   that  you'd 

think 
They  breathe  and  smile  upon  you. 


'  harry — harass,  vex,  torment. — Nakes. 
^firk'd — beaten. 


Amor.  Ha'  tlioy  crownths. 
Great  crownths  oth  gold  upon  their  headths? 

Piero.  Pure  gold ; 
Drawn  all  in  state. 

Amor.  How  many  horthes,  pray, 
Are  ith  their  chariots  .' 

Piero.  Sixteen,  some  twenty. 

Cast.  My  sister!  wherefore  left  we  her  alone  ? 
Where  staj's  she,  gentlemen  ? 

F^it.  Viewing  the  rooms; 
'Tis  like  you'll  meet  her  in  the  gallery  : 
This  house  is  full  of  curiosities, 
Most  fit  for  ladies'  sights. 

Amor.  Yeth,  yeth,  the  thight 
Of  printhethes  ith  a  fine  thight. 

Cast.  Good,  let  us  find  her. 

Piero.  Sweet  ladies,  this  way ;  see  the  doors 
sure.  [Aside  to  Fut. 

Fut.  Doubt  not.  ^[Excimt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV. 

Another  Room  in  the  same. — A  Banquet  set  out. 

Enter  Adurni  and  Spinell.\. — A  Song  within. 

Pleasures,  beauty,  j-outh  attend  ye. 

Whilst  the  spring  of  nature  histeth  ; 
Love  and  melting  thoughts  attend  ye, 
Use  the  time,  ere  winter  hasteth. 
Active  blood,  and  free  delight, 
Place  and  privacy  invite. 
Do,  do!   be  kind  as  fair. 
Lose  not  opportunity  for  air.' 

She  is  cruel  that  denies  it. 

Bounty  best  appears  in  grantinpf, 
Stealth  of  sport  as  soon  supplies  it, 
Whilst  the  dues  of  love  are  wanting. 
Here's  the  sweet  exchange  of  bliss 
When  each  whisper  proves  a  kiss. 
In  the  game  are  felt  no  pains. 
For  in  all  the  loser  gains. 

Adur.  Plead  not,  fair  creature,  without  sense 
of  pity, 
So  incompassionately  'gainst  a  service. 
In  nothing  faulty  more  than  pure  obedience : 
My  honours  and  my  fortunes  are  led  captives 
In  triumph,  by  your  all-commanding  beauty; 
And  if  you  ever  felt  the  power  of  love, 
The  rigour  of  an  uncontrolled  passion. 
The  tyranny  of  thoughts,  consider  mine, 
In  some  proportion,  by  the  strength  of  yours; 
Thus  may  you  yield  and  conquer. 

Sjnn.  Do  not  study, 
My  lord,  to  apparel  folly  in  the  weed 
Of  costly  colours ;   henceforth  cast  off  far. 
Far  from  your  noblest  nature,  the  contempt 
Of  goodness,  and  be  gentler  to  your  fame. 
By  purchase  of  a  life  to  grace  your  story. 

Adur.  Dear,  how  sweetly 
Eeproof   drops   from   that   balmy   spring    your 

breath ! 
Now  could  I  read  a  lecture  of  my  griefs, 
Unearth  a  mine  of  jewels  at  your  foot. 
Command  a  golden  shower  to  rain  down, 
Impoverish  every  kingdom  of  the  east. 
Which  traffics  richest  clothes,  and  silks,  would 

you 
Vouchsafe  one  unspleen'd  chiding  to  my  not, 
Else  such  a  sacrifice  can  but  beget 
Suspicion  of  returns  to  my  devotion. 
In  mercenary  blessings  ;  for  that  saint 
To  whom  I  vow  myself,  must  never  want 
Fit  offerings  to  her  altar. 


1  air  must  here  mean  haughty  affectation  of  virtue. 

— WEBliK. 


470 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Spin.  Auria,  Auria, 
Fight  not  for  name  abroad;  but  come,  my  hus- 
band, 
Fight  for  thy  wife  at  home  ! 

Adur.  Oh,  never  rank, 
Dear  cruelty,  one  that  is  sworn  your  creature. 
Amongst  your  country's  enemies  ;  I  use 
No  force,  but  humble  words,  deliver'd  from 
A  tongue  that's  secretary  to  my  heart. 

Spin.  How  poorly  some,  tame  to  their  wild 
desires. 
Fawn  on  abuse  of  virtue  !     Pray,  my  lord, 
Make  not  your  house  my  prison. 

Adur.  Grant  a  freedom 
To  him  who  is  the  bondman  to  your  beautj'. — 
\^A  noise  within,  and  the  door  is  forced. 

Enter  Avrelio,  followed  by  Castanna,  Amo- 

EETTA,  FUTELLI,  and  PlERO. 

Aurel.  Keep  back,  ye  close  contrivers  of  false 
pleasures, 
Or  I  shall  force  ye  back. — Can  it  be  possible  ? 
Lock'd  up,  and  singly  too !  chaste  hospitality ! 
A  banquet  in  a  bed-chamber !  Adurni,     , 
Dishonourable  man ! 

Adur.  What  sees  this  rudeness. 
That  can  broach  scaudal  here  ? 

Aurel.  For  you,  hereafter. — 
Oh,  woman,  lost  to  every  brave  report, 
Thy  wrong'd  Auria  is  come  home  with  glory  ! 
Prepare  a  welcome  to  uncrown  the  greatness 
Of  his  prevailing  fates. 

Spin.  Whiles  you,  belike, 
Are  furnish'd  with  some  news  for  entertainment, 
Which  must  become  your  friendship,  to  be  knit 
More  fast  betwixt  your  souls,  by  my  removal 
Both  from  his  heart  and  memory ! 

Adur.  Eich  conquest, 
To  triumph  on  a  lady's  injured  fame, 
Without  a  proof  or  warrant ! 

Fut.  Have  I  life,  sir .' 
Faith  ?  Christianity  ? 

Piero.  Put  me  on  the  rack, 
The  wheel,  or  the  galleys,  if — 

Aurel.  Peace,  factors 
In  merchandise  of  scorn!  your  sounds  are  deadly. 
Castanna,  I  could  pity  your  consent 
To  such  ignoble  practice  ;  but  I  find 
Coarse  fortunes  easily  seduced,  and  herein 
All  claim  to  goodness  ceases. 

Cast.  Use  your  tyranny. 

Spin.  What  rests  behind  for  me  ?  out  with  it  I 

Aurel.  Horror, 
Becoming  such  a  forfeit  of  obedience  ; 
Hojje  not  that  any  falsity  in  friendship 
Can  palliate  a  broken  faith,  it  dares  not. 
Leave,  in  thy  prayers,  fair,  vow-breaking  wanton, 
To  dress  thy  soul  anew,  whose  purer  whiteness 
Is  sullied  by  thy  change  from  truth  to  folly. 
A  fearful  storm  is  hovering,  it  will  fall : 
No  shelter  can  avoid  it :  let  the  guilty 
Sink  under  their  own  ruin.  \_Exit. 

Spin.  How  unmanly 
His  anger  threatens  mischief ! 

Amor.  Whom,  I  pr'ythee. 
Doth  the  man  speak  to  ? 

Adur.  Lady,  be  not  mov'd  ; 
I  will  stand  champion  for  yom'  honour,  hazard 
All  what  is  dearest  to  me. 

Spin,  Mercy,  heaven ! 
Champion  for  me,  and  Auria  living !     Auria ! 
He  lives;  and,  for  my  guard,  my  innocence, 
As  free  as  are  my  husband's  clearest  thoughts, 
Shall  keep  off  vain  constructions.     I  must  beg 
Your  charities ;  sweet  sister,  yours,  to  leave  me; 
I  need  no  followers  now :  let  me  appear, 
Or  mine  own  lawyer,  or,  in  open  court. 


(Like  some  forsaken  client),  in  my  suit 

Be  cast  for  want  of  honest  plea — oh,  misery  ! 

[Exit. 
Adur.  Her  resolution's  violent; — quickly  follow. 
Cast.  By  no  means,  sir:  you've  followed  her 
already, 
I  fear,  with  too  much  ill  success,  in  trial 
Of  unbecoming  courtesies,  your  welcome 
Ends  in  so  sad  a  farewell. 

Adur.  I  will  stand 
The  roughness  of  th'  encounter,  like  a  gentleman. 
And  wait  ye  to  your  homes,  whate'er  befall  me. 

lExeuiit. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  L 

The  Street  hefore  Martino's  House. 
Enter  Fulgoso  and  Guzjian. 

Ful.  I  say,  Don,  brother  mine,  win  her  and 
wear  her. 
And  so  will  I ;  if't  be  my  luck  to  lose  her, 
I  lose  a  pretty  weuch,  and  there's  the  worst  on't. 

Guz.    Wench,   said    ye  ?    most  mechanically, 
faugh ! 
Wench  is  your  trull,  your  blowze,i  your  dowdie  ; 

but. 
Sir  brother,  he  who  names  my  queen  of  love 
Without  his  bonnet  veil'd,  or  saying  grace. 
As  at  some  paranymphal  feast,  is  rude. 
Nor  vers'd  in  literature.     Dame  Amoretta, 
Lo,  I  am  sworn  thy  champion ! 

Ful.  So  am  I  too, — 
Can  as  occasion  serves,  if  she  turns  scurvy, 
Unswear  myself  again,  and  ne'er  change  colours. 
Pish,   man  !   the   best,   though  call   'em  ladies, 

madams. 
Fairs,  fines,  and  honeys,  are  but  flesh  and  blood, 
And  now  and  then  too,  when  the  fit's  come  on 

'em. 
Will    prove  themselves  but  flirts,   and  tirliry- 
pufkins. 

Guz.  Our  choler  must  advance. 

Ful.  Dost  long  for  a  beating  ? 
S  hall's  try  a  slash  ?  here's  that  shall  do't ;  I'll  tap 

[Draws. 
A  gallon  of  thy  brains,  and  fill  thy  hogshead 
With  two  of  wine  fort. 

Guz.  Not  in  friendship,  brother. 

Ful.  Or  whistle  thee  into  an  ague  :  hang  it. 
Be  sociable  ;  drink  till  we  roar  and  scratch  ; 
Then  drink  ourselves  asleep  again  : — the  fashion ! 
Thou  dost  not  know  the  fashion. 

Guz.  Her  fair  eyes. 
Like  to  a  pair  of  pointed  beams  drawn  from 
The  sun's  most  glorious  orb,  do  dazzle  sight. 
Audacious  to  gaze  there  ;  then  over  those 
A  several  bow  of  jet  securely  twines 
In  semicircles ;  under  them  two  banks 
Of  roses  red  and  white,  divided  by 
An  arch  of  polish'd  ivory,  surveying 
A  temple  from  whence  oracles  proceed. 
More  gracious  than  Apollo's,  more  desired 
Than  amorous  songs  of  poets,  softly  tuned. 

Ful.  Heyday  !  what's  this  ? 

Guz.  Oh !  but  those  other  parts, 
All— 

Ful.  All  ?— hold  there,  I  bar  play  under  board, 
My  part  yet  lies  therein  ;  you  never  sa,w 
The  things  you  wire-draw  thus. 


^Wowze  —  a  vulgar  term  for  a  ruddy  country  girL 
TirHry-pufkins,  which  occurs  lower  down,  was  probably 
a  cant  word  for  strumpet  at  the  time. — Webeb. 


JOHN  FORD. 


471 


Guz.  I  have  di-eamt 
Of  every  part  about  her,  can  lay  oi:)en  _ 
Her  several  inches,  as  exactly — mark  it — 
As  if  I  had  took  measure  with  a  compass, 
A  rule,  or  yard,  from  head  to  foot. 

Ful.   Oh,  rare  ! 
And  all  this  in  a  di-eam ! 

Guz.  A  very  dream. 

Ful.  My  waking  brother  soldier  is  turn'd 
Into  a  sleeping  carpenter,  or  tailor, 
Which  goes  for  half  a  man. — What's  he  ?  (seeing 
Benatzi)  bear  up ! 

Enter  Benatzi,  as  an  outlatv,  Levidolche  at  a 

window  above. 

Ben.  Death  of  rep>utation,  the  wheel,  strappado, 
galleys,  rack,  are  ridiculous  fopperies ;  goblins 
to  fright  babies.  Poor  lean-soul'd  rogues  I  they 
will  swoon  at  the  scar  of  a  pin  ;  one  tear  dropp'd 
from  their  harlot's  eyes  breeds  earthquakes  in 
their  bones. 

Ful.  Bless  us!  a  monster,  patch'd  of  dagger- 
bombast. 
His  eyes  like  copper-basons  ;  he  has  changed 
Hair  with  a  shag-dog. 

Guz.  Let  us  then  avoid  him. 
Or  stand  upon  our  guard ;  the  foe  approaches. 

Ben.  Cutthroats  by  the  score  abroad,  come 
home,  and  rot  in  fripperies.*  Brave  man-at-arms, 
go  turn  pander,  do;  stalk  for  a  mess  of  warm 
broth  —  damnable  !  honourable  cuts  are  but 
badges  for  a  fool  to  vaunt ;  the  raw  -  ribb'd 
apothecary  poisons  cum  privilegio,  and  is  paid. 
Oh,  the  commonwealth  of  beasts  is  most  politicly 
ordered ! 

Guz.   Brother,   we'll  keep  aloof,   there  is  no 
valour 
In  tugging  with  a  man-iiend. 

Ful.  I  defy  him. 
It  gabbles  like  I  know  not  what : — believe  it. 
The  fellow's  a  shrewd  fellow  at  a  pink. 

Ben.  Look  else :  the  lion  roars,  and  the  spaniel 
fawns;  down,  cur;  the  badger  bribes  the  unicorn, 
that  a  jury  may  not  pass  upon  his  pillage :  hero 
the  bear  fees  the  wolf,  for  he  will  not  howl  gratis ; 

— beasts  call  pleading  howling So  then !  there 

the  horse  complains  of  the  ape's  rank  riding ;  the 
jockey  makes  mouths,  but  is  lined  for  it ;  the  stag 
is  not  jeer'd  by  the  monkey  for  his  horns ;  the 
ass  by  the  hare  for  his  burthen ;  the  ox  by  the 
leopard  for  his  yoke;  nor  the  goat  by  the  ram 
for  his  beard :  only  the  fox  wraps  himself  warm 
in  beaver,  bids  the  cat  mouse,  the  elephant  toil, 
the  boar  gather  acorns  ;  while  he  grins,  feeds 
fat,  tells  tales,  laughs  at  all,  and  sleeps  safe  at 
the  lion's  feet. — Save  ye,  people. 

Ful.  Why,  save  thee  too,  if  thou  be'st  of  Hea- 
ven's making: 
What  art  ?  -«-  fear  nothing,  Don,  we  have  our 

blades. 
Are  metal  men  ourselves,  try  us  who  dare. 

Guz.  Our  brother  speaks  our  mind,  think  what 
you  please  on"t. 

Ben.  A  match ;  observe  well  this  switch  ;  with 
this  only  switch  have  I  pash'd  -  out  the  brains  of 
thirteen  Turks  to  the  dozen,  for  a  breakfast. 

Ful.  What,  man,  thirteen!  is't  possible  thou 
liest  not  ? 

Ben.  I  was  once  a  scholar,  then  I  begg'd  with- 
out pity ;  from  thence  I  practised  law,  there  a 
scruple  of  conscience  popp'd  me  over  the  bar :  a 
soldier  I  turn'd  a  while,  but  could  not  procure 
the  letter  of  preferment.    Merchant  I  would  be. 


1  fripperies — old  clothes  shops. — WitEEr.. 

2  pash'd — bash'd,  knocked. 


and  a  glut  of  land-rats  gnaw'd  me  to  the  bones ; 
would  have  bought  an  office,  but  the  places  with 
reversions  were  catch'd  up  ;  offered  to  pass  into 
the  court,    and  wanted  trust  for   clothes ;    was 
lastly,  for  my  good  parts,  press'd  into  the  galleys, 
took  prisoner,  redeemed  amongst  other  slaves  by 
your  gay  great  man,  they  call  him  Auria ;  and 
am  now  I  know  not  who,  where,  or  what.     How 
d'ye  like  me  .' — say. 
Ful.  A  shaver  of  all  trades !     What  course  of 
life 
Dost  mean  to  follow  next?  ha!  speak  thy  mind. 
Guz.  Nor  be  thou  daunted,  fellow;  we  om-- 
selves 
Have  felt  the  frowns  of  fortune  in  our  days. 
Ben.  I  want  extremely,  exceedingly,  hideously. 
Lev.  [^Above.l  Take  that,  enjoy  it  freely,  wisely 
use  it,  [to] 
Th'  advantage  of  thy  fate,  and  know  the  giver. 

[Thi'ows  him  a  purse,  and  draws  back. 

Ful.  Heyday !  a  purse  in  troth,  who  dropp'd  ? 
— stay,  stay : 
Umph,  have  we  gipsies  here ?  oh,  mine  is  safe; 
Is't  your  purse,  brother  Don? 

Guz.  Not  mine ;  I  seldom 
Wear  such  unfashionable  trash  about  me. 

Ful.  Has  it  any  money  in  it,  honest  blade  ? 
A  bots '  on  empty  purses ! 

Guz.  We  defy  them. 

Ben.  Stand  from  about  me,  as  you  are  mortal ! 
You  are  dull  clod-pated  lumps  of  mire  and  gar- 
bish.  This  is  the  land  of  fairies.  —  Imperial 
queen  of  elves,  I  do  crouch  to  thee,  vow  my 
services,  my  blood,  my  sinews  to  thee,  sweet 
sovereign  of  largess,  and  liberality. — A  French 
tailoi- — neat !  —  Persian  cook  —  dainty  ! — Greek 
wines — rich ! — Flanders  mares — stately ! — Span- 
ish salads  —  poignant! — Venetian  wanton — ra- 
vishing !  —  English  bawd — unmatchable  ! — Sirs, 
I  am  fitted. 

,    Ful.  All  these  thy  followers?  miserable  pig- 
mies ! 
Prate  sense  and  don't  be  mad ;  I  like  thy  humour, 
'Tis  pretty,  odd,  and  so — as  one  might  say, 
I  care  not  greatly  if  I  entertain  thee : 
Dost  want  a  master  ?  if  thou  dost,  I  am  for  thee ; 
Else   choose,  and  sneck  up!-  pish,  I  scorn  to 
flinch,  man. 

Guz.  Forsake  not  fair  advancement;  money, 
certes, 
Will  flit  and  drop  off,  like  a  cozening  friend ; 
Who  holds  it,  holds  a  slippery  eel  by  th'  tail, 
Unless  he  gripe  it  fast :  be  ruled  by  counsel. 

Ben.  Excellent !  what  place  shall  I  be  admitted 
to  ?  chamber,  wardrobe,  cellar,  or  stable  ? 

Ful.  Why,  one  and  all;  thou'rt  "welcome,  let'a 
shake  hands  on't. 
Thy  name? 

Ben.  Parado,  sir. 

Ful.  The  great  affairs 
I  shall  employ  thee  most  in,  will  be  news. 
And  telling  what's  a  clock,  for  avight  I  know  yet. 

Ben.  It  is,  sir,  to  speak  punctually,  some  hour 
and  half,  eight  three  thirds  of  two  seconds  of 
one  minute  over  at  most,  sir. 

Ful.  I  do  not  ask  thee  now,  or  if  I  did, 
We  are  not  much  the  wiser:  and  for  news — 

Ben.  Auria,  the  fortunate,  is  this  day  to  be  re- 
ceived with  great  solemnity  at  the  cit}'  council- 
house  ;  the  streets  are  already  throng'd  "with 
lookers-on. 


1  hots  are  a  kind  of  ■worms  that  feed  on  horses.- 
^YEBER.    Sometimes  used  for  pax. 
-  S7ieck  up — be  hanged. 


472 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ful.    That's  well  remember'd  ;   brother  Don, 

let's  trudge, 
Or  we  shall  come  too  late. 
G»z.  By  no  means,  brother. 
Fxd.  AVait  close,  my  ragged  new-come. 
Ben.  As  your  shadows.  \Exeunt. 


ACT  III.-SCENE  II. 

A  Eall  in  the  House  of  Auria. 

Enter  Aukia,  Adurxi,  Martino,  Trelcatio, 
AuRELio,  PiERO,  and  Futelli. 

Aur.  Your  favours,  with  these  honours,  speak 
your  bounties ; 
And  though  the  low  deserts  of  success 
Appear,  in  your  constructions,  fair  and  goodly, 
Yet  I  attribute  to  a  noble  cause, 
Not  my  abilities,  the  thanks  due  to  them. 
The  Duke  of  Florence  had  too  highly  prized 
My  duty  in  my  service,  by  example, 
Eather  to  cherish  and  encourage  virtue. 
In  spirits  of  action,  than  to  crown  the  issue 
Of  feeble  undertakings.     Whilst  my  life 
Can  stand  in  use,  I  shall  no  longer  rate  it 
In  value,  than  it  stirs  to  pay  that  debt 
I  owe  my  country  for  my  birth  and  fortunes. 

Mart.  Which  to  make  good,  our  state  of  Genoa, 
Not  willing  that  a  native  of  her  own. 
So  able  for  her  safety,  should  take  pension 
From  any  other  prince,  hath  cast  upon  you 
The  government  of  Corsica. 

Trel.  Adds  thereto. 
Besides  th'  allowance  yearly  due,  for  ever, 
To  you  and  to  your  heirs,  the  full  revenue 
Belonging  to  Savona,  with  the  office 
Of  admiral  of  Genoa. 

Adur.  Presenting 
By  my  hands,  from  their  public  treasury, 
A  thousand  ducats. 

Mart.  But  they  limit  only 
One  month  of  stay  for  your  despatch ;  no  more. 

Fut.  In  all  your  great  attempts,  may  you  grow 
thrifty, 
Secure  and  prosperous ! 

Piero.  If  you  please  to  rank, 
Amongst  the  humblest,  one  that  shall  attend 
Instructions  under  your  command,  I  am 
Beady  to  wait  the  charge. 

Aur.  Oh,  still  the  state 
Engageth  me  her  creature,  with  the  burthen 
Unequal  for  my  weakness :  to  you,  gentlemen, 
I  will  prove  friendly  honest ;  of  all  mindful. 

Adur.   In  memory,   my  lord    (such  is  your 
stj'le  now). 
Of  your  late  fortunate  exploits,  the  council. 
Amongst  their  general  acts,  have  register'd 
The  great  duke's  letters,  witness  of  your  merit, 
To  stand  in  characters  upon  record. 

Aur.   Load  upon  load  I   let  not  my  want  of 
modesty 
Trespass  against  good  manners ;  I  must  study 
Retirement  to  compose  this  ■weighty  business. 
And  moderately  digest  so  large  a  plenty, 
For  fear  it  swell  into  a  sui'feit. 

Adur.  May  I 
Be  bold  to  pi'ess  a  visit .' 

Aur.  At  your  pleasure: 
Good  time  of  day,  and  peace ! 

All.  Health  to  j'our  lordship! 

\_Exeunt  all  hut  Adurni  and  Futelli. 

Adur.  What  of  Spinella  yet? 

Fut.  Quite  lost;  no  prints. 
Or  any  tongue  of  tracing  her.     However 
Matters  are  huddled  up,  I  doubt,  my  lord. 
Her  husband  carries  little  peace  about  him. 


Adur.  Fall  danger  what  fall  can,  she  is  a  good- 
ness 
Above  temptation  ;  more  to  be  adored 
Than  sifted;  I'm  to  blame,  sure. 

Fut.  Levidolche, 
For  her  part  too,  laugh'd  at  Malfato's  frenzy 
(Just  so  she  term'd  it);  but  for  you,  my  lord, 
She  said  she  thank'd  your  charitj-,  which  lent 
Her  crooked  soul,  before  it  left  her  body, 
Some  respite,  wherein  it  might  learn  again 
The  means  of  growing  straight. 

Adtir.  She  has  found  mercy  ; 
Which  I  will  seek  and  sue  for. 

Fut.  You  are  happy.  \^Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III. 
Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Auria  and  Aurelio. 

Aur.  Count  of  Savona !  Genoa's  admiral ! 
Lord  governor  of  Corsica  I  enroll'd 
A  worthy  of  my  country  !  sought  and  sued  to. 
Praised,  courted,   flatter'd!    sure   this  bulk*  of 

mine 
Tails  in  the  size  a  tympany  of  greatness. 
Puffs  up  too  monstrously  raj'  narrow  chest. 
How  surely  dost  thou  malice-  these  extremes, 
Uncomfortable  man !     When  I  was  needj', 
Cast  naked  on  the  flats  of  barren  pity. 
Abated  to  an  ebb  so  low,  that  boj'S 
A  cock-horse  frisk'd  about  me  without  plunge, 
You  could  chat  gravely  then,  in  formal  tones. 
Reason  most  paradoxically ;  now, 
Contempt  and  wilful  grudge  at  my  uprising 
Becalms  your  learned  noise. 

Aurel.  Such  floui'ish,  Auria, 
Flies  with  so  swift  a  gale,  as  it  will  waft 
Thy  sudden  joys  into  a  faithless  harbour. 

Au7:  Canst  mutter  mischief  ?    I  observ'd  your 
dulness, 
Whilst  the  whole  ging'  crow'd  to  me.     Hark' 

my  triumphs 
Are  echo'd  under  every  roof ;  the  air 
Is  straiteu'd  with  the  sound,  there  is  not  room 
Enough  to  brace  them  in  ;  but  not  a  thought 
Doth  pierce  into  the  grief  that  cabins  here : 
Here,  through  a  creek,  a  little  inlet,  crawls 
A  flake,  no  bigger  than  a  spider's  thread. 
Which  sets  the  region  of  my  heart  a-fire. 
I  had  a  kingdom  once,  but  am  deposed 
From  all  that  royalty  of  blest  content. 
By  a  confederacy  'twixt  love  and  frailty. 

Aurel.  Glories  in  public  view  but  add  to  misery. 
Which  travails  in  unrest  at  home. 

Aur.  At  home ! 
That  home  Aurelio  speaks  of  I  have  lost. 
And,  which  is  woi-st,  when  I  have  roll'd  about, 
Toil'd  like  a  pilgrim  round  this  globe  of  earth, 
Wearied  with  care,  and  overworn  with  age, 
Lodged  in  the  grave,  I  am  not  yet  at  home ; 
There  rots  but  half  of  me,  the  other  part 
Sleeps,  Heaven  knows  where :  would  she  and  I — 

my  wife 
I  mean, — but  what,  alas !  talk  I  of  wife .' — 
The  woman — would  we  had  together  fed 
On  any  outcast  parings,  coarse  and  mouldy, 
Not  lived  divided  thus!  I  could  have  begg'd 
For  both ;  for't  had  been  pity  she  should  ever 
Have  felt  so  much  extremity. 


1  iuJk — body. 

-malice— vegnrd.   with    ill-will.    Extremes   refers    to 
Auria's  extreme  honours. — AVkuke. 

2  ging — gang,  crew. 


JOHN  FORD. 


473 


Aurd,  This  is  not 
Patience  required  in  wrongs  of  such  vile  nature  : 
You  pity  her ;  think  rather  on  revenge. 

Aur.  Revenge  !  for  what?  uncharitable  friend, 
On  whom?  let's  speak  a  little,  praj',  with  reason. 
You  found  Spinella  in  Adurni's  house : 
'Tis  like  he  gave  her  welcome — very  likely: 
Her  sister  and  another  with  her;  so! 
Invited,  nobly  done  ;  but  he  with  her 
Privately  chamber'd : — he  deserves  no  wife 
Of  worthy  quality,  who  dares  not  trust 
Her  virtue  in  the  proofs  of  any  danger. 

Aurd.  But  I  broke  ope  the  doors  upon  them. 

Aur.  Marry, 
It  was  a  slovenly  presumption, 
And  punishable  by  a  sharp  rebuke. 
I  tell  you,  sir,  I,  in  my  younger  growth, 
Have  by  the  stealth  of  privacy  enjoy'd 
A  lady's  closet,  where  to  have  profaned 
That  shrine  of  chastity  and  innocence 
With  one  unhallow'd  word,  would  have  exiled 
The  freedom  of  such  favour  into  scorn. 
Had  any  he  alive  then  ventured  there. 
With  foul  construction,  I  had  stamp'd  the  justice 
Of  my  unguilty  truth  upon  his  heart. 

Aurd.  Adurni  might  have  done  the  like ;  but 
that 
The  conscience  of  his  fault,  in  coward  blood, 
Blush'd  at  the  quick  surprisal. 

Aur.  Oh  fie,  fie ! 
How  ill  some  argue,  in  their  sour  reproof, 
Against  a  party  liable  to  law ! 
For  had  that  lord  offended  with  that  creature. 
Her  presence  would  have  doubled  ever^'  strength 
Of  man  in  him,  and  justified  the  forfeit 
Of  noble  shame ;  else  'twas  enough  in  both. 
With  a  smile  only  to  correct  your  rudeness. 

Aurel.  'Tis  well  you  make  such  use  of  neigh- 
bours' courtesy : 
Some   kind  of   beasts  are  tame,  and  hug  their 
Such  way  leads  to  a  fame  too!  [injuries; 

Aur.  Not  uncivilly. 
Though  violently,  friend. 

Aurel.  Wherefore,  then,  think  you. 
Can  she  absent  herself,  if  she  be  blameless? 
You  grant,   of  course,  your  triumphs  are  pro- 

claim'd ; 
And  I  in  person  told  her  your  return: 
Where  lies  she  hid  the  while  ? 

Aur.  That  rests  for  answer 
In  you  ;  now  I  come  to  you  :  we  have  exchanged 
Bosoms,  Aurelio,  from  our  years  of  childhood ; 
Let  me  acknowledge  with  what  pride  I  own 
A  man  so  faithful,  honest,  fast,  my  friend ; 
He  whom,  if  I  speak  fully,  never  fail'd. 
By  teaching  tr^^st  to  me,  to  learn  of  mine: 
I  wish'd  myself  thine  equal ;  if  I  aim'd 
Awrong,  'twas  in  an  envy  of  thy  goodness; 
So  dearly  (witness  with  me  my  integrity) 
I  laid  thee  up  to  heart,  that,  from  my  love, 
My  wife  was  but  distinguish'd  in  her  sex : 
Give  back  that  holy  signature  of  friendship, 
Cancell'd,  defaced,  pluck'd  off,  or  I  shall  urge 
Accounts,  scored  on  the  tally  of  my  vengeance. 
Without  all  former  compliments. 

Awel.  D'you  imagine 
I  fawn  upon  your  fortunes,  or  intrude 
Upon  the  hope  of  bettering  my  estate, 
Tliat  you  cashier  me  at  a  minute's  warning? 
No,  Auria,  I  dare  vie  with  your  respects  ; 
Put  both  into  the  balance,  and  the  poise 
Shall  make  a  settled  stand :  perhaps  the  proffer, 
So  frankly  vow'd  at  your  departure  first, 
Of  settling  me  a  partner  in  your  purchase. 
Leads  you  into  opinion  of  some  ends 
Of  mercenary  falsehood;  yet  such  wrong 
Least  suits  a  noble  soul. 


Aur.  By  all  my  sorrows. 
The  mention  is  too  coarse. 

Aurd.  Since  then  the  occasion 
Presents  our  discontinuance,  use  your  liberty  ; 
For  my  part,  I  am  resolute  to  die 
The  same  my  life  profess'd  me. 

Aur.  Pish  1  your  faith 
Was  never  in  suspicion  ;  but  consider, 
Neither  the  lord,  nor  ladj',  nor  the  bawd, 
\Vhich  shuffled  them  together.  Opportunity, 
Have  fasten'd  stain  on  mj'  unquestion'd  name  ; 
My  fi'iend's  rash  indiscretion  was  the  bellows 
Which  blew  the  coal  (now  kindled  to  a  flame), 
AVill  light  his  slander  to  all  wandering  eyes. 
Some  men  in  giddy  zeal  o'erdo  that  office 
They  catch  at,  of  whose  number  is  Aurelio : 
For  I  am  certain,  certain,  it  had  been 
Impossible,  had  you  stood  wisely  silent. 
But  my  Spinella,  trembling  on  her  knee, 
Would  have  accus'd  her  breach  of  truth,  and 

begg'd 
A  speedy  execution  on  her  trespass  ; 
Tlien  with  a  justice,  lawful  as  the  magistrate's. 
Might  I  have  drawn  my  sword  against  Adurni, 
Which    now    is    sheath'd    and    rusted    in    the 

scabbard. 
Good  thanks  to  your  cheap  providence ! — Once 

more 
I  make  demand — my  wife ! — you — sir — 

\_Draws  his  swoi'd. 
Aurd.  Hoar  louder. 
The    noise    affrights    not    me ;    threaten    your 

enemies, 
And  prove  a  valiant  tongue-man; — now  must 

follow. 
By  way  of  method,  the  exact  condition 
Of  rage  which  runs  to  mutiny  in  friendship. 
Auria,  come  on,  this  weapon  looks  not  pale 

\_I)raws. 
At  sight  of  that.     Again  hear,  and  believe  it, 
What   I   have   done,  was   well   done  and  well 

meant ; 
Twenty  times  over,  were  it  new  to  do, 
I'd  do't  and  do't,  and  boast  the  pains  religious ; 
Yet  since  you  shake  me  off,  I  slightly  value 
Other  severity. 

Aur.  Honour  and  duty 
Stand  my  compurgators:  never  did  passion 
Purpose  ungentle  usage  of  my  sword 
Against  Aurelio  ;  let  me  I'ather  want 
My  hands,  nay,  friend,  a  heart,  than  ever  suffer 
Such  dotage  enter  here.     If  I  must  lose 
Spinella,  let  me  not  proceed  to  misery. 
By  losing  my  Aurelio :  we,  through  madness, 
Frame    strange    conceits    in    our    discoursing ' 

brains, 
And  prate  of  things  as  we  pretend  they  were. 
Join  help  to  mine,  good  man,  and  let  us  listen 
After  this  straying  soul,  and,  till  we  find  her, 
Bear  our  discomfort  quietly. 

Aurel.  So,  doubtless. 
She  may  be  soon  discover'd. 

Aur.  That's  spoke  cheerfully. 
Why,  there's  a  friend  now! — Auria  and  Aurelio 
At  odds!  oh!  it  cannot  be,  must  not,  and  thall 

not. — 

Enter  Castanna. 

But  look,  Castanna's  here ! — Welcome,  fair  figure 
Of  choice  jewel,  lock'd  up  in  a  cabinet. 
More  precious  than  the  public  view  should  sullj-. 
Cast.  Sir,  how  you  are  inform'd,  or  on  what 
terms 
Of  prejudice  against  my  course  or  custom. 


''^discoursing — thinking,   reasoning;    an  old  sense  o£ 
the  woid. — WiiBEK. 


Opinion  sways  your  confidence,  I  know  not. 
Much  anger,  if  my  fears  persuade  not  falsely, 
Sits  on  tlais  gentleman's  stern  brow ;  yet,  sir. 
If  an  unhappy  maid's  word  may  find  credit, 
As  I  wish  harm  to  nobody  on  earth. 
So  would  all  good  folks  may  wish  none  to  me  ! 

Aur.  None  does,  sweet  sister. 

Cast.  If  they  do,  dear  Heaven 
Forgive  them,  is  my  prayer  ;  but,  perhaps, 
You  might  conceive   (and    yet    methinks  you 

should  not) 
How  I  am  faulty  iu  my  Sister's  absence  : 
Indeed,  'tis  nothing  so,  nor  was  I  knowing 
Of  any  private  speech  my  lord  intended. 
Save  civil  entertainment :  pray,  what  hurt 
Can  fall  out  in  discourse,  if  it  be  modest  ? 
Sure  noblemen  will  show  that  they  are  such 
With  those  of  their  own  rank  ; — and  that  was  all 
My  sister  can  be  charged  with. 

Au7:  Is't  not,  friend, 
An  excellent  maid  ? 

Aurel.  Deserves  the  best  of  fortunes  ; 
I  ever  spoke  her  virtuous. 

Cast.  With  your  leave, 
Tou  used  most  cruel  language  to  my  sister. 
Enough  to  fright  her  wits:  not  very  kind 
To  me  myself ;  she  sigh'd  when  you  were  gone, 
Desired  no  creature  else  should  follow  her  ; 
And,  in  good  truth,  I  was  so  full  of  weeping, 
I  mark'd  not  well  which  way  she  went. 

Aur.  Stay'd  she  not 
Within  the  house,  then  .' 

Cast.  'Las,  not  she  ! — Aurelio 
Was  passing  rough. 

Aur.  Strange  !  nowhere  to  be  found  ? 

Cast.  Not  yet ;  but,  on  my  life,  ere  many  hours, 
I  shall  hear  from  her. 

Au7:  Shalt  thou  ?     Worthy  maid. 
Thou  hast  brought  to  my  sick  heart  a  cordial. — 

Friend, 
Good  news  ! — most  sweet  Castanna  ! 

Aurel.  May  it  prove  so.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV. 

A  Street. 

Enter  Benatzi. 

Ben.  The  paper  in  the  purse  for  my  directions 
appointed  this  the  place,  the  time  now :  here 
dance  I  attendance ;  she  is  come  already. 

Enter  Levidolche. 

Lev.  Parade !  so  I  ovei'heard  you  named. 

Ben.  A  mushroom,  sprung  up  in  a  minute  by 
the  sunshine  of  your  benevolent  grace.  Libe- 
rality, and  hospitable  compassion,  most  magnifi- 
cent beauty,  have  long  since  lain  bedrid  in  the 
ashes  of  the  old  world,  till  now  your  illustrious 
charity  hath  raked  up  the  dead  embers,  by  giving 
life  to  a  worm  inevitably  devoted  yours,  as  you 
shall  please  to  new-shape  me. 

Lev.  A  grateful  man,  it  seems.   Where  gratitude 
Has  harbour,  other  furniture,  becoming 
Accomplish'd  qualities,  must  needs  inhabit. 

{Aside. 
What  country  claims  your  birth  ? 

Ben.  None ;  I  was  born  at  sea,  as  my  mother 
was  in  passage  from  Cape  Ludugory  to  Cape 
Cagliari,  toward  Afric,  in  Sardinia  ;  was  bred  up 
in  Aquilastro,  and,  at  j^ears,  put  myself  in  ser- 
vice under  the  Spanish  viceroy,  till  I  was  taken 
prisoner  by  the  Turks.  I  have  tasted  in  my 
days  handsome  store  of  good  and  bad,  and  am 
thankful  for  both. 

Lev.  You  seem  the  issue,  then,  of  honest  pa- 
rents. 


_  Ben._  Eeputed  no  less :  many  children  often- 
times inherit  theii*]ands  who  peradventure  never 
begot  them.  My  mother's  husband  was  a  very 
old  man  at  my  birth  ;  but  no  man  is  too  old  to 
father  his  wife's  -child.  Your  servant,  I  am  siu-e, 
I  will  ever  prove  entirely. 

Lev.  Dare  you  be  secret  ? 

Ben.  Yes. 

Lev.  And  sudden.? 

Ben.  Yes. 

Lev.  But,  withal,  sure  of  hand  and  spirit  ? 

Ben.  Yes,  yes,  yes. 

Lev.  I  use  not  many  words,  the  time  prevents 
A  man  of  quality  has  robb'd  mine  honour.  £'em  : 

Ben.  Name  him. 

Lev.  Adurni. 

Beii.  He  shall  bleed. 

Lev.  Malfato 
Contemn'd  my  proffer'd  love. 

Ben.  Yoke  them  in  death. — 
What's  my  reward  ? 

Lev.  Propose  it,  and  enjoy  it. 

Ben.  You  for  my  wife. 

Lev.  Ha ! 

Ben.  Nothing  else  :  deny  me. 
And  I'll  betray  your  counsels  to  your  ruin  ; 
Else,  do  the  feat  courageously Consider. 

Lev.  I  do :  despatch  the  task  I  have  enjoin 'd, 
Then  claim  my  promise. 

Ben.  No  such  matter,  pretty  one — 
We'll  marry  first — or — farewell.  [Going. 

Lev.  Stay:  examine 
From  my  confession  what  a  plague  thou  draw'st 
Into  thy  bosom  ;  though  I  blush  to  say  it, 
Know,  I  have,  without  sense  of  shame  or  honour, 
Forsook  a  lawful  marriage-bed,  to  dally 
Between  Adurni's  arms. 

Ben.  This  lord's? 

Lev.  The  same. 
More  ;  not  content  with  him,  I  courted 
A  newer  pleasitre,  but  was  there  refused 
By  him  I  named  so  late. 

Ben.  Malfato  ? 

Lev.  Eight : 
Am  henceforth  resolutely  bent  to  print 
My  foUies  on  their  hearts  ;  then  change  my  life 
For  some  rare  penance.     Canst  thou  love  me 

Ben.  Better  ;  [now  ? 

I  do  believe  'tis  possible  you  may  mend : 
All  this  breaks  off  no  bargain. 

Zey.  Accept  my  hand ;   with  this  a  faith   as 
constant 
As  vows  can  urge  ;  nor  shall  my  haste  prevent 
This  contract,  which  death  only  must  divorce. 

Ben.  Settle  the  time. 

Lev.  Meet  here  to-morrow  night ; 
We  will  determine  further,  as  behoves  us. 

Ben.  How  is  my  new  love  call'd  ? 

Lev.  Levidolche. 
Be  confident,  1  bring  a  worthy  portion. — 
But  you'll  fly  off. 

Ben.  Not  I,  by  all  that's  noble  ! 
A  kiss — farewell,  dear  fate  !  [Exit. 

Lev.  Love  is  sharp-sighted, 
And  can  pierce  through  the  cunning  of  disguises. 
False  pleasui'es  I  cashier  ye  ;  fair  truth  welcome  ! 

[Exit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  L 

A  Room  in  the  House  o/"Malfat3. 

Enter  Malfato  and  Spinella. 

3Ial.  Here  you  are  safe,  sad  cousin ;  if  you 
please, 


JOHN  FORD. 


475 


May  over-say  the  circumstance  of  what 

You  late  discours'd:  mine  ears  are  gladly  open, 

For  I  myself  am  in  such  hearty  league 

With  solitary  thoughts,  that  pensive  language 

Charms  my  attention. 

Sjnn.  But  my  husband's  honours. 
By  how  much  more  in  him  they  sparkle  clearly, 
By  so  much  more  they  tempt  belief  to  credit 
The  wreck  and  ruin  of  mj'  injured  name. 
Mai.  Why,  cousin,  should  the  earth  cleave  to 
the  roots. 
The  seas  and  heavens  be  mingled  in  disorder, 
Your  purity  with  nnaffrighted  eyes 
Might  wait  the  uproar  ;  'tis  the  guilty  trembles 
At  "horrors,  not  the  innocent !  you  are  cruel 
Jn  censuring  a  liberty  allow'd. 
Speak  freely,  gentle  cousin,  was  Adurni 
Importunately  wanton  ? 

Sjy'm.  In  excess 
Of  entertainment,  else  not. 

Mai.  Not  the  boldness 
Of  an  uncivil  courtship  .' 
Spin.  What  that  meant 
I  never  understood.     I  have  at  once 
Set  bars  between  my  best  of  earthly  joys. 
And  best  of  men ;  so  excellent  a  man 
As  lives  without  comparison  ;  his  love 
To  me  was  matchless. 

Mai.  Yet  put  case,  sweet  cousin. 
That  I  could  name  a  creature,  whose  affection 
Followed  j'our  Auria  in  the  height ;  affection 
To  you,  even  to  Spiuella,  true  and  settled 
As  ever  Auria's  was,  can,  is,  or  will  be ; 
You  may  not  chide  the  story. 

Spin.  Fortune's  minions 
Are  flatter'd,  not  the  miserable. 

Mai.  Listen 
To  a  strange  tale,  which  thus  the  author  sigli'd. 
A  kinsman  of  Spinella  (so  it  runs), 
Her  father's  sister's  son,  some  time  before 
Auria,  the  fortunate,  possessed  her  beauties, 
Became  enamour'd  of  such  rare  perfections 
As  she  was  stored  with ;  fed  his  idle  hopes 
With  possibilities  of  lawful  conquest ; 
Proposed  each  difficulty  in  pursuit 
Of  what  his  vain  supposal  styled  his  own ; 
Found  in  the  argument  one  only  flaw 
Of  conscience,  by  the  nearness  of  their  bloods — 
Unhappy  scruple,  easily  dispens'd  with. 
Had  any  friend's  advice  resolv'd  the  doubt. 
Still  on  he  loved,  and  loved,  and  wish'd,  and 

wish'd  ; 
Eftsoon  began  to  speak,  yet  soon  broke  off. 
And  still  the  fondling  durst  not — 'cause  he  durst 
not. 
Spin.  'Twas  wonderful. 
Mai.  Exceeding  wonderfttl, 
Bej''ond  all  wonder  ;  yet  'tis  known  for  tritth. 
After  her  marriage,  when  remain'd  not  ought 
Of  expectation  to  such  fruitless  dotage. 
His  reason  then,  now — then — could  not  reduce 
The  violence  of  passion,  though  he  vow'd 
Ne'er  to  unlock  that  secret,  scarce  to  her, 
Herself,  Spinella ;  and  withal  resolv'd 
Not  to  come  near  her  presence,  but  to  avoid 
All  opi^ortunities,  however  proffer'd. 

Sjnn.   An  understanding  duU'd   by  the  infe- 
licity 
Of  constant  sorrow,  is  not  apprehensive 
In  pregnant  novelty;  my  ears  receive 
The  words  you  utter,  cousin,  but  my  thoughts 
Are  fasten'd  on  another  subject. 

Mai.  Can  you 
Embrace,  so  like  a  darling,  your  own  woes. 
And  play  the  tyrant  with  a  partner  in  them  ? 
Then  I  am  thankful  for  th'  advantage  ;  urg'd 
By  fatal  and  enjoin'd  necessity. 


To  stand  up  in  defence  of  injur'd  virtue ; 
Will,  against  any,  I  except  no  quality, 
^Maintain  all  supposition  misapplied, 
Unhonest,  false,  and  villanous. 

Sjnn.  Dear  cousin, 
As  you're  a  gentleman — 

Mai.  I'll  bless  that  hand, 
Whose  honourable  pity  seals  the  passport 
For  my  incessant  turmoils  to  their  rest. 
If  I  prevail  (which  Heaven  forbid  !),  these  ages 
Which  shall  inherit  ours,  may  tell  posterity 
Spinella  had  Malfato  for  a  kinsman. 
By  noble  love  made  jealous  of  her  fame. 

Spin.  No  more  ;  I  dare  not  hear  it. 

3Ial.  All  is  said  : 
Henceforth  shall  never  syllable  proceed, 
From  my  unpleasant  voice,  of  amorous  folly. 

Enter  Castaijna. 

Cast.  Your  summons  warn'd  me  hither  ;  I  am 
come. 
Sister !  my  sister,  'twas  an  unkind  part 
Not  to  take  me  along  m'  you. 

Mai.  Chide  her  for  it ; 
Castanna,  this  house  is  as  freely  yours 
As  ever  was  your  father's. 

Cast.  We  conceive  so. 
Though  your  late  strangeness  hath  bred  marvel 

in  us. 
But  wherefore,  sister,  keeps  your  silence  distance  ? 
Am  I  not  welcome  to  you  ? 

Spin.  Lives  Auria  safe  ? 
Oh,  pr'ythee  do  not  hear  me  call  him  husband, 
Before  thou  canst  resolve  what  kind  of  wife 
His  fury  terms  the  runaway  ;  speak  quickly. 
Yet  do  not, — stay,  Castanna, — I  am  lost ! 
His  friend  hath  set  before  him  a  bad  woman, 
And  he,  good  man,  believes  it. 

Cast.  Now,  in  truth — 

Spin.  Hold !   my  heart  trembles ;    I  perceive 
thy  tongue 
Is  great  with  ills,  and  hastes  to  be  deliver'd ; 
I  should  not  use  Castanna  so.    First  tell  me, 
Shortly  and  truly  tell  me,  how  he  does. 

Cast.  In  perfect  health. 

Spin.  For  that,  my  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Mai.  The  world  hath  not  another  wife  liko 
this. — 
Cousin,  you  will  not  hear  your  sister  speak, 
So  much  yoiir  passion  rules. 

Spin.  Even  what  she  pleases : 
Go  on,  Castanna. 

Cast.  Your  most  noble  husband 
Is  deaf  to  all  reports,  and  only  grieves 
At  his  soul's  love,  Spinella's,  causeless  absence. 

Mai.  Why  look  ye,  cousin,  now ! 

Sj'iin.  Indeed! 

Cast.  Will  value 
No  counsel,  takes  no  pleasure  in  his  greatness, 
Neither  admits  of  likelihood  at  all 
That  you  are  living ;  if  you  were,  he's  certain 
It  were  impossible  you  could  conceal 
Your  welcomes  to  him,  being  all  one  with  him ; 
But  as  for  jealousy  of  your  dishonour, 
He  both  laughs  at  and  scorns  it. 

Sjyin.  Does  he  ? 

3Ial.  Therein 
He  shows  himself  desertful  of  his  happiness. 

Cast.  Methinks  the  news   should  cause  some 
motion,  sister — 
You  are  not  well. 

Mai.  Not  well! 

Spin.  I  am  unworthy — 

Mai.  Of  whom?  what?  why? 

Spin.  Go,  cousin; — come,  Castanna. 

\_Exeunt. 


476 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


ACT   IV.— SCENE  II. 

An  Apartment  in  the  House  of  Trelcatio. 

Enter  Trelcatio,  Piero,  and  Futelli. 

Trel.  Tlie  state  iu  council  is  already  set, 
My  coming  Avill  be  late ;  now,  therefore,  gentle- 
men, 
This  house  is  free;  as  your  intents  are  sober. 
Your  pains  shall  be  accepted. 

Flit.  Mirth  sometimes 
Falls  into  earnest,  signior. 

Piero.  "We,  for  our  parts. 
Aim  at  the  best. 

Trel.  You  wrong  yourselves  and  me  else : 
Good  success  to  you !  [Exit. 

Fiero.  Futelli,  'tis  our  wisest  course  to  follow 
Our  pastime  with  discretion,  by  which  means 
We  may  ingratiate,  as  our  business  hits, 
Our  undertakings  to  great  Auria's  favour. 

Fut.  I  grow  quite  weary  of  this  lazy  custom. 
Attending  on  the  fruitless  hopes  of  service. 
For  meat  and  rags :  a  wit  ?  a  shrewd  preferment 
8tudy  some  scurril  jests,  grow  old,  and  beg ! 
No,  let  them  be  admired  that  love  foul  linen ; 
I'll  run  a  new  course. 

Piero.  Get  the  coin  we  spend. 
And  knock  them  o'er  the  pate  who  jeer  our  earn- 
ings.— 

Fut.  Hush,  man  ;  one  suitor  comes. 

Piero.  The  t'other  follows. 

Fut.  Be  not  so  loud —  \_Music  helow. 

Here  comes  Madonna  Sweet-lips; 
Mithtreth,  in  thooth,  forthooth,  wiU  lithpe  it  to 
uth. 

Enter  Amoretta, 

Amor.  Dentlemen,  then  ye !  Ith  thith  muthicke 
yourth,  or  can  ye  tell  what  great  manth's  fidleth 
made  it  ?  tith  vedee  petty  noy th,  but  who  thold 
thend  it? 

Piero.  Does  not  yourself  know,  lady  ? 

Amor.  1  do  not  uthe 
To  thpend  lip-labour  upon  quethtionths, 
That  1  mythelfe  can  anthwer. 

Fut.  No,  sweet  madam. 
Your  lips  are  destined  to  a  better  use, 
Or  else  the  proverb  fails  of  lisping  maids. 

Amor.  Kithing  you  mean ;   pay  come  behind 
with  your  mockths  then. 
My  lipthes  will  therve  the  one  to  kith  the  other. — 
How  now,  whath  neckth  ? 

SONG  hdow. 

What,  ho !  we  come  to  te  merry, 

Open  the  doors,  a  jovial  crew. 
Lusty  boys  and  free,  and  very, 

Veiy,  very  lusty  boys  are  we ; 

We  can  drink  till  all  look  blue, 
Dance,  sing,  and  roar, 
Never  give  o'er, 
As  long  as  we  have  e'er  an  eye  to  see. 

Pithee,  pithee,  leth's  come  in, 
Oue  thall  all  oua  favous  win, 
Dently,  dently,  we  thall  passe ; 

None  kithetli  Uke  the  lithping  lasse. 

Piero,  What  call  ye  this  ?  a  song  ? 

Amor.  Yeth,  a  delithious  thing,  and  wondroth 
prety. 

Fut.  A  very  country-catch !  (Aside.') — Doiibt- 
less,  some  prince 
Belike,  hath  sent  it  to  congi-atulate 
Your  night's  repose. 

Amor.  Thinke  ye  tho,  thignior  ? 
It  muth  be  then  thome  unkno  wne  obthcure  printh, 
That  thuns  the  light. 


Piero.  Perhaps  tlie  prince  of  darkness. 

Amor.  Ofdarkneth!   what  ith  he.' 

Fut.  A  courtier  matchless ; 
He  woos  and  wins  more  beauties  to  his  love 
Than  all  the  kings  on  earth. 

Amor.  Whea  thandth  hith  court,  pey  ? 

Fut.  This  gentleman  approaching,  1  presume, 
Has  more  relation  to  his  court  than  I, 
And  comes  in  time  t'inform  ye. 

Enter  Fulgoso. 

Amor.  Think  ye  tho? 
I'm  thure  you  know  him. 

Piero.  Lady,  you'll  perceive  it. 

Ful.  She  seems  in  my  first  entrance  to  admire 
me; 
Protest  she  eyes  me  round;  Fulg.  she's  thine 
own !  [Aside. 

Piero.  Noble  Fulgoso. 

Ful.  Did  you  hear  the  music? 
'Twas  I  that  brought  it ;  was't  not  tickling  ?  ha, 
ha! 

Amor.  Pay,  what  pinth  thent  it  ? 

Ful.  Prince !  no  prince,  but  we  ; 
We  set  the  ditty,  and  composed  the  song ; 
There's  not  a  note  or  foot  iu't  but  our  own. 
And  the  pu^e  tx-oddeu  mortar  of  this  brain  ; 
We  can  do  things  and  things. 

Amor.  Dood !  thing't  youa  thelfe  then. 

Ful.  Naj',  nay,  I  could  never  sing 
More  than  a  gib-cat,  or  a  verj"^  howlet; 
But  you  shall  here  me  whistle  it.  [Whistle.'^. 

Amor.  Thith  thingth  thomo  jethter; 
Thure  he  belongth  unto  the  pinth  of  darkneth. 

Piero.  Yes,  and  I  tell  you  what  his  office  is ; 
His  prince  delights  himself  exceedingly 
In  birds  of  divers  kinds;  this  gentleman 
Is  keeper  and  instructor  of  his  black-birds; 
He  took  his  skill  first  from  his  father's  carter. 

Amor.  Tith  wonderful  to  thee  by  what  thrango 
meanes 
Thome  men  are  raised  to  plathes. 

Ful.  I  do  hear  you. 
And  thank  you  heartily  for  your  good  wills. 
In  setting  forth  my  parts ;  but  what  I  live  on, 
Is  simple  trade  of  money  from  my  lands : 
Liang  sharks !     I  am  no  shifter. 

A7nor.  Ith  pothible  ? 

;  Enter  Guzman. 

Blethuth,  whoth  thith? 

Fut.  Oh,  'tis  the  man  of  might. 

Guz.  May  my  address  to  beautj-  lay  no  scandrJ 
Upon  my  martial  honour,  since  even  Mars — 
Whom,  as  in  war,  iu  love  I  imitate — 
Could  not  resist  the  shafts  of  Cupid;  therefore, 
As,  with  the  god  of  war,  I  deign  to  stoop. 
Lady,  vouchsafe.  Love's  goddess-like,  to  yield 
Your  fairer  hand  unto  these  lips,  the  portals 
Of  valiant  breath  that  hath  o'erturn'd  an  army. 

Amor.  Faya  weather  keep  me !  what  a  thorma 
ith  thith  ? 

Fut.  Oh,  Don,  keep  off  at  farther  distance  ;  yet 
A  little  farther ;  do  you  not  observe 
How  your  strong  breath  hath  terrified  the  lady  ? 

Guz.  I'll  stop  the  breath  of  war,  and  breathe  as 
gently 
As  a  perfumed  pair  of  sucking  bellows 
In  some  sweet  lady's  chamber ;  for  I  can 
Speak  lion-like,  or  sheep-like,  when  I  please. 

Fut.  Stand  by,  then,  without  noise,  a  while, 
brave  Don, 
And  let  her  only  view  your  parts;  they'll  tr.ko 
her. 

Guz.  I'll  publish  them  in  silence. 

Piero.  Stand  you  there, 
Fulgoso  the  magnificent. 


JOHN  FORD. 


477 


FuL  Here  ? 

Piero.  Just  there ; 
Let  her  survey  you  both ;  you'll  be  her  choice, 
Ne'er  doubt  it,  man. 

Ful.  I  cannot  doubt  it,  man. 

Piero.  But  speak  not  till  I  bid  you, 

Ful.  I  may  whistle  ? 

Piero.  A  little  to  yourself,  to  spend  the  time. 

Amor.  Both  foolth,  you  thay  ? 

Fut.  But  hear  them  for  your  sport. 

Piero.  Don  shall  begin. — Begin,  Don ;  she  has 
survey'd 
Tour  outwards  and  your  inwards,  through  the 

rents 
And  wounds  of  your  apparel. 

Guz.  She  is  politic ; 
My  outside,  lady,  shrouds  a  prince  obscured. 

Amor.  I  thank  ye  for  your  muthicke,  printh. 

Guz.  My  words 
Are  music  to  her.  ]_Aside. 

Amor.  The  muthicke  and  the  thong 
You  thent  me  by  thith  whithling  thing,  your 
man. 

Guz.  She  took  him  for  my  man !    love,  thou 
wert  just.  [Aside. 

Ful.  I  will  not  hold ; — his  man  !   'tis  time  to 
speak 
Before  my  time  ;  oh  scurvy,  I  his  man. 
That  has  no  means  for  meat,  or  rags  and  seam- 
rents  ! 

Guz.  Have  I  with  this  one  rapier — 

Piero.  He  has  no  other. 

Guz.  Pass'd  through  a  field  of  pikes,   whose 
heads  I  lopt 
As  easily  as  the  bloody-minded  you.th 
Lopt  oil  the  poppy-heads  ? 

Ful.  The  puppet-heads. 

Guz.  Have  1 — have  I — have  I? 

Ful.  Thou  liest,  thou  hast  not, 
And  I'll  maintaiu't. 

Guz.  Have  I — but  let  that  pass ; 
For  though   my  famous   acts  were  damn'd   to 

silence. 
Yet  my  descent  shall  crown  me  thy  superior. 

Amor.  That  I  would  lithen  to. 

Guz.  List  and  wonder. 
My  great-great-grandsire  was  an  ancient  duke. 
Styled  Desver  di  Gonzado. 

Fut.  That's,  in  Spanish, 
An  incorrigible  rogue,  without  a  fellow, 
An  unmatch'd  rogue ;  he  thiuks  we  understand 
not. 

Guz.  So  was  my  gi-andfather,  hight  Argozile.' 

Fut.  An  arrant,  arrant  thief-leader;  pray  mark  it. 

Guz.  My  grandsire  by  the  mother's  side  a  conde, 
Conde  Scrivano. 

Fut.  A  crop-ear'd  scrivener. 

Guz.  Whose   son,  my  mother's  father,  was  a 
marquis, 
Hijo  di  puto. 

Piero.  That's  the  son  of  a  whore. 

Guz.  And  my  renowned  sire,  Don  Picaro, — 

Fut.  In  proper  sense,  a  rascal — Oh,  brave  Don! 

Guz.  Hijo  di  uua  pravada — 

Piero.  He  goes  on. 
Son  of  a  branded  bitch — high-spirited  Don ! 

Guz.  Had  honours  both  by  sea  and  land,  to  wit — 

Fut.  The  galleys  and  Bridewell. 

Ful.  I'll  not  endure  it. 
To  hear  a  canting  mongrel. — Hear  me,  lady ! 

Guz.  'Tis  no  fair  play. 

Ful.  I  care  not,  fair  or  foul. — 
I  from  a  king  derive  my  pedigree, 


'  Argozile—a.  corruption  of  alguazit,  a  beadle  or  catch- 
pole. — Webek. 


King  Oberon  by  name,  from  whom  my  father, 
The  mighty  and  courageous  Mountibanco, 
Was  lineally  descended ;  and  my  mother 
(In  right  of  whose  blood  I  must  ever  honour 
The  lower  Germany)  was  a  Harlequin. 

Fut.  He'll  blow  up 
The  Spaniard  presently  by  his  mother's  side. 

Ful.  Her  father  was  Grave  '  Hans  Van  Hei'ne, 
the  son 
Of  Hogen  Mogen,  dat  de  droates  did  sneighen. 
Of  veirteen  hundred  Spaniards  in  one  ueict. 

Guz.  Oh,  diabolo ! 

Ful.  Ten  thousand  devils,  nor  diabolos. 
Shall  fright  me  from  my  pedigree. — My  uncle, 
Yacob  Van  Flagon-drought,  with  Abraham  Snor- 

ten-fert, 
And  yongster  Brogen-foh,  with  fourscore  hargu- 

bush,2 
Managed  by  well-lined  butter-boxes,  took 
A  thousand  Spanish  jobbernowls'  by  surprise, 
And  beat  a  sconce  about  their  ears. 

Guz.  My  fury 
Is  now  but  justice  on  thy  forfeit  life.        [Draws. 

Amor.  'Lath,  they  thall  not  fight. 

Fut.  Fear  not,  sweet  lady. 

Piero.  Be  advised,  great  spirits. 

Ful.  My  fortunes  bid  me  to  be  wise  in  duels ; 
Else  hang't,  who  cares ! 

Guz.  Mine  honour  is  my  tutor, 
Already  tried  and  known. 

Fut.  Why,  there's  the  point. 
Mine  honour  is  my  tutor  too.     Noble  men 
Fight  in  their  persons!  scorn't!  'tisout  of  fashion; 
There's  none  but  harebraiu'd  youths  of  mettle 
use  it. 

Piero.  Yet  put  not  up  your  swords ;  it  is  the 
pleasure 
Of  the  fair  lady  that  you  quit  the  field, 
With  brandish'd  blades  in  hand. 

Fut.  And  more,  to  show 
Your  suffering  valour,  as  her  equal  favours. 
You  both  should  take  a  competence  of  kicks. 

Both.  How.' 

Fut.  and  Piero.  Thus  and  thus!  {hiching  them.'] 
— away,  j'ou  brace  of  stinkards ! 

Ful.  Pheugh  !  as  it  were. —  [  Whistles. 

Guz.  Why,  since  it  is  her  pleasure, 
I  dare  and  will  endure  it. 

Ful.  Pheugh! 

Piero.  Away, 
But  stay  below. 

Fut.  Budge  not,  I  charge  ye, 
Till  you  have  further  leave. 

Guz.  Mine  honour  claims 
The  last  foot  in  the  field. 

Ful.  I'll  lead  the  van  then. 

Fut.  Yet  more  ?  begone ! 

\_Exeunt  Fulg.  and  Guz. 
Are  not  these  precious  suitors — 

Re-enter  Teelcatio. 

Trel.  What  tumults  fright  the  house  ? 

Fut.  A  brace  of  castrels,' 
That  flutter'd,  sir,  about  this  lovely  game. 
Your  daughter;  but  they  diu-st  not  give  the  souse, 
And  so  took  hedge. 

Piero.  Mere  haggards,  buzzards,  kites. 

Amor.  I  thkorne  thuch   trumpery ;    and  will 
thape  my  luffe, 
Henthforth,  ath  thall  my  father  betht  direct  me. 


1  grave — graff,  count.         2  hargubush — harquebusses. 

^jobbernowls — thickheads. 

■•  castrel— the  hovering  hawk,  a  wild  sort,  not  fit  for 
training.  Haggard,  a  wild  untrained  hawk.  A  liawk 
is  said  to  give  the  souse  when  he  descends  rapidly  upon 
his  prey. 


478 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Trel.  Why,  now  thou  sing'st  in  tune,  my  Amo- 
retta ; 
And,  my  good  friends,  you'  have,  like  wise  phy- 
sicians, 
Prescribed  a  healthful  diet :  I  shall  think  on 
A  bounty  for  your  pains,  and  will  present  ye 
To  noble  Auria,  such  as  your  descents 
Commend ;  but  for  the  present  we  must  quit 
This  room  to  privacy  :  they  come — 

Amor.  Nay,  predee. 
Leave  me  not,  dentlemen. 

Fut.  We  are  your  servants.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  AuRiA,  Adurni,  and  Aurelio. 

Aur.  You  are  welcome,  be  assured  you  are ; 
for  proof, 
Eetrieve  the  boldness  (as  you  please  to  term  it) 
Of  visit  to  commands :  if  this  man's  presence 
Be  not  of  use,  dismiss  him. 

Adur.  'Tis,  with  favour, 
Of  consequence,  my  lord,  your  friend  may  witness 
How  far  my  reputation  stands  engaged 
To  noble  reconcilement. 

Aur.  I  observe 
No  party  here  amongst  us,  who  can  challenge 
A  motion  of  such  honour. 

Adur.  Could  your  looks 
Borrow  more  clear  serenity  and  calmness, 
Than  can  the  peace  of  a  composed  soul ; 
Tet,  I  presume,  report  of  my  attempt, 
Train'd  by  a  curiosity  in  youth 
For  scattering    clouds  before  'em,   hath  rais'd 

tempests 
Which  will  at  last  break  out. 

Aur.  Hid  now,  most  likely, 
I'  the  darkness  of  your  speech. 

Aurel.  You  may  be  plainer. 

Adur.  I  shall,  my  lord;  that  I  intended  wrong ! 

Aur.  Ha !  wrong !  to  whom  ? 

Adur.  To  Auria ;  and  as  far 
As  language  could  prevail,  did — 

Aitr.  Take  advice, 
Young  lord,  before  your  tongue  betray  a  secret 
Conceal'd  yet  from  the  world ;  hear  and  consider : 
In  all  my  flight  of  vanity  and  giddiness, 
When  scarce  the  wings  of  my  excess  were  fledg'd. 
When  a  distemperature  of  youthful  heat 
Might  have  excus'd  disorder  and  ambition. 
Even  then,  and  so  from  thence  till  now  the  down 
Of  softness  is  exchang'd  for  plumes  of  agej» 
Confirm'd  and  harden'd,  never  durst  I  pitch 
On  any,  howsoever  likely,  rest, 
Where   the    presumption    might    be    construed 

wrong; 
The  word  is  hateful,  and  the  sense  wants  pardon. 
For,  as  I  durst  not  wrong  the  meanest,  so 
He  who  but  only  aim'd,  by  any  boldness, 
A  wrong  to  me,  should  find  I  must  not  bear  it ; 
The  one  is  as  unmanly  as  the  other. — 
Now,  without  interruption. 

Adur.  Stand,  Aurelio, 
And  justify  thine  accusation  boldly ; 
Spare  me  the  needless  use  of  my  confession ; 
And,  having  told  no  more,  than  what  thy  jealousy 
Possess'd  thee  with,  again  before  my  face. 
Urge  to  thy  friend  the  breach  of  hospitality 
Adurni  trespass'd  in,  and  thou  conceiv'st. 
Against  Spinella ;  [when  thy]  proofs  grow  faint, 
If  barely  not  suppos'd,  I'll  answer  guilty. 

Aurel.  You  come  not  here  to  brave  us  ? 

Adur.  No,  Aurelio ; 
But  to  reply  upon  that  brittle  evidence. 
To  which  thy  cunning  never  shall  rejoin. 
I  make  my  judge  my  jury;  be  accountant 
Whether,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  spleen 
Of  a  suspicious  rage  can  plead,  thou  hast 
Enforced  the  likelihood  of  scandal. 


Aurel.  Doubt  not 
But  that  I  have  deliver'd  honest  truth, 
As  much  as  I  believe,  and  justly  witness. 
_Adur.  Loose  grounds  to  raise   a  bulwark  of 

reproach  on ! 
And  thus  for  that — My  errand  hither  is  not 
In  whining,  truant-like  submission, 
To  cry,  '  I  have  offended,  pray,  forgive  me; 
I  will  do  so  no  more: '  but  to  proclaim 
The  power  of  vu'tue,  whose  commanding  sove- 
reignty 
Sets  bounds  to  rebel-bloods ;    and  checks,  re- 
strains. 
Custom  of  folly ;  by  example  teaches 
A  rule  to  reformation  ;  by  rewards. 
Crowns  worthy  actions,  and  invites  to  honour. 

Aurel.  Honour  and  worthj'  actions  best  beseem 
Their  lips  who  practise  both,  and  not  discourse 
'em. 

Aur.  Peace,  peace,  man ;  I  am  silent. 

Adur.  Some  there  are. 
And  they  not  few  in  number,  who  resolve 
No  beauty  can  be  chaste,  unless  attempted  ; 
And,  for  because  the  liberty  of  courtship 
Flies  from  the  wanton,  on  the  her  comes  next. 
Meeting  oft-times  too  many  soon  seduced. 
Conclude,  all  may  be  won  by  gifts,  by  service. 
Or  compliments  of  vows  :  and  with  thia  file 
I  stood  in  rank ;  conquest  secured  my  confidence. 
Spinella — storm  not,  Auria — was  an  object 
Of  study  for  fruition  ;  here  I  angled. 
Not  doubting  the  deceit  could  find  resistance. 

Aurel.  After  confession,  foUows — 

Aur.  Noise!  observe  him. 

Adur.  Oh,  strange !  by  all  the  comforts  of  my 
hopes, 
I  found  a  woman  good ; — a  woman  good ! 
Yet,  as  I  wish  belief,  or  do  desire 
A  memorable  mention,  so  much  majesty 
Of  humbleness,  and  scorn,  appear'd  at  once 
In  fair,  in  chaste,  in  wise  Spinella's  eyes, 
That  I  grew  dull  in  utterance,  and  one  frown 
From  her  cool'd  every  flame  of  sensual  appetite. 

Aur.  On,  sir,  and  do  not  stop. 

Adur.  Without  protests, 
I  pleaded  mei-ely  love,  used  not  a  syllable. 
But  what  a  virgin  might,  without  a  blush. 
Have  listen'd  to,  and,  not  well  arm'd,  have  pitied  ; 
But  she  neglecting,  cried,  '  Come,  Auria,  come. 
Fight  for  thy  wife  at  home ! '  then  in  rush'd  you, 

sir, 
Talk'd  in  much  fury,  parted  ;  when  as  soon 
The  lady  vanish'd,  after  her  the  rest. 

Aur.  What  foUow'd  ? 

Adur.  My  commission  on  mine  error ; 
In  execution  whereof  I  have  proved 
So  punctually  severe,  that  I  renounce 
All  memory,  not  to  this  one  fault  alone,     ' 
But  to  my  other  greater,  and  more  irksome. 
Now  he,  whoever  owns  a  name,  that  construes 
This  repetition  the  report  of  fear. 
Of  falsehood,  or  imposture,  let  him  tell  me 
I  give  myself  the  lie,  and  I  will  clear 
The  injury,  and  man  to  man  ; — or,  if 
Such  justice  may  prove  doubtful,  two  to  two. 
Or  three  to  three,  or  any  way  reprieve 
The  opinion  of  my  forfeit,  without  blemish. 

Aur.  Who  can    you  think  I  am  ?    did  you 
expect 
So  great  a  tameness  as  you  find,  Adurni, 
That  you  cast  loud  defiance?  say — 

Adur.  I  have  robb'd  you 
Of  rigour,  Auria,  by  my  strict  self-penance, 
For  the  presumption. 

Aur.  Sui-e,  Italians  hardly 
Admit  dispute  in  questions  of  this  nature; 
The  trick  is  new. 


^OHN  FORD. 


479 


Adur.  I  find  my  absolution, 
By  vows  of  change  from  all  ignoble  practice. 
^     Aur.  Why  look  ye,  friend,  I  told  you  this  be- 
fore ; 
You  would  not  be  persuaded : — let  me  think — 

[  Walks  apart. 

Aurel.  You  do  not  yet  deny  that  you  solicited 
The  lady  to  ill  purpose. 

A  dur.  I  have  answered  ; 
But  it  return'd  much  quiet  to  my  mind, 
Perplex'd  with  rare  commotions. 

Aur.  That's  the  way ; 
It  smooths  all  rubs. 

Aurel.  My  lord  ? 

Aur.  Foh  !  I  am  thinking — 
You  may  talk  forward. — If  it  take,  'tis  clear ; 
And  then — and  then, — and  so — and  so — 

Adur.  You  labour 
With  curious  engines,  i  sure. 

Aur.  Fine  ones !  I  take  you 
To  be  a  man  of  credit ;  else — 

Adur.  Suspicion 
Is  needless,  know  me  better. 

Aur.  Yet  you  must  not 
Part  from  me,  sir. 

Adur.  For  that,  your  pleasure. 

Aur.  '  Come, 
Fight  for  thy  wife  at  home,  my  Auria ! ' — Yes, 
We  can  fight,  my  SpineUa,  when  thine  honour 
Eelies  upon  a  champion. — 

Re-enter  Teelcatio. 

Now? 

Trel.  My  lord, 
Castanna,  with  her  sister,  and  Malfato 
Are  newly  enter'd. 

Aur.  Be  not  loud ;  convey  them 
Into  the  gallery. — Aurelio,  friend, 
Adurni,  lord,  we  three  will  sit  in  council. 
And  piece  a  hearty  league,  or  scuffle  shrewdly. 

[JExeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  the  House  o/'Maktino. 
Enter  Maetino,  Benatzi,  and  Levidolche. 

Mart.  Euffian,  out  of  my  doors!  thou  com'st 
to  rob  me. — 
An  officer!  what,  ho! — my  house  is  haunted 
By  a  lewd  pack  of  thieves,  of  harlots,  murderers, 
Eogues,  vagabonds !  I  foster  a  decoy  here  ; 
And  she  trowls  on  her  ragged  customer,- 
To  cut  my  throat  for  pillage. 

Lev.  Good  sir,  hear  me. 

Ben.  Hear  or  not  hear, — let  him  rave  his  lungs 
cut, — whilst  this  woman  hath  abode  under  this 
roof,  I  will  justify  myself  her  bedfellow  iu  de- 
spite of  denial ;  in  despite — those  are  my  words. 

Mart.  Monstrous! 
Why,  sirrah,  do  I  keep  a  bawdy-house. 
An  hospital  for  panders  ?     Oh,  thou  monster, 
Thou  she-confusion!  are  you  grown  so  rampant, 
That  fi-om  a  private  wanton,  thou  proclaim'st 

thyself 
A  baggage  for  all  gamesters,  lords  or  gentlemen. 
Strangers,  or  home -spun  yeomen,  foot -posts, 

pages. 
Roarers,'  or  hangmen  ?  hey-day !  set  up  shop. 
And  then  cry  '  a  market  open ;  to't,  and  welcome ! , 


'  engines — contrivances. 

2  trowls  on  her  ragged  customer — a  metaphor  taken 
from  angling. — Webek. 

3  roarers — the  same  as  the  roaring  hoys  so  often  re- 
ferred to  before. 


Lev.  This  is  my  husband. 
Mart.  Husband ! 

Ben.  Husband  natural,  I  have  married   her ; 
and — what's  your  verdict  on  the  match,  signior  ? 
Mart.  Husband,  and  married  her! 
Lev.  Indeed,  'tis  truth. 

Mart.  A  proper  joining!    give  ye  joy,  great 
mistress ; 
Your  fortunes  are  advanced,  marry  are  they. 
What  jointure  is  assured,  pray  ?  some  thi-ee  thou- 
sand 
A  year  in  oaths  and  vermin  ?  fair  preferment ! 
Was  ever  such  a  tatter'd  rag  of  man's  flesh 
Patch'd  up  for  copesmate '  to  my  niece's  daughter! 
Lev.  Sir,  for  my  mother's  name,  forbear  this 
anger : 
If  I  have  yoked  myself  beneath  your  wishes, 
Yet  is  my  choice  a  lawful  one:  and  I 
Will  live  as  truly  chaste  unto  his  bosom, 
As  e'er  my  faith  hath  bound  me. 
Mart.  A  sweet  couple ! 

Ben.  We  are  so :  for  mine  own  part,  however 
my  outside  appear  imgay,  I  have  wrestled  with 
death,  Signior  Martino,  to  preserve  your  sleeps, 
and  such  as  you  are,  untroubled.  A  soldier  is  in 
peace  a  mockery,  a  very  town-bull  -  for  laughter; 
unthrifts  and  landed  babies  are  prey  ciu'mud- 
geons  lay  their  baits  for.  Let  the  wars  rattle 
about  your  ears  once,  and  the  security  of  a  soldier 
is  right  honourable  amongst  ye  then ;  that  day 
may  shine  again.     So  to  my  business. 

Mart.  A  soldier!  thou  a  soldier!  I  do  believe 
Thou'rt  lousy  ;  that's  a  pretty  sign  I  grant : — 
A  villanous  poor  banditti  rather ;  one 
Can  man  a  quean,  and  cant,  and  pick  a  pocket, 
Pad  '  for  a  cloak,  or  hat,  and,  in  the  dark, 
Pistol  a  straggler  for  a  quarter-ducat. 
A  soldier !  yes, — he  looks  as  if  he  had  not 
The  spirit  of  a  herring,  or  a  tumbler. 

Ben.  Let  age  and  dotage  rage  together!  Levi- 
dolche, thou  art  mine ;  on  what  conditions  the 
world  shall  soon  witness:  yet  since  our  hands 
join'd,  I  have  not  iuteressed*  my  possession  of 
thy  bed;  nor  till  I  have  accounted  to  thy  in- 
junction, do  I  mean :  kiss  me  quick  and  resolute, 
so  ! — adieu,  signior ! 
Lev.  Dear,  for  love's  sake,  stay. 
Ben.  Forbear  entreaties.  [Exit. 

Mart.  Ah,  thou — but  what  ?    I  know  not  huw 
to  call  thee: 
Fain  would  I  smother  grief,  [but"]  out  it  must; 
My  heart  is  broke  :  thou  hast  for  many  a  day 
Been  at  a  loss,  and  now  art  lost  for  ever; 
Lost,  lost,  without  recovery. 

Lev.  With  pardon. 
Let  me  restrain  your  sorrows. 

Mart.  'Tis  impossible ; 
Despair  of  rising  up  to  honest  fame 
Turns  all  the  courses  wild,  and  this  last  action 
Will  roar  thy  infamy. — Then  you  are  certainly 
Married,  forsooth,  unto  this  new-come  ? 

Lev.  Yes, 
And  herein  every  hope  is  brought  to  life. 
Which  long  hatli  lain  in  darkness ;  I  have  onco 

more 
Wedded  Benatzi,  my  divorced  husband. 
Mart.  Benatzi !  this  the  man  ? 
Lev.  No  odd  disguise 
Could  guard  him  from  discovery ;  'tis  he. 
The  choice  of  my  ambition:  Heaven  preserve  me 


'  copesmate — companion;  here  husband.  See  note  2, 
col.  2,  p.  232. 

-  town-bull — referring  to  the  bull  kept  for  bull-baiting. 

3  Fad— a,  cant  expression  for  robbing  on  foot. — 
Webkr.    We  have  now  the  v,' or  A  foot-pad. 

*  inierewcti— claimed  my  interest  in. — Webeb. 


48o 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Thankful  for  such  a  lyjunty  !  yet  he  dreams  not 
Of  this  deceit ;  but  let  me  die  in  speaking, 
If  I  repute  not  my  success  more  happy 
Than  any  earthly  blessing.     Oh  !  sweet  uncle, 
Eejoice  with  me ;  I  am  a  faithful  convert, 
And  will  redeem  the  stains  of  a  foul  name 
By  love  and  true  obedience. 

Mart.  Force  of  passion 
Shows  me  a  child  again.     Do,  Levidolche, 
Perform  thy  resolutions;  those  perfonn'd, 
I  have  been  only  steward  for  your  welfare. 
You  shall  have  all  between  ye. 

Lev.  Join  with  me,  sir ; 
Our  plot   requires  much    speed;    we  must   be 

earnest. 
ni  tell  you  what  conditions  threaten  danger, 
Unless  you  intermediate  ;  let  us  hasten, 
For  fear  we  come  too  late. 

Mart.  As  thou  intendest 
A  virtuous  honest}',  I  am  thy  second 
To  any  office,  Levidolche  witty,' 
My  niece,  my  witty  niece. 

Lev.  Let's  slack  no  time,  sir.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 

An  Apartment  in  Trelcatio's  House. 

Enter  TnEi.CATio,  JIalfato,  Spinella,  and 
Castanna. 

Trel.  Kinsman   aud  ladies,  have  a  little  pa- 

-   tience. 
All  will  be  as  you  wish  :  I'll  be  your  warrant, 
Fear  nothing  ;  Auria  is  a  noble  fellow. 
I  leave  ye  ;  but,  bo  sure,  I  am  in  hearing : 
Take  courage.  [Exit. 

Mai.  Courage !  they  who  have  no  hearts, 
Find  none  to  lose;  ours  is  as  great  as  his, 
Who  defies  danger  most. — Sure,  state  and  cere- 
mony 
Inhabit  here.     Like  strangers  we  shall  wait 
Formality  of  entertainment.     Cousin, 
Let  us  return;  'tis  paltry. 

Spin.  Gentle  sir, 
Confine  your  passion  ;  my  attendance  only 
Commends  a  duty. 

Cast.  Now,  for  Heaven's  sake,  sister ! — 
lie  comes,  your  husband  comes;  take  comfort, 
sister. 

Enter  AuRiA  and  Aurelio. 

Aiir.  Malfato! 

3Ial.  Auria ! 

Aur.  Cousin,  would  mine  arms, 
In  their  embraces,  might  at  once  deliver 
Affectionately  what  interest  your  merit 
Holds  in  my  estimation  !     I  may  chide 
The  coyness  of  this  intercourse  betwixt  us, 
Which  a  retired  privacy  on  your  part 
Hath  pleas'd  to  show:  if  ought  of  my  endeavours 
Can  purchase  kind  opinion,  I  shall  honour 
The  means  and  pi'actice. 

Mai.  'Tis  your  charity. 

Aurel.  Worthy  Malfato ! 

Mai.  Provident  Aurelio .' 

Aur.  Castanna,  virtuous  maid  ! 

Cast.  Your  servant,  brother. 

Aur.  But  who's  that  other  ?  such  a  face  mine 
eyes 
Have  been  acquainted  with  ;  the  sight  resembles 
Something  which  is  not  quite  lost  to  remem- 
brance. [Spinella  kneels. 
Why  does  the  lady  kneel  ?  to  whom  ?  pray  rise ; 


1  w{»y— knowing,  wise.     Anglo-Saxon,  witdn  —  to 
know. 


I  shall  forget  civility  of  manners. 

Imagining  you  tender  a  false  tribute, 

Or  him  to  whom  you  tender  it,  a  counterfeit. 

[<S/je  7-ises. 
Mai.  My  lord,  you  use  a  borrow'd  bravery,! 
Not  suiting  fair  constructions:   may  your  for- 
tunes 
Mount  higher  than  can  apprehension  reach  'em! 
Yet  this  waste  kind  of  antic  sovereignty 
Unto  a  wife  who  equals  everj'  best 
Of  your  deserts,  achievements,  or  prosperity. 
Bewrays  a  barrenness  of  noble  nature : 
Let  upstarts  exercise  uncomely  roughness. 
Clear  spirits  to  the  humble  will  be  humble. — 
You  know  your  wife,  no  doubt. 

Aur.  'Cry  ye  mercy,  gentlemen  ! 
Belike  you  come  to  tutor  a  good  carriage. 
Are  expert  in  the  nick  on't :  we  shall  study 
Instructions  quaintly — '  wife,'  you  said — agreed. 
Keep  fair,  and  stand  the  trial. 

Sjiin.  Those  words  raise 
A  lively  soul  in  her,  who  almost  yielded 
To  faintness  and  stupidity  ;  I  thank  ye  : 
Though  prove  what  judge  you  will,  till  I  can 

purge 
Objections  which  require  belief  and  conscience, 
I  have  no  kindred,  sister,  husband,  friend, 
Or  pity  for  my  plea. 

Mai.  Call  ye  this  welcome? 
We  are  mistook,  Castanna. 

Cast.  Oh !  my  lord, 
Other  respects  were  promised. 

Aur.  Said  ye,  lady, 
'No  kindred,  sister,  husband,  friend?' 

Spin.  Nor  name; 
With  this  addition — I  disclaim  all  benefit 
Of  mercy  from  a  charitable  thought ; 
If  one  or  all  the  subtleties  of  malice. 
If  any  engineer  of  faithless  discord. 
If  supposition  for  pretence  in  folly, 
Can  point  out,  without  injury  to  goodness, 
A  likelihood  of  guilt  in  my  behaviour. 
Which  may  declare  neglect  in  every  duty, 
Eequired,  lit,  or  exacted. 

Aur.  High  and  peremptory ! 
The  confidence  is  masculine. 

Mel.  Why  not? 
An  honourable  cause  gives  life  to  truth. 
Without  control. 

Spin.  1  can  proceed ;  that  tongue, 
Whose  venom,  by  traducing  spotless  honour. 
Hath   spread    th'    infection,    is  not  more  mine 

enemy. 
Than  theirs,  or  his  weak  and  besotted  brains 

are, 
On  whom  the  poison  of  its  cankcr'd  falsehood 
Ha.th  wrought  for  credit  to  so  foul  a  mischief. 
Speak,  sir,  the  churlish  voice  of  this  combustion, 
Aurelio,  speak ;  nor,  gentle  sir,  forbear 
Ought  what  you  know,  but  roundly  use  your 

eloquence 
Against  a  mean  defendant. 

Mai.  He's  put  to't ; 
It  seems  the  challenge  gravels  him. 

Aurel.  My  intelligence 
Was  issue  of  my  doubts,  not  of  my  knowledge. 
A  self-confession  may  crave  assistance; 
Let  the  lady's  justice  impose  the  penauco. 
So,  in  the  rules  of  friendship,  as  of  love. 
Suspicion  is  not  seldom  an  improper 
Advantage  for  the  knitting  faster  joints 
Of  faithfullest  affection,  by  the  fevers 


'  inrrow'd  hraverp—feignei  bravado  or  brusquencss 
of  manner. 

-  can  ws^e— conduct,  bearing. 


JOHN  FORD. 


481 


Of  casualty  iinloos'd,  ■\vLere  lastly  error 
Hath  run  into  the  toil. 

Spin.  Woful  satisfaction 
For  a  divorce  of  hearts! 

Aur.  So  resolute  ? 
I  shall  touch  nearer  home :  behold  these  hairs, 
Great  masters  of  a  spirit,  yet  they  are  not 
By  winter  of  old  age  quite  hid  iu  snow ; 
Some  messengers  of  time,  I  must  acknowledge, 
Amongst  them  took  up  lodging ;  when  we  first 
Exchang'd  our  faiths  in  wedlock,  I  was  proud 
I  did  prevail  with  one  whose  youth  and  beauty 
Deserv'd  a  choice  more  suitable  in  both. 
Advancement  to  a  fortune  could  not  court 
Ambition,  either  on  my  side,  or  hers ; 
Love  drove  the  bargain,  and  the  truth  of  love 
Confirm'd  it,  I  conceiv'd.     But  disproportion 
Iu  years,  amongst  the  married,  is  a  reason 
For  change  of  pleasures :  whereto  I  reply. 
Our  union  was  not  forced,  'twas  by  consent ; 
So  then  the  breach  in  such  a  case  appears 
Unpardonable  : — say  your  thoughts. 

Spin.  My  thoughts 
In  that  respect  are  as  resolute  as  yours. 
The  same  ;  yet  herein  evidence  of  frailty 
Deserv'd  not  more  a  separation, 
Than  doth  charge  of  disloyalty  objected 
Without  or  ground  or  witness:  women's  faults 
Subject  to  punishments,  and  men's  applauded, 
Prescribe  no  laws  in  force. 

Aur  el.  Are  you  so  nimble  ? 

Mai.  A    soul   sublimed  from    dross   by  com- 
petition. 
Such  as  is  mighty  Auria's  famed,  descends 
From  its  own  sphere,  when  injuries,  profound 

ones, 
Yield  to  the  combat  of  a  scolding  mastery. 
Skirmish   of  words.      Hath   your  wife   lewdly 

ranged. 
Adulterating  the  honour  of  your  bed  ? 
Hold  [not  ^]  dispute,  but  execute  your  vengeance 
With  unresisted  rage ;  we  shall  look  on. 
Allow  the  fact,  and  spurn  her  from  our  bloods  : 
Else,  not  detected,  you  have  wrong'd  her  inno- 
cence 
Unworthily  and  childishly,  for  which 
I  challenge  satisfaction. 

Cast.  'Tis  a  tyranny 
Over  an  humble  and  obedient  sweetness, 
Ungently  to  insult. 

Enter  Adukni. 

Adur.  That  I  make  good. 
And  must  without  exception  find  admittance. 
Fitting  the  party  who  hath  herein  interest. 
Put  case  I   was   in  fault,  that  fault  stretch'd 

merely 
To  a  misguided  thought;  and  who  in  presence, 
Except  the  pair  of  sisters,  fair  and  matchless, 
Can  quit  an  imputation  of  like  folly  ? 
Here  I  ask  pardon,  excellent  Spinella, 
Of  only  you  ;  that  granted,  he  amongst  you, 
Who  calls  an  even  reckoning,  shall  meet 
An  even  accountant. 

Aur.  Baited  by  confederacy ! 
I  must  have  right. 

Spin.  And  I,  my  lord,  my  lord — 
What  stir  and  coil  is  here  !  you  can  suspect  ? 
So  reconciliation  then  is  needless  : — 
Conclude  the  difference  by  revenge,  or  part, 
And  never  more  see  one  another.     Sister, 
Lend  me  thine  arm  ;  I  have  assumed  a  courage 


^  not.  This  word  is  accidentally  omitted  in  the  quarto. 
The  context  is  so  obscure,  that  I  strongly  suspect  the 
mission  of  a  line  in  this  speech. — Webei;. 


Above  my  force,  and  can  hold  out  no  longer; 
Auria,  unliind,  unkind ! 

Cast.  She  faints. 

Aur.  Spinella  ! 
Regent  of  mj'  affections,  thou  hast  conquev'd  : 
I  find  thy  virtues  as  I  left  them,  perfect. 
Pure  and  untlaw'd ;  for  instance,  let  me  claim 
Castanna's  promise. 

Cast.  Mine? 

Aur.  Yours,  to  whose  faith 
I  am  a  guardian,  not  by  imposition. 
But  by  you  chosen.     Look  you,  I  have  fitted 
A  husband  for  you,  noble  and  deserving  ; 
No  shrinking  back. — Adurui,  I  present  her, 
A  wife  of  worth. 

^[al.  How's  that  ? 

Adur.  So  great  a  blessing 
Crowns  all  desires  of  life. — The  motion,  lady, 
To  me,  I  can  assure  you,  is  not  sudden. 
But  welcomed  and  forethought ;  would  you  could 

please 
To  say  the  like  ! 

Aur.  Castanna,  do. — Speak,  dearest, 
It  rectifies  all  crooked,  vain  surmises ; 
I  pr'ythee  speak. 

Spin.  The  courtship's  somewhat  quick, 
The  match  it  seems  agreed  on ;  do  not,  sister, 
Reject  the  iise  of  fate. 

Cast.  I  dare  not  question 
The  will  of  Heaven. 

Mai.  Unthought  of  and  unlook'd  for ! 

Spin.  My  ever  honoured  lord. 

Aurel.  This  marriage  frees 
Each  circumstance  of  jealousy. 

Aur.  Make  no  scruple, 
Castanna,  of  the  choice ;  'tis  firm  and  real : 
Why  else  have  I  so  long  with  taraeness  nourish'd 
Report  of  wrongs,  but  that  I  fix'd  on  issue 
Of  my  desires  ?     Italians  use  not  dalliance, 
But  execution  :  herein  I  degenerated 
From  custom  of  our  nation  ;  for  the  virtues 
Of  my  Spinella  rooted  in  my  soul, 

Yet  common  form  of  matrimonial  compliments, 
Short-liv'd  as  are  their  pleasures.     Yet  in  sooth, 
My  dearest,  I  might  blame  j'our  causeless  absence. 
To  whom  my  love  and  nature  were  no  strangers: 
But  being  in  yom-  kinsman's  house,  I  honour 
His  hospitable  friendship,  and  must  thank  it. 
Now  lasting  truce  on  all  hands. 

Aurel.  You  will  pardon 
A  rash  and  over-busy  curiosity. 

Spin.  It  was  to  blame  ;  but  the  success  remits 
it. 

Adur.  Sir,  what  presumptions  formerly  have 
grounded 
Opinion  of  unfitting  carriage  to  you, 
On  my  part  I  shall  faithfully  acquit 
At  easy  summons. 

Mai.  You  prevent  the  nicety ; 
Use  your  own  pleasure.  ^ 

Bexatzi  rushes  in  luith  his  su'ord  di-aicn,  followed 
hy  Levidolche  and  Maetino. 

Aurel.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Aur.  Matter.'' 

Ben.  Adurni  and  Malfato  found  together  ! 
Now  for  a  glorious  vengeauce. 

Lev.  Hold,  oh,  hold  him ! 

Aurel.  This  is  no  place  for  murder ;  yield  thy 
sword. 

Aur.  Yield  it,  or  force  it ;     [Ben.  is  disarmed.'] 
set  you  up  your  shambles 
Of  slaughter  in  my  presence  ? 

Adur.  Let  him  come. 

Mai.  What  can  the  ruffian  mean? 

Ben.  I  am  prevented  ; 


2h 


482 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


The  temple  or  the  chamber  of  the  duke, 
Had  else  not  proved  a  sanctuary.  Lord, 
Thou  hast  dishonourably  wrong'd  my  wife. 

Adur.  Thy  wife !     I  know  not  her  nor  thee. 

Aur.  Fear  nothing. 

Lev.  Yes,  me  you  know.    Heaven  has  a  gentle 
mercy 
For  penitent  offenders :  blessed  ladies, 
Eepute  me  not  a  castaway,  though  once 
I  fell  into  some  lapses,  which  our  sex 
Are  oft  entangled  by ;  yet  what  I  have  been 
Concerns  me  now  no  more,  who  am  resolv'd 
On  a  new  life.     This  gentleman,  Benatzi, 
Disguised  as  you  see,  I  have  re-married. — 
I  knew  you  at  first  sight,  and  tender  constantly 
Submission  for  all  errors. 

Mart.  Nay,  'tis  true,  sir. 

Ben.  I  joy  in  the  discovery,  am  thankful 
Unto  the  change. 

Aur.  Let' wonder  lisnceforth  cease. 
For  I  am  partner  with  Benatzi's  counsels, 
And  in  them  was  dhector :  I  have  seen 
The  man  do  service  in  the  wars  late  past, 
Worthy  an  ample  mention ;  but  of  that 
At  large  hereafter,  repetitions  now 
Of  good  or  bad  would  straiten  time,  presented 
For  other  use. 

Mart.  Welcome,  and  welcome  ever. 

Lev.  Mine   eyes,    sir,   never    shall   without  a 
blush 
Eeceive  a  look  from  yours ;  please  to  forget 
All  passages  of  rashness ;  such  attempt 
Was  mine,  and  only  mine. 

Mai.  You  have  found  a  way 
To  happiness;  I  honour  the  conversion. 

Adur.  Then  I  am  freed. 

Mai.  May  style  your  friend  your  servant. 

Mart.  Now  all  that's  mine  is  theirs. 

Adur.  But  let  mo  add 
An  offering  to  the  altar  of  this  peace. 

{^Gives  her  money. 

Aur.  How  likes  Spinella  this  ?  our  holiday 
Deserves  the  kalendar. 

Sinn.  This  gentlewoman 
Beform'd,  must  in   my  thoughts  live  tair  and 

worthy. — 
Indeed  you  shall.  \_Offering  her  money. 

Cast.  And  mine ;  the  novelty 
Eequires  a  friendly  love. 

Lev.  You  are  kind  and  bountiful. 

Enter  Trelcatio,  Futelli,  Amoretta,  Piero, 
driving  in  Fulgoso  and  Guzman. 

Trel.   By   your  leaves,    lords   and  ladies!   to 
your  jollities, 
I  bring  increase  with  mine  too;  here's  a  youngster 
Whom  I  call  son-in-law,  for  so  my  daughter 
Will  have  it.  [Presenting  Fut. 

Amor.  Yeth,  in  sooth  thee  will. 


Trel.  Futelli 
Hath  wean'd  her  from  this  pair. 

Piero.  Stand  forth,  stout  lovers. 

Trel.  Top  and  top-gallant  pair — and  for  his 
pains. 
She  will  have  him  or  none.    He's  not  the  richest 
I'  th'  parish ;  but  a  wit.    I  say  Amen, 
Because  I  cannot  help  it. 

Amor.  Tith  no  matter. 

Aur.  We'll  remedy  the  penury  of  fortune ; 
They  shall  with  us  to  Corsica.     Our  cousin 
Must  not  despair  of  means,  since  'tis  believed 
Futelli  can  deserve  a  place  of  trust. 

Fut.  You  are  in  all  unfellow'd. 

Amor.  Withly  thpoken. 

Piero.  Think  on  Piero,  sir. 

Aur.  Piero,  yes ; 
But  what  of  these  two  pretty  ones  ? 

Ful.  I'llfolloAV 
The  ladies,  play  at  cards,  make  sport,  and  whistle. 
My  purse  shall  bear  me  out :  a  lazy  life 
Is  scurvy  and  debosh'd ; '  fight  you  abroad, 
And  we'll  be  gaming,  whilst  you  fight,  at  home. 
Kun  high,  run  low,  here  is  a  brain  can  do't ; 
But  for  my  martial  brother  Don,  pray  ye  make  him 
A — what  d'ye  call't — a  setting  dog, — a  sentinel ; 
I'll  mend  his  weekly  pay. 

Chxz.  He  shall  deserve  it. 
Vouchsafe  employment,  honourable — 

Ful.  Marry, 
The  Don's  a  generous  Don. 

Aur.  Unfit  to  lose  him. 
Command  doth  limit  us  short  time  for  revels; 
We  must  be  thrifty  in  them.     None,  I  trust. 
Repines  at  these    delights,  they  are  free  and 

harmless : 
After  distress  at  sea,  the  dangers  o'er. 
Safety  and  welcomes  better  taste  ashore. 


EPILOGUE. 

The  court's  on  rising ;  'tis  too  late 
To  wish  the  lady  in  her  fate 
Of  trial  now  more  fortunate. 

A  verdict  in  the  jury's  breast, 
Will  be  giv'n  up  anon  at  least ; 
Till  then  'tis  fit  we  hope  the  best. 

Else,  if  there  can  be  any  stay, 
Next  sitting  without  more  delay. 
We  will  expect  a  gentle  day. 


» <fe6wA'd— ilebauched. 


THOMAS    HEYWOOD. 


[Of  this,  the  most  voluminous  dramatic  writer  in  the  English,  and  probahly  in  any  language, 
almost  nothing  is  known  for  certain,  but  that  he  had,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  '  an  entire 
hand,  or  at  least  a  main  finger, '  in  two  hundred  and  twenty  plays.  He  wrote,  besides, 
several  prose  works,  all  the  while  attending  to  his  duties  as  an  actor.  From  two  of  his 
works  we  learn  that  he  was  a  native  of  Lincolnshire  ;  and  Cart^vi'ight,  in  his  dedication  to 
The  Actor's  Vindication — a  posthiimous  edition  of  Heywood's  Apology  for  Actors — states 
that  the  author  was  a  Fellow  of  Peter  House,  Cambridge. 

From  Henslowe's  papers  it  is  ascertained  that  Heywood  wrote  for  the  stage  as  early  as 
1596  ;  and  Heywood  himself,  writing  in  1615,  and  speaking  of  his  first  published  drama. 
The  Death  of  Robert  Earl  of  Huntingdon,  which  appeared  in  1601,  says  that  it  was  written 
'many  years  since  in  my  infancy  of  judgment,  in  this  kind  of  poetry,  and  my  first  practice.' 
He  continued  writing  for  the  stage  down  to,  at  least,  1640.  In  the  notice  of  Heywood  in 
the  last  edition  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plays,  the  following  testimony  to  his  industry  is  quoted 
from  Kirkman,  the  author  of  a  catalogue  of  plays :  he  says  that  Heywood  '  was  very 
laborious  ;  for  he  not  only  acted  almost  every  day,  but  also  obliged  himself  to  write  a  sheet 
every  day  for  several  years  together ;  but  many  of  his  plays  being  composed  loosely  in 
taverns,  occasions  them  to  be  mean.  ...  I  could  say  somewhat  more  of  him,  and  of  all  the 
old  poets,  having  taken  pleasure  to  converse  with  those  that  were  acquainted  with  them. ' 
As  the  editor  of  Dodsley  well  remarks,  '  It  is  much  to  be  lamented  that  Kirkman  did  not 
communicate  to  the  world  that  information  which  he  boasts  of  being  able  to  give  concerning 
the  old  poets,  whose  memory,  for  want  of  such  intelligence,  is  now  almost  wholly  lost  to 
the  world.'  Of  the  multitude  of  plays  written  by  this  dramatist,  only  twenty -three  are 
extant ;  of  these  the  principal  are.  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange  (published  1607) ; 
A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  (1607,  acted  previous  to  1604)  ;  The  Rape  of  Lucrece 
(1630) ;  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  West  (1631) ;  The  English  Traveller  (1633) ;  The  Lancashire 
Witches  (1634) ;  Love's  Mistress  (1636) ;  The  Royal  King  and  the  Loyal  Subject  (1637). 

The  quantity  of  Heywood's  wi'itings  was  too  great  to  allow  of  their  quality  being  pre- 
eminent ;  there  is  nothing  very  marked  or  vigorous  in  his  style,  the  chief  characteristics  of 
his  dramas  being  softness,  smoothness,  repose,  combined  with  a  pleasant  poetical  fancy  ;  his 
characters  generally  are  not  drawn  with  any  great  distinctness.  Although  some  of  the 
scenes  in  his  plays  are  sufiiciently  immoral,  and  some  of  his  characters  of  the  lowest  type, 
still  he  never  descends  to  the  use  of  the  disgustingly  filthy  language  which  characterizes  the 
works  of  many  of  his  contemporaries.  The  following  is  Hazlitt's  estimate  of  Heywood  : — 
*  As  Marlowe's  imagination  glows  like  a  furnace,  Heywood's  is  a  gentle,  lambent  flame,  that 
purifies  without  consuming.  His  manner  is  simplicity  itself.  There  is  nothing  super- 
natural, nothing  startling,  or  terrific.  He  makes  use  of  the  commonest  circumstances  of 
every-day  life,  and  of  the  easiest  tempers,  to  show  the  workings,  or  rather  the  inefficacy  of 
the  passions,  the  vis  inertice  of  tragedy.  His  incidents  strike  from  their  very  familiarity, 
and  the  distresses  he  paints  invite  our  sjmipathy  from  the  calmness  and  resignation  with 
which  they  are  borne.  The  pathos  might  be  deemed  purer,  from  its  having  no  mixture  of 
turbulence  or  vindictiveness  in  it ;  and  in  proportion  as  the  sufferei's  are  made  to  deserve  a 
better  fate.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  untoward  reverses  and  cutting  injuries,  good-nature 
and  good  sense  keep  their  accustomed  sway.     He  describes  men's  errors  with  tenderness, 

483 


484 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


and  their  duties  only  with  zeal,  and  the  heightenings  of  a  poetic  fancy.  His  style  is  equally 
natural,  simple,  and  unconstrained.  The  dialogue  (bating  the  verse)  is  such  as  might  be 
uttered  in  ordinary  conversation.  It  is  beautiful  prose  put  into  heroic  measure.  It  is  not 
so  much  that  he  uses  the  common  English  idiom  for  everything  (for  that  I  think  the  most 
poetical  and  impassioned  of  our  elder  dramatists  do  equally),  but  the  simplicity  of  the 
characters  and  the  equable  flow  of  the  sentiments  do  not  require  or  suffer  it  to  be  warped 
from  the  tone  of  level  speaking,  by  figurative  expressions,  or  hyperbolical  allusions.' 

"We  have  selected  as  a  specimen  of  this  writer,  A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness,  of  some 
passages  in  which  Hazlitt  speaks  with  admiration.] 


A  WOMAN  KILLED  WITH  KINDNESS. 


■WKITTEN   BY  THO.    HEYWOOD. 

London.     1607. 


^ramalis    ^jersons. 


Sir  Francis  Actox. 

Sir  Charles  Mountford. 

Mr.  Frankford. 

Malby. 

Wendoll. 

c  ran  well. 

Old  MOUNTFORD. 

Shafton. 
Nicholas. 
Jenkin. 

EOGER  BKICKCAT. 


Jack  Slime. 

Tidy,  Sandy,  and  Eoder. 

Spiggot. 

Butler. 

Sheriff  and  Officers. 

Huntsmen,  Falconers,  Coachman,  Carters, 
Musicians,  Keeper,  Servants,  etc. 

Mrs.  Anne  Frankfordu 
Susan  Mountford. 

SiSLY. 


PROLOGTJE. 


I  come  but  as  a  harbinger,  being  sent 
To  tell  you  what  these  preparations  mean. 
Look  for  no  glorious  state  :  our  Muse  is  bent 
Upon  a  barren  subject,  a  bare  scene. 
"We  could  afford  this  twig  a  timber  tree, 
"Whose  strength  might  boldly  on  your  favours 

build ; 
Our  russet,  tissue  ;  drone,  a  honey-bee ; 
Om-  barren  plot,  a  large  and  spacious  field ; 


Our  coarse  fare,  banquets ;  our  thin  water,  wine  ; 
Our  brook,  a  sea ;  our  bat's  eyes,  eagle's  sight ; 
Our  poet's  dull  and  earthy  muse,  divine ; 
Our  ravens,  doves  ;    our  crow's  black  feathers, 

white : 
But  gentle  thoughts,  when  they  may  give  the 

foil, 
Save  them  that  yield,  and  spare  where  they  may 

spoil. 


Enter  Mr.  John  Frankford,  Mistress  Anne, 
Sir  Francis  Acton,  Sir  Charles  Mount- 
ford,  Master  Malby,  Master  Wendoli>,  and 

Mr.  C  ran  WELL. 

Sir  F.  Some  music,   there !      None   lead   the 
bride  a  dance  ? 

Sir  C.  Yes,  would  she  dance  the  shaking  of  the 
sheets ; ' 
But  that's  the  dance  her  husband  means  to  leadher. 
Wen.  That's   not  the   dance  that  every  man 
must  dancG, 
According  to  the  ballad. 


'  the  shaking  of  the  sJieets.  This  was  the  name  of  a 
dance  and  a  very  popular  tune,  frequently  mentioned 
in  ancient  plays. 


Sir  F.  Music,  ho ! — 
By  your  leave,  sister ;  by  your  husband's  leave  ^ 
I  should   have   said. — The   hand  that  but  thia 

day 
Was  given  you  in  the   church  I'll  borrow. — 

Sound ! 
This  marriage  music  hoists  me  from  the  ground. 
Frank.  Ay,  you  may  caper,  you  are  light  and 
free  : 
Marriage  hath  yok'd  my  heels ;    praj-,  pardon 
me. 
Sir  F.  I'll  have  you  dance  too,  brother. 
Sir  C.  Master  Frankford, 
You  are  a  happy  man,  sir  ;  and  much  joy 
Succeed  your  marriage  mirth  :  you  liave  a  wife 
So  qualified,  and  with  such  ornameuts 


THOMAS  HEY  WOOD. 


485 


Both  of  tlie  mind  and  body.     First,  her  birth 
Is  noble,  and  her  education  such 
As  might  become  the  daughter  of  a  prince  : 
Her  own  tongue  speaks  all  tongues,  and  her  own 

hand 
Can  teach  all  strings  to  speak  in  their  best  grace. 
From  the  shrill'st  treble  to  the  hoarsest  base. 
To  end  her  many  praises  in  a  word, 
She's  Beauty  and  Perfection's  eldest  daughter, 
Only  found  by  yours,  though  many  a  heart  hath 
sought  her. 

Frank.    But  that  I  know  your  vu-tues  and 
chaste  thoughts, 
I  should  be  jealous  of  your  praise.  Sir  Charles. 

Cran.  He  speaks  no  more  than  you  approve. 

Mai.  Nor  flatters  he  that  gives  to  her  her  due. 

Mrs.  Anne.  I  would  your  praise  could  find  a 
fitter  theme 
Than  my  imperfect  beauties  to  speak  on  : 
Such  as  they  be,  if  they  my  husband  please, 
They  suffice  me  now  I  am  married. 
This  sweet  content  is  Hke  a  flatt'ring  glass. 
To  make  my  face  seem  fairer  to  mine  eye ; 
But  the  least  wrinkle  fi'om  his  stormy  brow 
AVill  blast  the  roses  in  my  cheeks  that  grow. 

Sir  F.  A  perfect  wife  already,  meek  and  patient. 
How  strangely  the  word  husband  fits  your  mouth, 
Not  married  three  hours  since  !  Sister,  'tis  good  ; 
You  that  begin  betimes  thus  must  needs  prove 
Pliant  and  duteous  in  your  husband's  love. — 
Gramercies,  brother  !  wrought  her  to't  already  ? 
Sweet  husband,  and  a  curtsey,  the  first  day  ? 
Mark  this,  mark  this,  you  that  are  bachelors, 
And  never  took  the  grace  of  honest  man; 
Mark  this,  against  j'ou  marry,  this  one  phrase  : 
In  a  good  time  that  man  both  wins  and  woos 
That  takes  his  wife  down  in  her  wedding  shoes. 

Frank.   Your  sister  takes  not  after  you,  Sir 
Francis ; 
All  his  wild  blood  your  father  spent  on  you. 
He  got  her  in  his  age,  when  he  grew  civil : 
All  his  mad  tricks  were  to  his  land  entail'd, 
And  you  are  heir  to  all :  your  sistei%  she 
Hath  to  her  dower  her  mother's  modesty. 

Sir  C.   Lord,  sii",  in  what  a  happy  state  live 
you! 
This  morning,  which  to  many  seems  a  burden  too 
Heavy  to  bear,  is  unto  you  a  pleasure. 
This  lady  is  no  clog,  as  many  are : 
She  doth  become  you  like  a  well-made  suit, 
In  Avhich  the  tailor  hath  us'd  all  his  art ; 
Not  like  a  thick  coat  of  unseason'd  frieze, 
Forc'd  on  your  back  in  summer.    She's  no  chain 
To  tie  your  neck,  and  curb  ye  to  the  yoke  ; 
But  she's  a  chain  of  gold  to  adorn  your  neck. 
You  both  adorn  each  other,  and  your  hands, 
Methinks,  are  matches  :  there's  equality 
lu  this  fair  combination  ;  you  are  both 
Scholars,    both   young,    both    being    descended 

nobly. 
There's  music  in  this  sympathy ;  it  carries 
Consort,  and  expectation  of  much  joy, 
^Vhich  God  bestow  on  you  from  this  first  day. 
Until  your  dissolution  ;  that's  for  aye. 

Sir  F.    We   keep    you  here  too  long,   good 
brother  Frankford. 
Into  the  hall.     Away  !    Go  cheer  your  guests. 
What !    bride  and  bridegroom  both  withdrawn 

at  once  ? 
If  you  be  miss'd,  the  guests  will  doubt  their 

welcome. 
And  charge  you  with  unkinduess. 

Frank.  To  prevent  it, 
I'll  leave  you  here,  to  see  the  dance  within 

Mrs.  A.  And  so  will  I.  \_Exeunt. 

Sir  F.  To  part  you  it  were  sin. — 
Now,  gallants,  while  the  town  musicians 


Finger  their  frets  within,  and  the  mad  lads. 
And  country  lasses,  every  mother's  child. 
With  nosegays  and  bride-laces  in  their  hats. 
Dance  all  their  country  measures,  rounds,  and 

jigs, 
What  shall  we  do  ?     Hark !    they're  all  on  the 

hoigh ; ' 
They  toil  like  mill-horses,  and  turn  as  round, 
Marry,  not  on  the  toe.     Ay,  and  they  caper, 
But  not  without  cutting  :  you  shall  see  to-morrow 
The  hall  floor  peck'd  and  dinted.like  a  mill-stone. 
Made  with  their  high  shoes.     Though  their  skill 

be  small. 
Yet  they  tread  heavy  where  their  hobnails  fall. 

Sir  C.  Well,  leave  them  to  their  sports. — Sir 
Francis  Acton, 
I'll  make  a  match  with  yoii :  meet  to-morrow 
At  Chevy  Chase,  I'll  fly  my  hawk  with  yours. 

Sir  F.  For  what?  for  what.? 

Sir  C.  Why,  for  a  hundred  pound. 

Sir  F.  Pawn  me  some  gold  of  that. 

Sir  C.  Here  are  ten  angels ; 
I'll  make  them  good  a  hundi-ed  pound  to-mon'ow 
Upon  my  hawk's  wing. 

Sir  F.  'Tis  a  match  :  'tis  done. 
Another  hundred  pound  upon  your  dogs : 
Dare  ye.  Sir  Charles .' 

Sir  C.  I  dare :  were  I  sure  to  lose, 
I  durst  do  more  than  that :  here  is  my  hand  ; 
The  first  course  for  a  hundred  pound. 

Sir  F.  A  match. 

Wen-  Ten  angels  on  Sir  Francis  Acton's  hawk ; 
As  much  upon  his  dogs. 

Cran.  I  am  for  Sir  Charles  Mountford;  I  have 
seen 
His  hawk  and  dog  both  tried.     What !  clap  ye 

hands, 
Or  is't  no  bargain  ? 

Wen.  Yes,  and  stake  them  down. 
Were  they  five  hundred,  they  were  all  my  own. 

Sir  F.    Be  stirring  early  with  the  lark  to- 
morrow ; 
I'll  rise  into  my  saddle  ere  the  sun 
Rise  from  his  bed. 

Sir  C.  If  there  you  miss  me,  say 
I  am  no  gentleman.     I'll  hold  my  day. 

Sir  F.  It  holds  on  all  sides Come,  to-night 

let's  dance ; 
Early  to-morrow  let's  prepare  to  ride  : 
We  had  need  be  three  hours  up  before  the  bride. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Nicholas  and  Jenkix,  Jack  Slime, 
Roger  Brickbat,  with  Country  Wenches 
and  two  or  three  Musicians. 

Jen.  Come,  Nick,  take  you  Joan  Miniver,  to 
trace  withal ;  Jack  Slime,  traverse  you  with 
Sisly  Milkpail ;  I  will  take  Jane  Trubkin,  and 
Roger  Brickbat  shall  have  Isabel  Motley.  And 
now  that  they  are  busy  in  the  parlour,  come, 
strike  up ;  we'll  have  a  crash  ^  here  in  the  yard. 

Nich.  My  humour  is  not  compendious  :  danc- 
ing I  possess  not,  though  I  can  foot  it ;  yet,  since 
I  am  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Sisly  Milkpail,  I 
consent. 

J.  Slime.  Truly,  Nick,  though  we  were  never 
brought  up  like  serving  courtiers,  yet  we  have 
been  brought  up  with  serving  creatures  ;  ay,  and 
God's  creatures,  too ;  for  we  have  been  brought 
up  to  serve  sheep,  oxen,  horses,  hogs,  and  such 
hke ;  and,  though  we  be  but  country  fellows,  it 


'  on  the  hoigh — eager,  riotous. — Nares. 
-  crash  —  entertainment.  —  Xakes.      Meny  bout.  — 
Hanmek. 


486 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


may  be  in  the  way  of  dancing  we  can  do  the 
horse  trick  as  well  as  the  serving-men. 

R.  Brick.  Ay,  and  the  cross-point  too. 

Jen.  Oh,  Slime !  oh.  Brickbat !  do  not  you 
know  that  comparisons  are  odious  ?  Now  we 
are  odious  ourselves,  too,  therefore  there  are  no 
comparisons  to  be  made  betwixt  us. 

Nich.  I  am  sudden,  and  not  superfluous ; 
I  am  quarrelsonie,  and  not  seditious  ; 
I  am  peaceable,  and  not  contentious ; 
I  am  brief,  and  not  compendious. 

J.  Slime.  Foot  it  quickly.  If  the  music  over- 
come not  my  melancholy,  I  shall  quarrel ;  and  if 
they  suddenly  do  not  strike  up,  I  shall  presently 
strike  thee  down. 

Jen.  No  quarrelling,  for  God's  sake!  Truly,  if 
you  do,  I  shall  set  a  knave  between  ye. 

J.  Slime.  I  come  to  dance,  not  to  quarrel. 
Come,  what  shall  it  be  ?     Eogero  ?' 

Jen.  Kogero !  no  ;  we  will  dance  the  beginning 
of  the  world. 

Sisly.  I  love  no  dance  so  well  as,  John,  come 
kiss  me  now. 

Nich.  I  that  have  ere  now  deserv'd  a  cushion, 
call  for  the  Cushion-dance. 

R.  Brick.  For  my  part,  I  like  nothing  so  well 
as  Tom  Tyler, 

Jen.  No ;  we'll  have  the  Hunting  of  the  Fox. 

J.  Slime.  The  hay !  the  hay !  there's  nothing 
like  the  hay. 

Nich.  I  have  said,  do  say,  and  will  say  again — 

Jen.  Everyman  agree  to  have  it  as  Nick  says. 

All.  Content. 

Nich.  It  hath  been,  it  now  is,  and  it  shall  be — 

Sisly.  What,  Master  Nicholas  ?  what  ? 

Nich.  Put  on  your  smock  o'  Monday. 

Jen.  So  the  dance  will  come  cleanly  off. 
Come,  for  God's  sake,  agree  of  something  :  if  you 
like  not  that,  put  it  to  the  musicians ;  or  let  me 
speak  for  all,  and  we'll  have  Sellenger's  Eound. 

All.  That,  that,  that ! 

NicJi.  No  ;  I  am  resolv'd  thus  it  shall  be  : 
First  take  hands,  then  take  ye  to  your  heels. 

Jen.  Why,  would  you  have  us  run  away  ? 

Nich.  No ;  but  I  would  have  you  shake  your 
heels. — 
Music,  strike  up ! 

[They  dance;  "NiCK  dancing,  sjieaks  stately 
and  scurvily ;  the  rest  dance  after  the 
country  fashion. 

Jen.  Hey !  lively,  my  lasses !  here's  a  turn  for 
thee !  [Exeunt. 

Wind  horns.  Enter  Su-  Charles  Mountfoed, 
Sir  Francis  Actou-,  Malby,  Crauwell, 
Wendoll,  Falconer,  and  Huntsmen. 

Sir  C.  So ;  weU  cast  off.    Aloft,  aloft !    Well 

flown! 
Oh !  now  she  takes  her  at  the  souse,^  and  strikes 

her 
Down  to  th'  earth,  like  a  swift  thunder-clap. 
Wen.  She  hath  struck  ten  angels  out  of  my 

way. 
Sir  F.  A  hundred  pound  for  me. 
Sir  C.  What,  falconer! 
Falc.  At  hand,  sir. 

1  Rogero — the  name  of  a  ballad  tune ;  so  also,  The 
beginning  of  the  world;  John,  come  Zeiss  me  now;  Tom 
Tyler,  etc.,  mentioned  afterwards. 

2  The  phrases  here,  and  in  the  following  part  of  this 
Bcene,  are  wholly  taken  from  falconry : — at  the  soiise, 
with  sudden  descent;  plume,  pluck  off  the  feathers; 
rebeck,  (?)  beck  or  call  back  ;  gets  (?),  jesses,  two  leathern 
straps  attached  to  each  leg  below  the  bells,  which  are 
two  small  hollow  globes  of  thin  metal;  at  the  quarre, 
as  the  fowl  rises;  at  the  mount,  aloft;  at  the  f em,  at 
the  far  side  of  a  river  or  pit. 


iS'iV  C.  Now  she  hath  seiz'd  the  fowl,  and  'gins 
to  plume  her. 
Rebeck  her  not :  rather  stand  still  and  check  her. 
So,  seize  her  gets,  her  jesses,  and  her  bells. 
Away ! 
Sir  F.  My  hawk  kill'd  too. 
Sir  C.  Ay,  but  'twas  at  the  quarre, 
Not  at  the  mount,  like  mine. 
Sir  F.  Judgment,  my  masters. 
Cran.  Yours  missed  her  at  the  feiTe. 
Wen.  Ay,  but  our  merlin  first  hath  plum'd  the 
fowl. 
And  twice  renew'd  her  from  the  river  too : 
Her  bells.  Sir  Francis,  had  not  both  one  weight, 
Nor  was  one  semitone  above  the  other. 
Methinks  these  Milain  bells  do  sound  too  full, 
And  spoil  the  mounting  of  your  hawk. 
Sir  C.  'Tis  lost. 

Sir  F.  I  grant  it  not.    Mine  likewise  seiz'd  a 
fowl 
Within  her  talons :  and  you  saw  her  paws 
Full  of  the  feathers:  both  her  petty  singles^ 
And  her  long  singles  grip'd  her  more  than  other  ; 
The  terrials  of  her  legs  were  stain'd  with  blood: 
Not  of  the  fowl  only  she  did  discomfit,- 
Some  of  her  feathers ;  but  she  brake  away. 
Come,  come ;  your  hawk  is  but  a  rifler. 
Sir  C.  How ! 
Sir  F.  Ay,  and  your  dogs  are  trindle-tails ' 

and  curs. 
Sir  C  You  stir  my  blood. 
You  keep  not  one  good  hound  in  all  your  kennel, 
Nor  one  good  hawk  upon  your  perch. 
Sir  F.  How,  knight ! 

Sir  C.  So,  knight.     You  will  not  swagger,  sir  ? 
Sir  F.  Why,  say  I  did  ? 
Sir  C.  Why,  sir, 
I  say  you  would  gain  as  much  by  swaggering 
As  you  have  got  by  wagers  on  your  dogs : 
You  will  come  short  in  all  things. 
Sir  F.  Not  in  this:  now  I'll  strike  home. 
Sir  C.  Thou  shalt  to  thy  long  home,  or  I  will 

want  my  will. 
Sir  F.  xVll  they  that  love  Sir  Francis  follow  me. 
Sir  C.  All  that  affect  Sir*  Charles  draw  on  my 

part. 
Cran.  On  this  side  heaves  my  hand. 
Wen.  Here  goes  my  heart. 

[They    divide    themselves.       Sir    Charles 
MouNTFORD,  Ckanwell,  Falconer,  and 
Huntsman,  fight    against    Sir    Francis 
Acton,    Wendoll,    his    Falconer    and 
Huntsman;    and  Sir  Charles  hath  the 
letter,  and  beats  them  away,  killing  both 
oy  Sir  Francis's  Huntsmen. 
Sir  C.  My  God !     What  have  I  done  ?     What 
have  I  done  ? 
My  rage  hath  plung'd  into  a  sea  of  blood, 
In  which  my  soul  lies  drown'd.     Poor  innocents, 
For  whom  we  are  to  answer !     Well,  'tis  done. 
And  I  remain  the  victor.     A  great  conquest. 
When  I  would  give  this  right  hand,  nay,  this 

head. 
To    breathe  in  them  new  life  whom  I    have 

slain ! — 
Forgive  me,  God !    'Twas  in  the  heat  of  blood ; 
And  anger  quite  removes  me  from  myself. 
It  was  not  I,  but  rage,  did  this  vile  murder ; 
Yet  I,  and  not  my  rage,  must  answer  it. 
Sir  Francis  Acton  he  is  fled  the  field ; 
With  him  all  those  that  did  partake  his  quarrel ; 


^  petty  singles — toes. 

2  discomfit,  etc.— Pluck  off  the  feathers  without  taking 
the  bii  d ;  if  in  the  habit  of  doing  so,  it  is  called  ri/ler. 

3  trindle-tail  or  trundle-tail — curly  tail ;  a  cur. 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


487 


And  I  am.  left  alone  with  sorrow  dumb, 
And  in  my  height  of  conquest  overcome. 

Enter  Susan. 

Susan.  0  God !     My  brother  wounded,  'mong 
the  dead  ? 
Unhappy  jest,  that  in  such  earnest  ends! 
The  rumour  of  this  fear  stretch'd  to  my  ears, 
And  I  am  come  to  know  if  you  be  wounded. 

Sir   C.    Oh,   sister!    sister!   wounded  at   the 
heart. 

Susan.  My  God  forbid ! 

Sir  C.  In  doing  that  which  Ho  forbade, 
I  am  wounded,  sister. 

Susan.  I  hope  not  at  the  heart. 

Sir  C.  Yes ;  at  the  heart. 

Susan.  0  God !     A  surgeon,  there ! 

Sir  C.  Call  me  a  surgeon,  sister,  for  my  soul. 
The  sin  of  murder  it  hath  pierc'd  my  heart. 
And  made  a  wide  wound  there;  but  for  these 

scratches, 
They  are  nothing,  nothing. 

Susan.  Charles,  what  have  you  done  ? 
Sir  Francis  hath  great  friends,  and  will  pursue 

you 
Unto  the  utmost  danger  of  the  law. 

Sir  C.  My  conscience  hath  become  mine  enemy, 
And  will  pursue  me  more  than  Acton  can. 

Susan.  Oh  I  fly,  sweet  brother. 

Sir  C.  Shall  1  fly  from  thee  ? 
Why,  Sue,  art  weary  of  my  company  ? 

Susan.  Fly  from  your  foe. 

Sir  C.  You,  sister,  are  my  friend  ; 
And  flying  you,  I  shall  pursue  my  end. 

'Susan.  Your  company  is  as  my  eyeball  dear  ; 
Being  far  from  you,  no  comfort  can  be  near. 
Yet  fly  to  save  your  life  :  what  would  I  care 
To  spend  my  future  age  in  black  despair, 
So  you  were  safe  ?     And  yet  to  live  one  week 
Without  my  brother  Charles,  through  every  cheek 
My  streaming   tears  would  downwards  run  so 

rank, 
Till  they  could  set  on  either  side  a  bank, 
And  in  the  midst  a  channel ;  so  my  face 
For  two  salt  water  brooks  shall  still  find  place. 

Sir  C.  Thou  shalt  not  weep  so  much ;  for  I 
will  stay. 
In  spite  of  danger's  teeth.    I'U  live  with  thee, 
Or  I'll  not  live  at  all.     I  wiU  not  sell 
My  country  and  my  father's  patrimony. 
Nor  thy  sweet  sight,  for  a  vain  hope  of  life. 

Enter  Sheriff,  tvith  Officers. 

Sher.  Sir  Charles,  I  am  made  the  unwilling 
instrument 
Of  your  attach  1  and  apprehension  : 
I'm  sorry  that  the  blood  of  innocent  men 
Should  be  of  you  exacted.     It  was  told  me 
That  you  were  guarded  with  a  troop  of  friends, 
And  therefore  came  thus  arm'd. 

Sir  C.  Oh,  Master  Sheriff! 
I  came  into  the  field  with  many  friends, 
But  see,  they  all  have  left  me  :  only  one 
Clings  to  my  sad  disaster,  my  dear  sister. 
I  know  you  for  an  honest  gentleman  ; 
I  yield  my  weapons,  and  submit  to  you. 
Convey  me  where  you  please. 

Sher.  To  prison,  then. 
To  answer  for  the  lives  of  these  dead  men. 

Susan.  0  God!     0  God! 

Sir  C.  Sweet  sister,  every  strain 
Of  sorrow  from  your  heart  augments  my  pain ; 
Your  grief  abounds,  and  hits  against  my  breast. 


'  attach — attachment,  arrest 


Sher.  Sir,  will  you  go  ? 

Sir  C.  Even  where  it  likes  you  best. 

{^Exeunt. 

Enter  Mr.  Feankfoed  in  a  study. 

Frank.  How  happy  am  I  amongst  other  men, 
That  in  my  mean  estate  embrace  content ! 
I  am  a  gentleman,  and  by  my  birth 
Companion  with  a  king ;  a  king's  no  more. 
I  am  possess'd  of  many  fair  revenues, 
SufiBcient  to  maintain  a  gentleman. 
Touching  my  mind,  I  am  studied  in  all  arts; 
The  riches  of  my  thoughts,  and  of  my  time. 
Have  been  a  good  proficient ;  but  the  chief 
Of  all  the  sweet  felicities  on  earth, 
I  have  a  fair,  a  chaste,  and  loving  wife ; 
Perfection  all,  all  truth,  all  ornament. 
If  man  on  earth  may  truly  happy  be. 
Of  these  at  once  possess'd,  sure,  I  am  he. 

Enter  Nicholas. 

Nich.  Sir,  there's  a  gentleman  attends  without 
to  speak  with  you. 

Franh.  On  horseback  ? 

Nich.  Yes,  on  horseback. 

Franh.  Entreat  him  to  alight,  and  I'll  attend 
him. 
Kndw'st  thou  him,  Nick  ? 

Nich.  Know  him  ?     Yes ;  his  name  is  WendoU. 
It  seems  he  comes  in  haste :  his  horse  is  booted 
Up  to  the  flank  in  mire,  himself  all  spotted 
And  stain'd  with  plashing.     Sure,  he  rid  in  fear, 
Or  for  a  wager :  horse  and  man  both  sweat ; 
I  ne'er  saw  two  in  such  a  smoking  heat. 

Frank.  Entreat  him  in :  about  it  instantly. 

\_Exit  Nicholas. 
This  Wendoll  I  have  noted,  and  his  carriage 
Hath  pleas'd  me  much :  by  observation 
I  have  noted  many  good  deserts  in  him. 
He's  affable,  and  seen  *  in  many  things. 
Discourses  well,  a  good  companion  ; 
And  though  of  small  means,  yet  a  gentleman 
Of  a  good  house,  somewhat  press'd  by  want. 
I  have  preferr'd  him  to  a  second  place 
In  my  opinion,  and  my  best  regard. 

Enter  Wendolt^  Mrs.  Feankfokd,  and 
Nicholas. 

Mrs.  Anne.  Oh,  Mr.  Frankford !  Mr.  Wendoll, 
here, 
Brings  you  the  strangest  news  that  e'er  you  heard. 

Frank.  What  news,  sweet  wife? — What  news, 
good  Mr.  Wendoll  ? 

Wen.  You  knew  the  match  made  'twixt  Sir 
Francis  Acton 
And  Sir  Charles  Mountford  ? 

Frank.  True  ;  mth  their  hounds  and  hawks. 

Wen.  The  matches  were  both  played. 

Frank.  Ha  !  and  which  won .' 

Wen.  Sir  Francis,  your  wife's  brother,  had  the 
worst, 
And  lost  the  wager. 

Frank.  Why,  the  worse  his  chance : 
Perhaps  the  fortune  of  some  other  day 
Will  change  his  luck. 

Mrs.  A.  Oh !  but  you  hear  not  all. 
Sir  Francis  lost,  and  yet  was  loath  to  yield  : 
At  length  the  two  knights  grew  to  difference. 
From  words  to  blows,  and  so  to  banding  sides; 
Where  valorous  Sir  Charles  slew,  in  his  spleen, 
Two  of  your  brother's  men,  his  falconer. 
And  his  good  huntsman,  whom  he  lov'd  so  well. 
More  men  were  wounded,  no  more  slain  outright. 


1  seen — instructed. — Dodslby. 


488 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Franlc.  Now,    trust  me,    I   am  sorry  for  the 
knight ; 
But  is  my  brother  safe  ? 

Wen.  All  whole  and  sound, 
His  body  not  being  blemish'd  with  one  wound  : 
But  poor  Sir  Charles  is  to  the  jDrisou  led, 
To  answer  at  th'  assize  for  them  that's  dead. 
Frank.  I  thank  your  pains,  sir :  had  the  news 
been  better, 
Tour  will  was  to  have  brought  it,  Mr.  Weudoll. 
Sir  Charles  will  find  hard  friends :  his  case  is 

heinoiis. 
And  Avill  be  most  severely  censur'd  on  : ' 
I'm  sorry  for  him.     Sir,  a  word  with  you. 
I  know  you,  sir,  to  be  a  gentleman 
In  all  things  ;  your  possibilities  but  mean  : 
Please  you  to  use  my  table  and  my  purse  ; 
They  are  yours. 

Wen.  O  Lord,  sir !  I  shall  never  deserve  it. 
Franh.  Oh,  sir,  disparage  not  your  worth  too 
much : 
Tou  are  full  of  quality  and  fair  desert. 
Choose  of  my  men  which  shall  attend  you,  sir. 
And  he  is  yours.     I  Avill  allow  J'ou,  sir. 
Your  man,  your  gelding,  and  your  table, 
All  at  my  own  charge  ;  be  my  companion. 

Wen.  Mr.  Frankford,  I  have  oft  been  bound 
to  you 
By  many  favours  ;  this  exceeds  them  all, 
That  I  shall  never  merit  your  least  favour  ; 
But  when  your  last  remembrance  I  forget, 
Heaven  at  my  soul  exact  that  weighty  debt. 
Frank.   There   needs   no  protestation  ;   for  I 
know  you 
Virtuous,  and  therefore  grateful. — Pr'ythee,  Nan, 
Use  him  with  all  thy  loving'st  courtesy. 

Mrs.  A.  As  far  as  modesty  may  vvell  extend. 
It  is  my  duty  to  receive  your  friend. 
Frank.  To  dinner !     Come,  sir,  from  this  pre- 
sent day. 
Welcome  to  me  for  ever :  come,  away. 

\_ExmHt  Frankford,    Mrs.    Frankford, 
and  Wendoll. 
NicJi.  I  do  not  like  this  fellow  by  no  means ; 
I  never  see  him  but  my  heart  still  yearns. 
Zounds !  I  could  fight  with  him,  yet  know  not 

why  : 
The  devil  and  he  are  all  one  in  my  eye. 

Enter  Jenkin. 

Jen.  Oh,  Nick !  what  gentleman  is  that,  that 
comes  to  lie  at  our  house  ?  My  master  allows 
him  one  to  wait  on  him,  and  I  believe  it  will  fall 
to  thy  lot. 

Nicli.  I  love  my  master,  by  these  hilts-  I  do  •, 
But  rather  than  I'll  ever  come  to  serve  him, 
I'll  turn  away  my  master. 

Enter  Sisly. 

Sis.  Nicholas  !  where  ai-e  you,  Nicholas  ?  Tou 
must  come  in,  Nich'las,  and  help  the  young 
gentleman  off  with  his  boots. 

Nich.  If  I  pluck  off  his  boots,  I'll  eat  the  spurs. 
And  they  shall  stick  fast  in  my  throat  like  burrs. 

Sis.  Then,  Jenkin,  come  you. 

Jen.  Nay,  'tis  no  boot  for  me  to  deny  it.  My 
master  hath  given  me  a  coat  here,  but  he  takes 
pains  himself  to  brush  it  once  or  twice  a  day 
with  a  holly-wand. 

Sis.  Come,  come,  make  haste,  that  you  may 
wash  your  hands  again,  and  help  to  serve  in 
dinner. 

Jen.  Tou  may  see,  my  masters,  though  it  be 


'  censured  on — judRcd  of,  or  passed  sentence  on. 
« /ii7/j— cudgels.— Nakes. 


afternoon  with  you,  'tis  yet  but  early  days  with 
us,  for  we  have  not  diu'd  yet.  Stay  a  little  ;  I'll 
but  go  in  and  help  to  bear  up  the  first  course, 
and  come  to  you  again  presently.  [^Exeunt. 

Enter  Malby  and  Cranwell. 

3fal.  This  is  the  sessions  day ;  pray,  can  you 
tell  me 
How  young  Sir  Charles  hath  sped  ?   Is  he  acquit. 
Or  must  he  try  the  laws'  strict  penalty  ? 

Cran.  He's  clear'd  of  all,  spite  of  his  enemies. 
Whose  earnest  labour  was  to  take  his  life  : 
But  in  this  suit  of  pardon  he  hath  spent 
All  the  revenues  that  his  father  left  him  ; 
And  he  is  now  turn'd  a  plain  country  man, 
Keform'd  in  all  things.     See,  sir,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Sir  Chari^es  and  his  Keeper. 

Keep.  Discharge  your  fees,  and  you  are  then 
at  freedom. 

Sir  C.  Here,   Mr.  Keeper,  take  the  poor  re- 
mainder 
Of  all  the  wealth  I  have  :  my  heavy  foes 
Have  made  my  purse  light ;  but,  alas  !  to  me 
'Tis  wealth  enough  that  you  have  set  me  free. 

Mai.  God  give  you  joy  of  your  delivery. 
I  am  glad  to  see  you  abroad.  Sir  Charles. 

Sir  C.  The  poorest  knight  in  England,  Mr. 
Malby : 
My  life  hath  cost  me  all  my  patrimony 
My  father  left  his  son.     AVell,  God  forgive  them 
That  are  the  authors  of  my  penury  ! 

Enter  Shafton. 

Shaft.  Sir   Charles  !     A   hand,    a  hand !     At 
liberty  ? 
Now,  bj'  the  faith  I  owe,  I  am  glad  to  see  it. 
What  want  you  ?    Wherein  may  I  jjleasuro  you  ? 

Sir  C.  0  me  !     Oh,  most  unhappy  gentleman  ! 
I  am  not  worthy  to  have  friends  stirr'd  uja. 
Whose  hands  may  help  me  in  this  plunge  of 

want. 
I  would  I  were  in  heaven,  to  inherit  there 
Th'  immortal  birthright  which  my  Saviour  keeps, 
And  by  no  unthrift  can  be  bought  and  sold  ; 
For  here   on  earth  what  pleasures  should  we 
trust .' 

Shaft.  To  rid  you  from  these  contemplations. 
Three  hundred  pounds  you  shall  receive  of  me  ; 
Nay,  five  for  fail.     Come,  sir,  the  sight  of  gold 
Is  the  most  sweet  receipt  for  melancholy. 
And  will  revive  your  spirits.     You  shall  hold 

law 
With  your  proud  adversaries.    Tush  !  let  Frank 

Acton 
Wage  his  knighthood-like  expense  with  me. 
And  a'  will  sink,  he  will. — Nay,  good  Sir  Charles, 
Applaud  your  fortune,  and  your  fair  escape 
From  all  these  perils. 

Sir  C.  Oh,  sir !  they  have  undone  me. 
Two  thousand  and  five  hundred  pound  a  year 
My  father,  at  his  death,  possess'd  me  of ; 
All  which  the  envious  Acton  made  me  spend: 
And,  notwithstanding  all  this  large  expense, 
I  had  much  ado  to  gain  my  liberty  ; 
And  I  have  only  now  a  house  of  pleasure 
With  some  five  hundred  pounds  reserv'd. 
Both  to  maintain  me  and  my  loving  sister. 

Shaft,  (^aside.)  That  must  I  have,  it  lies  con- 
venient for  me  : 
If  I  can  fasten  but  one  finger  on  him, 
With  my  full  hand  I'll  gripe  him  to  the  heart. 
'Tis  not  for  love  I  proffer'd  him  this  coin, 
But  for  my  gain  and  pleasure. — Come,  Sir  Charles, 
I  know  you  have  need  of  money  ;  take  my  offer. 

Sir  C.  Sir,  I  accept  it,  and  remain  indebted 


THOMAS  HEY  WOOD. 


489 


Even  to  tbe  best  of  my  unable  power. 
Come,  gentlemen,  and  see  it  teiider'd  down. 

\_Exe'unt. 

Enter  "Wendoll,  melancholy. 

Wen.  I  am  a  villain,  if  I  apprehend 
But  sucli  a  thought :  then,  to  attempt  the  deed, 
Slave,  thou  art  damn'd  without  redemption. 
I'll  drive  away  this  passion  with  a  song. 
A  song  !  ha  !  ha  !  a  song  !  as  if,  fond  man. 
Thy  eyes  could  swim  in  laughter,  when  thy  soul 
Lies  drench'd  and  drowned  in  red  tears  of  blood. 
I'll  pray,  and  see  if  God  within  my  heart 
Plant  better  thoughts.    Why,  prayers  are  medi- 
tations ; 
And  when  I  meditate  ("oh,  God  forgive  me  !), 
It  is  on  her  divine  perfections. 
I  will  forget  her;  I  will  arm  myself 
Not  t'  entertain  a  thought  of  love  to  her  ; 
And  when  I  come  by  chance  into  her  presence, 
I'll  hale  these  balls  until  my  eye-strings  crack. 
From  being  puU'd  and  drawn  to  look  that  way. 

Enter,  over  the  stage,  FrAnkford,  his  Wife, 
and  Nicholas. 

O  God !  0  God  !  with  what  a  violence 

I'm  hurried  to  mine  own  destruction  ! 

There  goest  thou,  the  most  perfect'st  man 

That  ever  England  bred  a  gentleman ; 

And   shall   I   wrong  his  bed?  —  Thou  God  of 

thunder ! 
Stay,  in  thy  thoughts  of  vengeance  and  of  wrath. 
Thy  great,  almighty,  and  all-judging  hand, 
From  speedy  execution  on  a  villain  : 
A  villain,  and  a  traitor  to  his  friend. 

Enter  Jenkin'. 

Jen.  Did  your  woi-ship  call  ? 

Wen.  He  doth  maintain   me ;   he   allows  me 
lai-gely 
Money  to  spend. 

Jen.  By  my  faith,  so  do  not  you  me  :  I  cannot 
get  a  cross  of  you 

Wen.  My  gelding,  and  my  man. 

Jen.  That's  Sorrel  and  I. 

Wen.    Tin's    kindness    grows    of   no   alliance 
'twixt  us. 

Jen.  Nor  is  my  service  of  any  great  acquaint- 
ance. 

Wen.  I  never  bound  him  to  me  by  desert : 
Of  a  mere  stranger,  a  poor  gentleman, 
A  man  by  whom  in  no  kind  he  could  gain, 
And  he  hath  plac'd  me  in  his  highest  thoughts. 
Made  me  companion  with  the  best  and  chiefest 
lu  Yorkshire.     He  cannot  eat  without  me, 
Nor  laugh  without  rtfe.     I  am  to  his  body 
As  necessary  as  his  digestion, 
And  equally  do  make  him  whole  or  sick. 
And  shall  I  wrong  this  man  ?     Base  man  !     In- 

grate  ! 
Hast  thou   the  power,   straight  with  thy  gory 

hands. 
To  rip  thy  image  from  his  bleeding  heart ; 
To  scratch  thy  name  from  out  the  holy  book 
Of  his  remembrance ;  and  to  wound  his  name 
That  holds  thy  name  so  dear?  or  rend  his  heart 
To  whom  thy  heart  was  knit  and  join'd  together  ? 
And  yet  I  must :  then,  AVendoll,  be  content. 
Thus  villains,  when  they  would,  cannot  repent. 

Jen.  What  a  strange  humour  is  my  new  master 
in  I  Pi'ay  God  he  be  not  mad  :  if  he  should  be 
so,  I'should  never  have  any  mind  to  serve  him 
in  Bedlam.  It  may  be  he's  mad  for  missing  of 
me 

Wen.  What,  Jenkin  !  where's  your  mistress  ? 

Ji'H.  Is  your  worship  married  ? 

Wen.  Why  dost  thou  ask  ? 


Jen.  Because  you  are  my  master ;  and  if  I 
have  a  mistress,  1  would  be  glad,  like  a  good 
servant,  to  do  my  duty  to  her. 

Wen.  T  mean  Mistress  Fraukford. 

Jen.  Marry,  sir,  her  husband  is  riding  out  of 
town,  and  she  went  veiy  lovingly  to  bring  him 
on  his  way  to  horse.  Do  you  see,  sir  ?  here  she 
comes,  and  here  I  go. 

Wen.  Vanish.  \_Exit  Jexkix. 

Enter  Mrs.  Anxe. 

Mrs.  Anne.  Y'are  well  met,  sir ;  now,  in  troth, 
my  husband, 
Before  he  took  horse,  had  a  great  desire 
To  speak  with  you  :  we  sought  about  the  house, 
Hallo'd  into  the  iields,  sent  every  way. 
But  could  not  meet  you.     Therefore  he  enjoin'd 

me 
To  do  unto  you  his  most  kind  commends  : 
Nay,  more,  he  wills  you,  as  you  prize  his  love. 
Or  hold  in  estimation  his  kind  friendship. 
To  make  bold  in  his  absence,  and  command 
Even  as  himself  were  present  in  the  house  ; 
For  you  must  keep  his  table,  use  his  servants. 
And  be  a  present  Frankford  in  his  absence. 

Wen.  I  thank  him  for  his  love. — 
(-•Iseae.)  Give  me  a  name,  you,  whose  infectious 

tongues 
Are  tipp'd  with  gall  and  poison  :  as  you  would 
Think  on  a  man  that  had  your  father  slain, 
Murder'd  your  children,  made  your  wives  base 

strumpets, 
So  call  nie,  call  me  so :  print  in  my  face 
The  most  stigmatic  title  of  a  villain. 
For  hatching  treason  to  so  true  a  friend. 

Mrs.  A.  Sir,  you  aro  much  beholding  to  my 
husband ; 
You  are  a  man  most  dear  in  his  regard. 

Wen.  I  am   bound   unto   your  husband,   and 
you  too. — 
(Aside.)  I  will  not  speak  to  wrong  a  gentleman 
Of  that  good  estimation,  ray  kind  friend  : 
I  will  not ;  zounds  !  I  will  not.     I  may  choose, 
And  I  will  choose.     Shall  I  be  so  misled. 
Or  shall  I  purchase  to  my  father's  crest 
The  motto  of  a  villain  ?     If  I  say 
I  will  not  do  it,  what  thing  can  enforce  me  ? 
What  can  compel  me  ?     What  sad  destiny 
Hath  such  command  upon  my  yielding  thoughts  ? 
I  will  not — ha!     Some  fury  pricks  me  on. 
The  swift  Fates  drag  me  at  their  chariot  wheel. 
And  hurry  me  to  mischief.     Speak  I  must : 
Injure  myself,  wrong  her,  deceive  his  trust  I 

Mrs.  A.  Are  you  not  well,  sir,  that  you  seem 
thus  troubled  ? 
There  is  sedition  in  your  countenance. 

Wen.  And  in  my  heart,  fair  angel,  chaste  and 
wise, 
I  love  you :  start  not,  speak  not,  answer  not ; 
I  love  you :  nay,  let  me  speak  the  rest ; 
Bid  me  to  swear,  and  I  will  call  to  record 
The  host  of  heaven. 

Mrs.  A.  The  host  of  heaven  forbid 
WendoU  should  hatch  such  a  disloyal  thought. 

Wen.  Such  is  my  fate :  to  this  suit  was  I  born, 
To  wear  rich  pleasure's  crown,  or  fortune's  scora 

Mrs.  A.  My  husband  loves  you. 

Wen.  I  know  it. 

Mrs.  A.  He  esteems  you, 
Even  as  his  brain,  his  eyeball,  or  his  heart. 

We7i.  I  have  ti-ied  it. 

Mrs.  A.  His  purse  is  your  exchequer,  and  his 
table 
Doth  freely  serve  you. 

Wen.  So  I  have  found  it. 

Mrs.  A.   Oh !    with  what  face  of  brass,  what 
brow  of  steel, 


490 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Can  you,  unblushing,  speak  this  to  the  face 
Of  the  espous'd  wife  of  so  dear  a  friend? 
It  is  my  husband  that  maintains  your  state ; 
Will  you  dishonour  him  ?     I  am  his  wife, 
That  in  your  power  hath  left  his  whole  affairs. 
It  is  to  me  you  speak. 

Wen.  Oh  !  speak  no  more ; 
For  more  than  this  I  know,  and  have  recorded 
Within  the  red-leav'd  table  of  my  heart. 
Fair,  and  of  all  belov'd,  I  was  not  fearful 
Bluntly  to  give  my  life  into  your  hand, 
And  at  one  hazard  all  my  earthly  means. 
Go,  tell  your  husband ;  he  will  turn  me  off, 
And  I  am  then  undone.     I  care  not,  I, 
'Twas  for  your  sake.    Perchance,  in  rage  hell 

kill  me : 
I  care  not ;  'twas  for  you.     Say  I  incur 
The  general  name  of  villain  through  the  world, 
Of  traitor  to  my  friend  ;  I  care  not,  I. 
Beggary,  shame,  death,  scandal,  and  reproach, 
For  you  I'll  hazard  all:  why,  what  care  I.' 
For  you  I'll  love,  and  in  your  love  I'll  die. 

Mrs.  A.  You  move  me,  sir,  to  passion  and  to 
pity. 
The  love  I  bear  my  husband  is  as  precious 
As  my  soul's  health. 

Wen.  I  love  your  husband  too, 
And  for  his  love  I  will  engage  my  life. 
Mistake  me  not ;  the  augmentation 
Of  my  sincere  affection  borne  to  you 
Doth  no  whit  lessen  my  regard  of  him. 
I  will  be  secret,  lady,  close  as  night ; 
And  not  the  light  of  one  small  glorious  star 
Shall  shine  here,  in  my  forehead,  to  bewray 
That  act  of  night. 

Mrs.  A.  What  shall  I  say  ? 
My  soul  is  wandering,  and  hath  lost  her  way. 
Oh,  Master  Wendoll!     Oh! 

Wen.  Sigh  not,  sweet  saint ; 
For  every   sigh   you   breathe   draws   from  my 

heart 
A  drop  of  blood. 

Mrs.  A.  I  ne'er  offended  yet: 
My  fault,  I  fear,  will  in  my  brow  be  writ. 
Women  that  fall,  not  quite  bereft  of  grace. 
Have  their  offences  noted  in  their  face : 
I  blush,  and  am  asham'd.     Oh,  Master  Wendoll, 
Pray  God  I  be  not  born  to  curse  your  tongue. 
That  hath  enchanted  me !     This  maze  I  am  in 
I  fear  will  prove  the  labyrinth  of  sin. 

Enter  Nicholas,  behind. 

Wen.  The  path  of  pleasure,  and  the  gate  to 
bliss. 
Which  on  your  lips  I  knock  at  with  a  kiss. 
Nich.  I'll  kill  the  rogue. 

Wen.  Your  husband  is  from  home,  your  bed's 
no  blab. 
Nay,  look  not  down  and  blush. 

{^Exeunt  Wendoll  and  Mrs.  Anne. 

Nich.  Zounds  !     I'll  stab. 

Ay,  N  ick,  was  it  thy  chance  to  come  just  in  the 
nick  ? 

I  love  my  master,  and  I  hate  that  slave : 

I  love  vcij  mistress ;  biit  these  tricks  I  like  not. 

My  master  shall  not  pocket  up  this  wrong  ; 

I'll  eat  my  fingers  first.  What  say'st  thou, 
metal  ? 

Does  not  that  rascal  Wendoll  go  on  legs 

That  thou  must  cut  off?  Hath  he  not  ham- 
strings 

That  thou  must  hough  ?  Nay,  metal,  thou  shalt 
stand 

To  all  I  say.     I'll  henceforth  turn  a  spy. 

And  watch  them  in  their  close  conveyances. 

I  never  look'd  for  better  of  that. rascal. 


Since  he  came  michingi  first  into  our  house  : 
It  is  that  Satan  hath  corrupted  her ; 
For  she  was  fair  and  chaste.     I'll  have  an  eye 
In  all  their  gestures.     Thus  I  think  of  them 
(If  they  proceed  as  they  have  done  before), 
Wendell's  a  knave,  my  mistress  is  a  —       \_Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Mountfokd  and  Susan. 

Sir  G.  Sister,  you  see  we  are  driven  to  hard 
shift. 
To  keep  this  poor  house  we  have  left  unsold: 
I  am  now  enforc'd  to  follow  husbandry. 
And  you  to  milk ;  and  do  we  not  live  well  ? 
Well,  I  thank  God. 

Susan.  Oh !  brother !  here's  a  change 
Since  old  Sir  Charles  died  in  our  father's  house. 

Sir  C.  All  things  on  earth  thus  change,  some 
up,  some  down. 
Content's  a  kingdom,  and  I  wear  that  crown. 

Enter  Shafton,  with  a  Sergeant. 

Shaft.  Good  morrow,  morrow,  Sir  Charles : 
what !  with  your  sister, 
Plying  your  husbandry? — Sergeant,  stand  off. — 
You  have  a  pretty  house  here,  and  a  garden, 
And  goodly  ground  about  it.     Since  it  Ues 
So  near  a  lordship  that  I  lately  bought, 
I  would  fain  buy  it  of  you.     I  will  give  you — 

Sir  C.  Oh !  pardon  me :  this  house  successively 
Hath  'long'd  to  me  and  my  progenitors 
Three    hundred    year.     My   great-great-grand- 
father, 
He  in  whom  first  our  gentle  style  began. 
Dwelt  here ;  and  in  this  ground,  increas'd  this 

mole-hill 
Unto  that  mountain  which  my  father  left  me. 
Where  he  the  first  of  all  our  house  began, 
I  now  the  last  will  end,  and  keep  this  house  : 
This  virgin  title,  never  yet  deflowered 
By  any  uuthrift  of  the  Mountfords'  line, 
lu  brief,  I  will  not  sell  it  for  more  gold 
Than  you  could  hide  or  pave  the  ground  withal. 
Shaft.  Ha,  ha !  a  proud  mind  and  a  beggar's 
purse ! 
Where's  my  three  hundred  pounds,  beside  the 

use?  2 
I  have  brought  it  to  an  execution 
By  coui'se  of  law.     What !  is  my  money  ready  ? 

;S'm"  C.  An  execution,  sir,  and  never  tell  me 
You  put  my  bond  in  suit  ?    You  deal  extremely. 
Shaft.   Sell  me  the  land,  and  I'll  acquit  you 

straight. 
Sir  C.  Alas,  alas !  'tis  all  trouble  hath  left  me, 
To  cherish  me  and  my  poor  sister's  life. 
If  this  were  sold,  our  means  should  then  be  quite 
Eaz'd  from  the  bead-roll  of  gentility. 
You  see  what  hard  shift  we  have  made  to  keep  it 
Allied  still  to  our  own  name.    This  palm  you  see, 
Labour  hath  glow'd  within  :  her  silver  brow, 
That  never  tasted  a  rough  winter's  blast 
Without  a  mask  or  fan,  doth  with  a  grace 
Defy  cold  wintei-,  and  his  storms  outface. 
Susan.  Sir,  we  feed  sparing,  and  we  labour 
hard; 
We  lie  uneasy,  to  reserve  to  us 
And  our  succession  this  small  spot  of  ground. 
Sh-  C.  I  have  so  bent  my  thoughts  to  hus- 
bandry 
That  I  protest  I  scarcely  can  remember 
What  a  new  fashion  is ;  how  silk  or  satin 
Feels  in  my  hand.     Why,  pride  is  grown  to  us 
A  mere,  mere  stranger.     I  have  quite  forgot 
The  names  of  all  that  ever  waited  on  me. 


1  miching — skulking,  sneaking. 
"^Uie — usury,  interest. 


THOMAS  HEY  WOOD. 


491 


I  cannot  name  ye  any  of  my  hounds, 

Once  from  wliose  echoing  mouths  I  heard  all  the 

music 
That  e'er  my  heart  desired.    What  should  I  say  ? 
To  keep  this  place,  I  have  chang'd  myself  away. 
Shaft.  Arrest  him  at  my  suit. — Actions  and 
actions 
Shall  keep  thee  in  perpetual  bondage  fast : 
Nay,  more,  I'll  sue  thee  by  a  late  appeal, 
And  call  thy  former  life  in  question. 
The  keeper  is  my  friend :  thou  shalt  have  irons, 
And  usage  such  as  I'll  deny  to  dogs. — Away  with 
him! 
Sir  C.  Ye  are  too  timorous.    But  trouble  is  my 
master. 
And  I  wiU  serve  him  truly. — My  kind  sister, 
Thy  tears  are  of  no  force  to  mollify 
The  flinty  man.     Go  to  my  father's  brother, 
My  kiasmen,  and  allies ;  entreat  them  for  me, 
To  ransom  me  from  this  injurious  man, 
That  seeks  my  ruin. " 

Shaft.  Come,  irons,  irons  !  away : 
I'll  see  thee  lodged  far  from  the  sight  of  day. 

\_Exeunt. 
Susan.  My  heart's  so  harden'd  with  the  frost  of 
grief, 
Death  cannot  pierce  it  through. — Tyrant  too  fell ! 
So  lead  the  fiends  condemned  souls  to  hell. 

Enter  Sir  Fkancis  Actox  and  Maley. 

Sir  F.  Again  to  prison!     Malby,  hast  thou 
seen 
A  poor  slave  better  tortur'd  ?     Shall  we  hear 
The  music  of  his  voice  cry  from  the  grate, 
Meat,  for  the  Lord's  sake  ?    No,  no ;   yet  I  am 

not 
Thoroughly   reveng'd.     They   say   he    halh    a 

pretty  wench 
Unto  his  sister ;  shall  I,  in  mercy-sake 
To  him  and  to  his  kindred,  bribe  the  fool 
To  shame  herself  by  lewd,  dishonest  lust  ? 
I'll  proffer  largely ;  but  the  deed  being  done, 
I'll  smile  to  see  her  base  confusion. 
Mai.    Methinks,    Sir    Francis,    you    are    full 
reveng'd 
For  greater  wrongs  than  he  can  proffer  you. 
See  where  the  poor  sad  gentlewoman  stands. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha !  now  will  I  flout  her  poverty. 
Deride  her  fortunes,  scoff  her  base  estate; 
My  very  soul  the  name  of  Mountford  hates. 
But  stay,  my  heart !     Oh,  what  a  look  did  fly 
To  striJie  my  soul  through  with  thy  piercing 

eye! 
I  am  enchanted ;  all  my  spirits  are  fled. 
And  with  one  glance  my  envious  spleen  struck 
dead. 
Susan.  Acton !     That  seeks  our  blood. 

[Runs  away. 
Sir  F.  Oh,  chaste  and  fair ! 
Mai  Sir  Francis !  why,  Sir  Francis !    Zounds ! 
in  a  trance .' 
Sir  Francis!  what  cheer,  man?     Come,   come, 
how  is't  ? 
Sir  F.  Was  she  not  fair  ?    Or  else  this  judging 
eye 
Cannot  distinguish  beauty. 
Mai.  She  was  fair. 

Sir  F.  She  was  an  angel  in  a  mortal's  shape. 
And  ne'er  descended  from  old  Mountford's  line. 
But  soft,  soft,  let  me  call  my  wits  together. 
A  poor,  poor  wench  to  my  great  adversary 
Sister,  whose  very  souls  denounce  stern  war 
One   against  other.    How  now,  Frank,  turn'd 

fool 
Or  madman,  whether  ?     But  no !  master  of 
My  perfect  senses  and  directest  wits. 
Then  why  should  I  be  in  this  violent  humour 


Of  passion  and  of  love  ?     And  with  a  person 
So  different  every  way,  and  so  opposed 
In  all  contractions,  and  still-warring  actions  ? 
Fie,  fie!  how  I  dispute  against  my  soul! 
Come,  come,  I'll  gain  her !  or  in  her  fair  quest 
Purchase  my  soul  free  and  immortal  rest. 

l^Exeiint. 

Enter  three  or  four  serving-men,  one  with  a  voider 
and  a  wooden  knife,  to  take  aioay ;  another 
the  salt  and  bread ;  another  the  tablecloth  and 
napkins ;  another  the  carpet :  Jenkin  with  tioo 
lights  after  them. 

Jen.  So ;  march  in  order,  and  retire  in  battle 
array.  My  master  and  the  guests  have  supp'd 
already,  all's  taken  away :  here,  now  spread  for 
the  serving-men  in  the  hall. — Butler,  it  belongs 
to  j'our  ofiice. 

But.  I  know  it,  Jenkin. 
What  do   you  call  the  gentleman  that  supp'd 
there  to-night .' 

Jen.  Who,  my  master? 

But.  No,  no;  Master  Wendoll,  he's  a  daily 
guest :  I  mean  the  gentleman  that  came  but  this 
afternoon. 

Jen.  His  name's  Mr.  Cx'anwell.  God's  light! 
hark,  within  there,  my  master  calls  to  lay  more 
billets  upon  the  fire.  Come,  come :  Lord !  how 
we  that  are  in  ofiice  here  are  troubled !  One 
spread  the  carpet  in  the  parlour,  and  stand  ready 
to  snuff  the  lights :  the  rest  be  ready  to  prepare 
their  stomachs.  More  lights  in  the  haU  there! 
Come,  Nicholas. 

\_Exeunt  all  hut  Nicholas. 

Nich.  I  cannot  eat ;  but  had  I  Wendoll's  heart, 
I  would  eat  that :  the  rogue  grows  impudent. 
Oh!  I  have  seen  such  vile,  notorious  tricks, 
Keady  to  make  my  eyes  dart  from  my  head. 
['11  tell  my  master ;  by  this  air,  I  will : 
Fall  what  may  fall,  I'll  tell  him.    Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Master  Frankford,  as  it  viere  brushing  the 
crinnbsfrom  his  clothes  loith  a  napkin,  as  newly 
risen  from  supper. 

Frank.  Nicholas,  what  make  you  here  ?    Why 
are  not  you 
At  supper  in  the  hall,  among  your  fellows  ? 
Nich.  Master,  I  stay'd  your  rising  from  the 
board. 
To  speak  with  you. 

Frank.  Be  brief  then,  gentle  Nicholas ; 
My  wife  and  guests  attend  me  in  the  parlour. 
Why  dost  thou  pause?     Now,   Nicholas,   you 

want  money, 
And,  unthrift-like,  would  eat  into  your  wages 
Ere  you  had  earn'd  it :  here,  sir's,  half-a-crown ; 
Play  the  good  husband,  and  away  to  supper. 

Nich.  By  this  hand;  an  honourable  gentle- 
man !  I  will  not  see  him  wrong'd. — Sir,  I  have 
serv'd  you  long ;  you  entertained  me  seven  years 
before  your  beard. 

You  knew  me,  sir,  before  you  knew  my  mistress. 
Frank.  What  of  this,  good  Nicholas  ? 
Nich.  I  never  was  a  make-bate,"  or  a  knave ; 
I  have  no  fault  but  one — I'm  given  to  quarrel. 
But  not  with  women.     I  will  tell  you,  master, 
That  which  will  make  your  heart  leap  from  your 

breast. 
Your  hair  to  startle  from  your  head,  your  ears  to 
tingle. 
Frank.    What    preparation's    this    to    dismal 
news? 


'^voider— a,  tasket  or  tray  for  carrying  out  the  relics 
of  a  dinner,  etc..  the  wooden  knife  being  used  to  sweep 
them  into  it. 

2  make-bate — a  promoter  of  quarrels. — Dodslet. 


492 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Nich.   'Sblood!    sir,    I  love  you  better  than 
I'll  make  it  good.  [your  wife. 

Franh.  You  are  a  knave,  and  I  Lave  rauch  ado 
With  wonted  patience  to  contain  my  rage, 
And  not  to  break  thy  pate.     Thou  art  a  knave : 
I'll  turn  yoii,  with  your  base  comparisons, 
Out  of  my  doors. 

Nich.  Do,  do. 
There  is  not  room  for  Wendoll  and  me  too, 
Both  in  one  house.     Oh,  master,  master, 
That  Wendoll  is  a  villain  ! 

Franh.  Ay,  saucy ! 

Nich.  Strike,  strike,  do  strike :  yet  hear  nie !  I 
am  no  fool ; 
I  know  a  villain,  when  I  see  him  act 
Deeds  of  a  villain.  Master,  master,  that  base  slave 
Enjoys  my  mistress,  and  dishonours  you. 

Frank.  Thou  hast  kill'd  me  with  a  weapon, 
whose  sharp  point 
Hath   prick'd  quite   through  and  through  my 

shivering  heart. 
Drops  of  cold  sweat  sit  dangling  on  my  hairs. 
Like  morning's  dew  upon  the  golden  flowers ; 
And  I  am  plung'd  into  strange  agonies. 
What  didst  thou  say  .'    If  any  word  that  touch'd 
His  credit,  or  her  reputation. 
It  is  as  hard  to  enter  my  belief, 
As  Dives  into  heaven. 

Nich.  I  can  gain  nothing :  they  are  two 
That  never  wrong'd  me.     I  knew  before 
'Twas  but  a  thankless  office,  and  perhaps 
As  much  as  is  my  service,  or  my  life  is  worth. 
All  this  I  know,  but  this,  and  more. 
More  by  a  thousand  dangers,  could  not  hire  me 
To  smother  such  a  heinous  wrong  from  you. 
I  saw,  and  I  have  said. 

Frank.  'Tis  probable,  though  blunt ;  yet  he  is 
honest. 
Though  I  durst  pawn  my  life,  and  on  their  faith 
Hazard  the  dear  salvation  of  my  soul, 
Yet  in  my  trust  I  may  be  too  secure. 
May  this  be  true  ?     Oh !  may  it  ?     Can  it  be  ? 
Is  it  by  any  wonder  possible .' 
Man,  woman,  what  thing  mortal  can  we  trust, 
When  friends  and  bosom  wives  prove  so  unjust  ? 
What  instance  hast  thou  of  this  strange  report .' 

Nich.  Eyes,  master,  eyes. 

Frank.  Thy  eyes  may  be  deceiv'd,  I  tell  thee ; 
For  should  an  angel  from  the  heavens  drop  down. 
And  preach  this  to  me  that  thyself  hast  told, 
He  should  have  much  ado  to  win  belief; 
In  both  their  loves  I  am  so  confident. 

Nich.  Shall  I  discourse  the  same  by  circum- 
stance ? 

Frank.  No  more!     To  supper,  and  command 
your  fellows 
To  attend  us  and  the  strangers.     Not  a  word, 
I  charge  thee,  on  thy  life :  be  secret,  then, 
Eor  I  know  nothing. 

Nich.  I  am  dumb.     Now  that  I  have  eas'd  my 
stomach, 
I  will  go  fill  my  stomach.  ^Exit. 

Frank.  Away !  begone ! 
She  is  well  born,  descended  nobly; 
Virtuous  her  education  ;  her  repute 
Is  in  the  general  voice  of  all  the  country 
Honest  and  fair ;  her  carriage,  her  demeanour, 
In  all  the  actions  that  concern  the  love 
To  me,  her  husband,  modest,  chaste,  and  godly. 
Is  all  this  seeming  gold  plain  cojiper  ? 
Eut  he,  that  Judas  that  hath  borne  my  purse. 
Hath  sold  me  for  a  sin.     0  God  !  O  God  ! 
Shall  I  put  up  these  wrongs  ?    No.    Shall  I  trust 
The  bare  repoi't  of  this  suspicious  groom. 
Before  the  double  gilt,  the  well-hatch  ore 
Of    their  two  hearts?     No,   I   will  lose  these 
thou2;Lts : 


Distraction  I  will  banish  from  mj'  brow, 
And  from  my  looks  exile  sad  discontent ; 
Their  wonted  favours  in  my  tongue  shall  flow: 
Till  I  know  all,  I'll  nothing  seem  to  know. 
Lights  and  a  table  there !— Wife,  Mr.  Wendoll, 
and  gentle  Master  Cranwell. 

Enter  Mistress  Feankford,  Master  Wendoll, 
Master  Cranwell,  Nicholas,  and  Jenkin 
with  cai'ds,  carjyets,  stools,  and  other  neces- 
saries. 

Frank.  Oh!  Master  Cranwell,  you  are  a  stranger 
here. 
And  often  baulk  my  house ;  faith  j-'are  a  churl. — 
Now  we  have  supp'd,  a  table,  and  to  cards. 

Jen.  A  pair  '  of  cards,  Nicholas,  and  a  carpet  - 
to  cover  the  table.  Where's  Sisly,  with  her 
counters  and  her  bos?  Candles  and  candle- 
sticks, there !  Fie !  we  have  such  a  household 
of  serving  creatures.  Unless  it  be  Nick  and  I, 
there's  not  one  amongst  them  all  that  can  say  bo 
to  a  goose. — Well  said,  Nick. 

I  They  spread  a  carpet ;  set  down 
lights  and  cards. 

Mrs.  A.  Come,  Mr.  Frankford,  who  shall  take 
my  part  ? 

Frank.  That  will  I,  sweet  wife. 

Wen.  No,  by  my  faith,  when  j'ou  are  together, 
I  sit  out :  it  must  be  Mrs.  Frankford  and  I,  or 
else  it  is  no  match. 

Frank.  I  do  not  like  that  match. 

Nich.  You  have  no  reason,  marry,  knowing  all. 

Frank.  'Tis  no  great  matter,  neither. — Come, 
Master  Cranwell,  shall  you  and  I  take  them  up  ? 

Cran.  At  your  pleasure,  sir. 

Frank.  I  must  look  to  j^ou.  Master  Wendoll,  for 
you'll  be  plaj'ing  false;  nay,  so  will  my  wife,  too. 

Nich.  1  will  be  sworn  she  will. 

Mrs.  A.  Let  them  that  are  taken  false,  forfeit 
the  set. 

Frank.  Content :  it  shall  go  hard  but  I'll  take 
you. 

Cran.  Gentlemen,  what  shall  our  game  be  ? 

Wen.  Master  Frankford,  you  play  best  at 
noddy. ^ 

Frank.  You  shall  not  find  it  so;  indeed,  you 
shall  not. 

Mrs.  A.  I  can  play  at  nothing  so  well  as 
double-ruff.* 

Frank.  If  Master  Wendoll  and  my  wife  be 
together,  there's  no  playing  against  them  at 
double  hand. 

Nich.  I  can  tell  you,  sir,  the  game  that  Master 
Wendoll  is  best  at. 

Wen.  What  game  is  that,  Nick  ?     ' 

Nich.  Marry,  sir,  knave  out  of  doors. 

Wen.  She  and  I  will  take  you  at  lodam.s 

Mrs.  A.  Husband,  shall  we  play  at  saint?' 

Frank.  My  saint's  turned  devil.  —  No,    well 
none  of  saint : 
You  are  best  at  new-cut,  wife,  you'll  play  at  that. 

Wen.  If  you  play  at  new-cut,  I'm  soonest 
hitter  of  anj'  here,  for  a  wager. 

Frank.  'Tis  me  they  play  on. — Well,  you  may 
draw  out ; 


•  pair — pack,  foiinei'ly  a  common  use  of  the  word. 
-  carpels  were  at  first  used  for  this  purpose. 

3  noddy — a  game  probably  resembling  either  vingt-un 
or  cribbage. 

*  double-ruff.  It  appears  not  to  be  very  well  known 
what  this  was.  There  were  also  French-ruff'.  Eiirjlish~ 
rvff  and  hvnorius,  and  vide-ruff,  mentioned  below,  pro- 
bably all  resembling  whist. 

'  lodam.  A  game,  says  Reed  in  Dodskt/,  not  quite 
disused;  but  he  does  not  explain  it. 

'  saint — properly  cent,  suppobcd  to  be  like  piquet.— 
Nakf.s. 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


493 


For  all  j'our  cunning,  'twill  be  to  j'our  sliame, 
I'll  teach  you,  at  your  new-cut,  a  new  game. 
Come,  come. 

Cran.  If  you  cannot  agree  upon  the  game,  to 
post  and  pair.' 

Wm.  "We  shall  be  soonest  pairs  ;  and  my  good 
host, 
When  he  comes  late  home,  he  must  kiss  the  post. 
Frank.  Whoever  wins,  it  shall  be  to  thy  cost. 
Cran.  Faith,  let  it  be  vide-ruff,  and  let's  make 

honours. 
Frank.  If  you  make  honours,  one  thing  let  me 
crave. 
Honour  the  king  and  queen;  except  the  knave. 
Wen.  AVell,  as  you  please  for  that — Lift,  who 

shall  deal. 
Mrs.  A.  The  least  in  sight,     AV^hat  are  you, 

Master  Wen  doll? 
Wen.  I  am  a  knave. 
Nich.  I'll  swear  it. 
Mrs.  A.  I  am  queen. 

Frank.  A  quean,  thou  shouldst  say. — Well,  the 
cards  are  mine : 
They  are  the  grossest  pair  that  e'er  I  felt. 
Mrs.  A.  Shuffle,  I'll  cut :  would  I  had  never 

dealt. 
Frank.  I  have  lost  my  dealing. 
Wen.  Sir,  the  fault's  in  me ; 
This  queen  I  have  more  than  mine  own,  you  see. 
Give  me  the  stock. 

Frank.  My  mind's  not  on  my  game. 
Many  a  deal  I've  lost ;  the  more's  your  shame. 
You  have  serv'd  me  a  bad  trick,  Master  WeudoU. 
Wen.  Sir,  you  must  take  your  lot.     To  end 
this  strife, 
I  know  I  have  dealt  better  with  your  wife. 
Frank.  Thou  hast  dealt  falsely,  then. 
Mrs.  A.  What's  trumps .' 
Wen.  Hearts.     Partner,  I  i-ub. 
Frank.  Thou  robb'st  me  of  my  soul,  of   her 
chaste  love ; 
In  thy  false  dealing  thou  hast  robb'd  my  heart. 
Booty-  you  play,  I  like  a  loser  stand, 
Having  no  heart,  or  here,  or  in  my  hand. 
I  will  give  o'er  the  set,  I  am  not  well. 
Come,  who  will  hold  my  cards  ? 

Mrs.  A.  Not  well,  sweet  Mr.  Frankford  ? 
Alas  !  what  ails  you  .'     'Tis  some  sudden  qualm. 
Wen.  How  long   have   you   been   so.    Master 

Frankford  ? 
Frank.  Sir,  I  was  lusty,  and  I  had  my  health. 
But  I  grew  ill  when  you  began  to  deal. — 
Take  hence  this  table. — Gentle  Master  Cranwcll, 
Y'are  welcome :  see  your  chamber  at  your  plea- 
sure. 
I  am  sorry  that  this  meagrim  takes  me  so, 
I  cannot  sit  and  bear  your  company. — 
Jenkin,  some  lights,  and  show  him  to  his  chamber. 
Mrs.  A.  A  nightgown  for  my  husband ;  quickly, 
there ! 
It  is  some  rheum  or  cold. 

Wen.  Now,  in  good  faith,  this  illness  you  have 
got 
By  sitting  late  without  your  gown. 

Frank.  I  know  it.  Master  Wendoll. 
Go,  go  to  bed,  lest  you  complain  like  me. — 
Wife,  pr'ythee,  wife,  into  my  bed-chamber ; 
The  night  is  raw  and  cold,  and  rheumatic. 
Leave  mo  my  gown  and  light,  I'll  walk  av/'ay  my 
fit. 
Wen.  Sweet  sir,  good  night. 


1  post  and  pair.    See  note  1,  p.  145,  col.  1. 

'^  Booty.  To  play  booty  appears  to  liave  meant  to  give 
people  an  advantage  at  first,  in  order  to  draw  them  on 
to  their  loss. — Kaiies. 


Frank.  Myself,  good  night.       \_Exit  Wesdoll. 

Mrs.  A.  Shall  1  attend  you,  husband .' 

Frank.  No,  gentle  wife,  thou'lt  catch  cold  iu 
thy  head. 
Pr'ythee  be  gone,  sweet ;  I'll  make  haste  to  bed. 

Mrs.  A.  No  sleep  will  fasten  on  mine  eyes,  you 
know. 
Until  you  come.  [Exit. 

Frank.  Sweet  Nan,  I  pr'ythee  go. — 
I  have  bethought  me :  get  me  by  degrees 
The  keys  of  all  my  doors,  which  I  will  mould 
In  wax,  and  take  their  fair  impression, 
To  have  by  them  new  keys;    this  being  com- 

pass'd, 
At  a  set  hour  a  letter  shall  be  brought  me. 
And  when  they  think  they  may  securely  play, 
They  nearest  are  to  danger. — Nick,  I  must  rely 
Upon  thy  trust  and  faithful  secrecy. 

Nick.  Build  on  mj'  faith. 

Frank.  To  bed,  then,  not  to  rest. 
Care  lodges  iu  my  brain,  grief  in  my  breast. 

[_Exiunt. 

Enter  Sir  Charles's  Sister,  Old  Mountford, 
Sandy,  Koder,  and  Tidy. 

Old  Mount.  You  say  my  nephew  is  in  great 
distress ; 
Who  brought  it  to  him,  but  his  own  lewd  life  ? 
I  cannot  spare  a  cross.     I  must  confess 
He  was  my  brother's  son ;  why,  niece,  what  then  ? 
This  is  no  world  in  which  to  pity  men. 

Susan.  1  was  not  born  a  beggar,  though  his 
extremes 
Enforce  this  language  from  me.     I  protest 
No  fortune  of  mine  own  could  lead  my  tongue 
To  this  base  key.     I  do  beseech  you,  uncle, 
For  the  name's  sake,  for  Christianity, 
Nay,  for  God's  sake,  to  pity  his  distress. 
He  is  denied  the  freedom  of  the  prison. 
And  in  the  hole  is  laid  with  men  condemn'd ; 
Plenty  he  hath  of  nothing  but  of  irons. 
And  it  remains  in  you  to  free  him  thence. 

Old  Mount.  Money  I  cannot  spare ;  men  should 
take  heed. 
He  lost  my  kindred  when  he  fell  to  need.    [Exit. 

Susan.  Gold  is  but  earth ;  thou  earth  enough 
shalt  have, 
When  thou  hast  once  took  measure  of  thy  grave. 
You  know  me.  Master  Sandy,  and  my  suit. 

Sandy.  I  knew  you,  lady,  when  the  old  man 
liv'd ; 
I  knew  you  ere  your  brother  sold  his  land. 
Then  you  were  Mistress  Sue,  trick'd  up  in  jewels ; 
Then  you  sang  well,  play'd  sweetly  on  the  lute; 
But  now  I  neither  know  you  nor  your  suit. 

[Exit. 

Susan.  You,  Master  Koder,  was  my  brother's 
tenant ; 
Eent-free  he  plac'd  you  in  that  wealthy  farm, 
Of  which  j'ou  are  possess'd. 

Roder.  True,  he  did  ; 
And  have  I  not  there  dwelt  still  for  his  sake  ? 
I  have  some  business  now ;  but  without  doubt, 
They  that  have  hurl'd  him  in,  will  help  him  out. 

[Exit. 

Susan.  Cold  comfort  still.      What    say   you, 
cousin  Tidy  ? 

Tidy.  I  say  this  comes  of  roysting,  swaggering 
Call  me  not  cousin  ;  each  man  for  himself. 
Some  men  are  bom  to  mirth,  and  some  to  sorrow ; 
I  am  no  cousin  unto  them  that  borrow.        [Exit. 

Susan.  Oh,  charity!     Why  art   thou   fled    to 
heaven. 
And  left  all  things  upon  this  earth  uneven? 
Their  scoffing  answers  I  will  ne'er  return. 
But  to  myself  his  grief  in  silence  mourn. 


494 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Enter  Sir  Feancis  and  Malby. 

Sir  F.  She  is  poor,  I'll  therefore  tempt  her  with 
this  gold. 
Go,  Malby,  in  my  name  deliver  it, 
And  I  will  stay  thy  answer. 

Mai.  Fair  mistress,  as  I  understand  your  grief 
Doth  grow  from  want,  so  I  have  here  in  store 
A  means  to  furnish  you,  a  bag  of  gold. 
Which  to  your  hands  I  freely  tender  you. 

Susan.  I  thank  you.  Heavens!    I  thank  you, 
gentle  su' ; 
God  make  me  able  to  requite  this  favour. 

Mai.  This  gold  Sir  Francis  Acton  sends  by  me, 
And  prays  you — 

Susan.  Acton  ?    0  God !    That  name  I'm  born 
to  curse : 
Hence,  bawd!  hence,  broker!  see,  I  spurn  his 

gold. 
My  honour  never  shall  for  gain  be  sold. 

Sir  F.  Stay,  lady,  stay. 

Susan.  From  you  I'll  posting  hie, 
Even  as  the  doves  from  feather'd  eagles  fly. 

[Exit. 

Sir  F.  She  hates  my  name,  my  face,  how  should 
I  woo  ? 
I  am  disgrac'd  in  everything  I  do. 
The  more  sho  hates  me,  and  disdains  my  love. 
The  more  I  am  rapt  in  admiration 
Of  her  divine  and  chaste  perfections. 
Woo  her  with  gifts  I  cannot,  for  all  gifts 
Sent  in  my  name  she  spurns ;  with  looks  I  can- 
not. 
For  she  abhors  my  sight ;  nor  yet  with  letters, 
For  none  she  will  receive.      How  then.'    how 

then .' 
Well,  I  will  fasten  such  a  kindness  on  her. 
As  shall  o'ercome  her  hate  and  conquer  it. 
Sir  Charles,  her  brother,  lies  in  execution 
For  a  great  sum  of  money,  and  besides. 
The  appeal  is  sued  still  for  my  huntsmen's  death. 
Which  only  I  have  power  to  reverse  ; 
In  her  I'll  bury  all  my  hate  of  him. — 
Go  seek  the  keeper,  Malby,  bring  him  to  me. 
To  save  his  body,  I  his  debts  will  pay ; 
To  save  his  life,  I  his  appeal  will  stay.    \_Exeuut. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Mountfoed  in  prison.,  tdth 
irons,  his  feet  bare,  his  garments  all  ragged 
and  torn. 

Sir  C.  Of  all  on  the  earth's  face  most  miserable 
Breathe  in  this  hellish  dungeon  thy  laments. 
Thus  like  a  slave  ragg'd,  like  a  felon  gyv'd. 
That  hurls  thee  headlong  to  this  base  estate. 
Oh,  unkind  uncle !     Oh,  my  friends  ingrate ! 
Unthankful  kinsmen,  Mountford's  all  too  base. 
To  let  thy  name  be  fetter  d  in  disgrace. 
A  thousand  deaths  here  in  this  grave  I  die ; 
Fear,  hunger,  sorrow,  cold,  all  threat  my  death, 
And  join  together  to  deprive  my  breath  ; 
But  that  which  most  torments  me,  my  dear  sister 
Hath  left  to  visit  me,  and  fi'om  my  friends 
Hath  brought  no  hopeful  answer ;  therefore,  I 
Divine  they  will  not  help  my  misery. 
If  it  be  so,  shame,  scandal,  and  contempt 
Attend  their  covetous  thoughts  ;  need  make  their 

graves : 
Usurers  they  live,  and  may  they  die  like  slaves. 

Enter  Keeper. 

Keep.  Knight,  be  of  comfort,  for  I  bring  thee 
fi'eedom 
Fi-om  all  tliy  troubles. 

Sir  C.  Then,  I  am  doora'd  to  die  : 
Death  is  the  end  of  all  calamity. 

Keep.  Live :  your  appeal  is  stay'd,  the  execu- 
tion 


Of  all  your  debts  discharg'd ;  your  creditors 
Even  to  the  utmost  penny  satisfied. 
In  sign  whereof  your  shackles  I  knock  off. 
You  are  not  left  so  much  indebted  to  us 
As  for  your  fees  ;  all  is  discharg'd ;  all  paid. 
Go  freely  to  your  house,  or  where  you  please ; 
After  long  miseries,  embrace  your  ease. 
Sir  C.  Thou  grumblest  out  the  sweetest  musicT 
to  me 
That  ever  organ  play'd.— ^Is  this  a  dream  ? 
Or  do  my  waking  senses  apprehend 
The  pleasing  taste  of  all  these  applausive  news  ? 
Slave  that  I  was,  to  wrong  such  honest  friends. 
My  loving  kinsman,  and  my  near  allies. 
Tongue,  I  will  bite  thee  for  the  scandal  breath 
Against  such  faithful  kinsmen :  they  are  all 
Compos'd  of  pity  and  compassion. 
Of  melting  charity  and  of  moving  ruth. 
That  which  I  spoke  before  was  in  my  rage ; 
They  are  my  friends,  the  mirrors  of  this  age ; 
Bounteous  and  free.    The  noble  Mountford's  race 
Ne'er  bred  a  covetous  thought,  or  humour  base. 

Enter  Susan. 

Susan.  I  cannot  longer  stay  from  visiting 
My  woful  bi'other ;  while  I  could,  I  kept 
My  hapless  tidings  from  his  hopeful  ear. 

Sir  C.  Sister,  how  much  am  I  indebted  to  thee 
And  to  thy  travail ! 

Susan.  What !  at  liberty  ? 

Sir  C.  Thou  seest  I  am;  thanks  to  thy  industry. 
Oh !  unto  which  of  all  my  courteous  friends 
Am  I  thus  bound  ?     My  uncle  Mountford,  he 
Even  from  an  infant  lov'd  me  ;  was  it  he  ? 
So  did  my  cousin  Tidy;  was  it  he? 
So  Master  Eoder,  Master  Sandy,  too. 
Which  of  all  these  did  this  high  kindness  do  ? 

Susan.  Charles,    can  you  mock  me    in  your 
poverty. 
Knowing  your  friends  deride  your  misery? 
Now,  I  protest  I  stand  so  much  amaz'd. 
To  see  your  bonds  free,  and  your  irons  knock'd 

off, 
That  I  am  rapt  into  a  maze  of  wonder; 
The  rather  for  I  know  not  by  what  means 
This  happiness  hath  chanc'd. 

Sir  C.  Why,  by  my  uncle, 
My  cousins  and  my  friends ;  who  else,  I  pray, 
Would  take  upon  them  all  my  debts  to  pay  ? 

Susan.  Oh,  brother!  they  are  men  aU  of  flint, 
Pictures  of  marble,  and  as  void  of  pity 
As  chased  bears.     I  begg'd,  I  sued,  I  kneel'd, 
Laid  open  all  your  griefs  and  miseries. 
Which  they  derided.     More  than  that,  denied  us 
A  part  in  their  alliance ;  but,  in  pride, 
Said  that  our  kindred  with  our  plenty  died. 

Sir  C.  Drudges !  too  much !  what  did  they  ? 
Oh,  known  evil ! 
Eich  fly  the  poor,  as  good  men  shtm  the  devil : 
Whence  should  my  freedom  come  ?     Of  whom 

alive. 
Saving  of  those,  have  I  deserved  so  well? 
Guess,  sister,  call  to  mind,  remember  me : 
These  have  I  rais'd,  they  follow  the  world's  guise. 
Whom  rich  in  honour,  they  in  woe  despise. 

Susan.  My  wits  have  lost  themselves ;  let's  ask 
the  keeper. 

Sir  C.  Jailor! 

Keep.  At  hand,  sir. 

Sir  C.  Of  courtesy  resolve  me  one  demand. 
What  was  he  took  the  burthen  of  my  debts 
From  off  my  back,  stay'd  my  appeal  to  death, 
Discharg'd  my  fees,  and  brought  me  liberty  ? 

Keep.  A  courteous  knight,  and  call'd  Sir  Fran- 
cis Acton. 

Susan.  Acton! 


THOMAS  HEYIVOOD. 


495 


Sir  C.  Ha !  Acton !     Oli,  me,  more  distress'd 
in  this 
Than  all  my  troubles.    Hale  me  back, 
Double  my  irons,  and  my  sparing  meals 
Put  into  halves,  and  lodge  me  in  a  dungeon 
More  deep,  more  dark,  more  cold,  more  comfort- 
less. 
By  Acton  freed !     Not  all  thy  manacles 
Could  fetter  so  my  heels,  as  this  one  word 
Hath  thrall'd  my  heart;   and  it  must  now  lie 

bound 
In  more  strict  prison  than  thy  stony  jaU. 
I  am  not  free,  I  go  but  under  tail. 
Keep.  My  charge  is  done,  sir,  now  I  have  my 
fees : 
As  we  get  little,  we  will  nothing  leese.        [Exit. 
Sir  C.  By  Acton  freed !    My  dangerous  oppo- 
site !  1 
Why,  to  what  end .'  or  what  occasion  ?     Ha ! 
Let  me  forget  the  name  of  enemy, 
And  with  indifference  balance  this  high  favour : 
ha! 
Susan.  His  love  to  me :  upon  my  soul,  'tis  so. 
That  is  the  root  from  whence  these  strange  things 
grow.  [Aside. 

Sir  C.  Had  this  proceeded  from  my  father,  he 
That  by  the  law  of  nature  is  most  bound 
In  offices  of  love,  it  had  deserv'd 
My  best  employment  to  requite  that  grace. 
Had  it  proceeded  from  my  friends,  or  him, 
From  them  this  action  had  deserv'd  my  life. 
And  from  a  stranger  more,  because  from  such 
There  is  less  execution  of  good  deeds. 
But  he,  nor  father,  nor  ally,  nor  friend. 
More  tlian  a  stranger,  both  remote  in  blood. 
And  in  his  heart  oppos'd  my  enemy, 
That  this  high  bounty  should  proceed  from  him. 
Oh!  there  I  lose  myself.     What  should  I  say, 
What  think,  what  do,  his  bounty'to  i-ei^ay  ? 
Susan.  You  wonder,  I  am  sure,   whence  this 
strange  kindness 
Proceeds  in  Acton :  I  will  tell  you,  brother. 
He  dotes  on  me,  and  oft  hath  sent  me  gifts. 
Letters,  and  tokens ;  I  refus'd  them  all. 
Sir  C.  I  have  enough,  though  poor :  my  heart 
is  set. 
In  one  rich  gift  to  pay  back  all  my  debt. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Feankford  and  Nicholas,  with  keys  and 
a  letter  in  his  hand. 

Franh.  This  is  the  night  that  I  must  play  the 
touch 
To  trj^  two  seeming  angels.    Where's  my  keys? 
Nick.  They  are  made  according  to  your  mould 
iu  wax : 
I  bade  the  smith  be  secret,  gave  him  money, 
And  here  they  are.     The  letter,  sir. 
Frank.  True,  take  it,  there  it  is  ; 
And  when  thou  seest  me  in  my  pleasant'st  vein, 
Keady  to  sit  to  supper,  bring  it  me. 
Nich.  I'll  do't;  make  no  more  question,  but 
I'll  do  it,  [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Frankfoed,  Ceaxwell,  Wendoll, 
and  Jenkin. 

31rs.  A.  Sirrah,  'tis  six  o'clock  already  stmck; 
Go  bid  them  spread  the  cloth,  and  serve  in  supper. 

Je7i.  It  shall  be  done,  forsooth.  Mistress, 
Where's  Spiggot,  the  butler,  to  give  us  our  salt 
and  trenchers .-' 

Wen.  We  that  have  been  a  hiinting  all  the  day. 


1  opposite — enemy. — Colliee. 


Come  with  prepared  stomachs. — Master  Frank- 
ford, 
We  wish'd  you  at  our  sport. 
Frank.  My  heart  was  with  you,  and  my  mind 
was  on  you. — 
Fie !  Master  Cranwell,  you  are  still  thus  sad. — 
A  stool,  a  stool!     Where's  Jenkin,  and  where's 

Nick.' 
'Tis  supper  time  at  least  an  hour  ago. 
What's  the  best  news  abroad  .' 
Wen.  I  know  none  good. 
Frank.  But  I  know  too  much  bad. 

Enter  Butler  and  Jenkin,  loith  a  tablecloth,  hread, 
trenchers,  and  salt ;  then  exeunt. 

Cran.  Methinks,  sir,  you  might  have  that  in- 
terest 
In  your  wife's  brother,  to  be  more  remiss 
In  his  hard  dealing  against  poor  Sir  Charles, 
Who,  as  I  hear,  lies  in  York  Castle,  needy, 
And  in  great  want. 

Frank.  Did  not  more  weighty  business  of  mine 
own 
Hold  me  away,  I  would  have  labour'd  peace 
Betwixt  them,  with  all  care,  indeed  I  would,  sir. 

Mrs.  A.  I'll  write  unto  my  brother  earnestly 
In  that  behalf. 

Wen.  A  charitable  deed ; 
And  will  beget  the  good  opinion 
Of  all  your  friends  that  love  you,  Mrs.  Frankford. 

Frank.  That's  you,  for  one  :  I  know  you  love 
Sir  Charles, 
And  my  wife  too  well. 

Wen.  He  deserves  the  love. 
Of  all  true  gentlemen ;  be  yourselves  judge. 

Frank.  But  supper,  ho ! — Now,  as  thou  lov'st 
me,  Wendoll, 
Which  I  am  sure  thou  dost,  be  merry,  pleasant, 
And  frolic  it  to-night. — Sweet  Mr.  Cranwell, 
Do  you  the  like. — Wife,  I  protest  my  heart 
Was  ne'er  more  bent  on  sweet  alacrity. 
Where  be  those  lazy  knaves  to  serve  in  supper  ? 

Enter  Nicholas. 

Nich.  Here's  a  letter,  sir. 

Frank.  Whence  comes  it,  and  who  brought  it? 

Nich.    A    stripling   that  below  attends  your 
answer. 
And,  as  he  tells  me,  it  is  sent  from  York. 

Frank.  Have  him  into  the  cellar,  let  him  taste 
A  cup  of  our  March  beer :  go,  make  him  drink. 

Nich.  I'll  make  him  drunk,  if  he  be  a  Trojan. 

Franh  My  boots  and  spurs !  where's  Jenkin  ? 
God  forgive  me, 
How  I  neglect  my  business. — Wife,  look  here ; 
I  have  a  matter  to  be  tried  to-morrow 
By  eight  o'clock,  and  my  attorney  writes  me, 
I  must  be  there  betimes  with  evidence, 
Or  it  will  go  against  me.    Where's  my  boots  ? 

Enter  Jenkix,  with  hoots  and  spurs. 

Mrs.  A.  I  hope  your  business  craves  no  such 
despatch. 
That  you  must  ride  to-night. 

Wen.  I  hope  it  doth. 

Frank.  God's  me  I     No  such  despatch  ? 
Jenkin,  my  boots!  where's  Nick?     Saddle  my 

roan. 
And  the  grey  dapple  for  himself. — Content  ye. 
It  much  concerns  me. — Gentle  Master  Cranwell, 
And  Master  Wendoll,  in  my  absence  use 
The  very  ripest  pleasures  of  my  house. 

Wen.  Lord !  Master  Frankford,  will  you  ride 
to-night?    • 
The  ways  are  dangerous. 

Frank.  Therefore  will  I  ride, 
Aj)pointed  well ;  and  so  shall  Nick,  my  man. 


496 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Mrs.  A.  I'll  call  you  up  by  five  o'clock  to- 
morrow. 
Frank.  No,  by  my  faith,  wife,  I'll  not  trust  to 
that: 
'Tis  not  such  easy  rising  in  a  morning 
From  one  I  love  so  dearly.     No,  by  my  faith, 
I  shall  not  leave  so  sweet  a  bedfellow, 
But  with  much  pain.     You  have  made  mo   a 

sluggard 
Since  I  first  knew  you. 

Mrs.  A.  Then,  if  you  needs  will  go. 
This  dangerous  evening.  Master  Wendoll, 
Let  me  entreat  you  bear  him  company. 

Wen.  With  all  my  heart,  sweet  mistress. — My 

boots  there  ! 
Franh.  Fie,  fie!  that  for  my  private  business 
I  should  disease  •  my  friend,  and  be  a  trouble 
To  the  whole  house. — Nick! 
Nich.  Anon,  sir. 

Frank.  Bring  forth  my  gelding. — As  you  love 
me,  sir, 
Use  no  more  words :  a  hand,  good  Master  Craa- 
well. 
Cra7t.  Sir,  God  be  your  speed. 
Frank.  Good  night,  sweet  Nan ;  nay,  nay,   a 
kiss,  and  part. 
Dissembling  lips,  you  suit  not  with  my  heart. 

\_Aside  and  exit. 
Wen.  How    business,    time,    and    hours,    all 
gracious  prove. 
And  are  the  furtherers  of  my  new-born  love ! 
1  am  husband  now  in  Master  Frankford's  place, 

And  must  command  the  house My  pleasure  is 

We  will  not  sup  abroad  so  publicly, 
But  in  your  private  chamber.  Mistress  Frank- 
ford. 
Mrs.  A.  Oh,  sir !  you  ai-o  too  public  in  your 
love. 
And  Master  Frankford's  wife. 
Cran.  Might  I  crave  favour, 
I  would  entreat  you  I  might  see  my  chamber. 
I  am  on  the  sudden  grown  exceeding  ill, 
And  would  be  spar'd  from  supper. 

Weil.  Light  there,  ho ! — 
See  you  want  nothing,  sir,  for  if  you  do, 
You  injure  that  good  man,  and  wrong  me  too. 
Cra7i.  I  will  make  bold :  good  night.        [_Exit. 
Wen.  How  all  conspire 
To  make  our  bosom  sweet,  and  full  entire ! 
Come,  Nan,  I  pr'ythee  let  us  sup  within. 

Mrs.  A.  Oh  !  what  a  clog  unto  the  soul  is  sin  ! 
We  pale  offenders  are  still  full  of  fear ; 
Every  suspicious  eye  brings  danger  near. 
When  they,  whose  clear  hearts  from  offence  are 

free. 
Despite  report,  base  scandals  do  outface. 
And  stand  at  mere  defiance  with  disgrace. 
Wen.  Fie,  fie!  you  talk  too  like  a  jjuritan. 
Mrs.  A.  You  have   tempted   me   to   mischief, 
Master  WendoU : 
I  have  done  I  know  not  what.     Well,  you  plead 

custom ; 
That  which  for  want  of  wit  I  granted  erst, 
I  now  must  yield  through  fear.     Come,  come, 

let's  in ; 
Once   over  shoes,  we  are  straight  o'erhead  in 
sin. 
Wen.  My  jocund  soul  is  joyful  beyond  measure, 
I'll  be  profuse  in  Frankford's  richest  treasure. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Sisly,  Jenkin,  and  Butler. 

Jen.  My  mistress,   and  Master  Wendoll,  my 
master,    sup  in  her   chamber   to-night.     Sisly, 


'  disease — make  uneasy,  put  about. 


you  are  preferred  from  being  the  cook,  to  be 
chambermaid :  of  all  the  loves  betwixt  thee  and 
me,  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  this .' 

Sis.  Mum :  there's  an  old  proverb.  When  the 
cat's  away,  the  mouse  may  play. 

Jen.  Now  you  talk  of  a  cat,  Sisly,  I  smell  a 
rat. 

Sis.  Good  words,  Jenkin,  lest  you  be  called  to 
answer  them. 

Jen.  Why,  God  make  my  mistress  an  honest 
woman !  are  not  these  good  words  ?  Pray  God 
my  new  master  play  not  the  knave  with  my  old 
master !  is  there  any  hurt  in  this  ?  God  send 
no  villany  intended;  and  if  they  do  sup  together, 
pray  God  they  do  not  lie  together.  God  make 
my  mistress  chaste,  and  make  us  all  his  ser- 
vants :  what  harm  is  there  in  all  this  ?  Naj', 
more ;  here  is  my  hand,  thou  shalt  never  have 
my  heart,  unless  thou  say.  Amen. 

Sis.  Amen,  I  pray  God,  I  say. 

Enter  Serving-men. 

Serving-man.  My  mistress  s6nds  that  you 
should  make  less  noise ;  so  lock  up  the  doors, 
and  see  the  household  all  got  to  bed.  You, 
Jenkin,  for  this  night  are  made  the  porter,  to 
see  the  gates  shut  in. 

Jen.  Thus,  by  little  and  little,  I  creep  into 
ofiice.  Come,  to  kennel,  my  masters,  to  kennel : 
'tis  eleven  o'clock  already. 

Serving-man.  When  you  have  locked  the  gates 
in,  you  must  send  up  the  keys  to  my  mistress. 

Sis.  Quickly,  for  God's  sake,  Jenkin,  for  I 
must  carry  them.  I  am  neither  pillow  nor 
bolster,  but  I  know  more  than  both. 

Jen.  To  bed,  good  Spiggot :  to  bed,  good 
honest  serving  creatures;  and  let  us  sleep  as 
snug  as  pigs  iu  peas-straw.  \Exeunt. 

Enter  Franicford  and  Nicholas. 

Frank.  Soft,  soft !  we  have  tied  our  geldings 
to  a  tree,  two  flight  shot  off,  lest  by  their  thunder- 
ing hoofs  they  blab  our  coming  Hearst  thou 
no  noise.' 

Nic/i.  I  hear  nothing  but  the  owl  and  you. 

Frank.  So  ;  now  my  watch's  hand  points  upon 
twelve. 
And  it  is  just  midnight.     Where  are  my  keys  ? 

Nick.  Here,  sir. 

Frank.  This  is  the  key  that  opes  my  outward 
gate. 
This   is    the    hall-door,   this    the   withdrawing 

chamber ; 
But  this,  that  door  that's  bawd  unto  my  shame. 
Fountain  and  spring  of  all  my  bleeding  thoughts, 
Where  the  most  hallow'd  order  and  true  knot 
Of  nuptial  sanctity  hath  been  profan'd : 
It  leads  to  my  polluted  bed-chamber. 
Once  my  terrestrial  heaven,  now  my  earth's  hell ; 
The  place  where  sins  in  all  their  ripeness  dwell. 
But  1  forget  myself:  now  to  my  gate. 

Nich.  It  must  ope   with  far  less   noise  than 
Cripplegate, 
Or  your  plot's  dash'd. 

Frank.  So,  reach  me  my  dark  lantern  to  tlio 
rest. 
Tread  softly,  softly. 

Nich.  I  will  walk  on  eggs,  this  pace. 

Frank.  A  general  silence  hath  surprised  the 
house, 
And  this  is  the  last  door.    Astonishment, 
Pear,  and  amazement,  play  against  my  heart. 
Even  as  a  madman  beats  upon  a  drum. 
Oh!  keep  my  eyes,  you  heavens,  before  I  enter 
From  any  sight  that  may  transfix  my  soul : 
Or,  if  there  be  so  black  a  spectacle, 
Oh !  strike  mine  eyes  stark  blind ;  or  if  not  so, 


THOMAS  HEY  WOOD. 


497 


liend  me  sucli  patience  to  digest  my  grief, 
That  I  may  keep  tliis  white  and  virgin  hand 
From  any  violent  outrage,  or  red  murder  ; 
And  with  that  prayer  I  enter.  [^Exit. 

Nick.  Here's  a  circumstance !  a  man  may  be 
made  a  cuckold  in  the  time  he's  about  it.     And 
the  case  were  mine. 
As  'tis  my  master's  Csblood !  that  he  makes  me 

swear), 
I  would  have  placed  his  action,  enter'd  there  ; 
I  would,  I  would. 

He-enter  Feankford. 

Frank  Oh!  oh! 

Nick.  Master,  'sblood!     Master,  master 

Frank.  Oh,  me  unhappy ! 
But  that  I  would  not  damn  two  precious  souls, 
Bought  with  my  Saviour's  blood,  and  send  them, 

laden 
With  all  their  scarlet  sins  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  a  fearful  judgment,  their  two  lives 
Had  met  upon  my  rapier. 

Nich.   'Sblood!     Master,   what,   have   ye   le^t 
them  sleeping  still .' 
Let  me  go  wake  'em. 

Frank.  Stay,  let  me  pause  a^vhile. — 

0  Grod !  0  God !  that  it  were  possible 

To  undo  things  done ;  to  call  back  yesterday ; 
That  Time  could  turn  up  his  swift  sandy  glass. 
To  untell  the  days,  and  to  redeem  these  hours; 
Or  that  the  sun 
Could,    rising  from  the   west,  draw  his   couch 

backward ; 
Take  from  th'  accoxmt  of  time  so  many  minutes, 
Till  he  had  all  these  seasons  call'd  again. 
Those  minutes,  and  those  actions  done  in  them. 
Even  from  her  first  offence ;  that  I  might  take 

her 
As  spotless  as  an  angel  in  my  arms ! 
But,  oh !  1  talk  of  things  impossible. 
And    cast  beyond    the   moon.i     God    give   me 

patience. 
For  I  will  in,  and  wake  them.  [Exit. 

Nich.  Here's  patience,  perforce: 
He  needs  must  trot  afoot  that  tires  his  horse. 

Enter  Wexdoll,  running  over  the  stage  in  a 
night-gotcn,  Frankford  after  him  roith  a 
sword  drawn :  the  maid  in  her  smock  stays  his 
hand,  and  clasjis  hold  on  him.  lie  2}auses  for 
awhile. 

Frank.   I   thank  thee,   maid;    thou,   like  the 

angel's  hand, 
Hath  stay'd  me  from  a  bloody  sacrifice. — 
Go,  villain  ;  aud  my  wrongs  sit  on  thy  soul 
As  heavy  as  this  grief  doth  upon  mine. 
When  thou  record'st  ray  many  coiirtesies, 
And  shalt  compare  them  with  thy  treacherous 

heart, 
Lay  them  together,  weigh  them  equally, 
'Twill  be  revenge  enough.     Go,  to  thy  friend 
A  Judas  :  pray,  pray,  lest  I  live  to  see 
Thee,  Judas-like,  hang'd  on  an  elder-tree. 

Enter  Mistress  Frankford  in  her  smock,  night- 
gown, and  night  attire. 

Mrs.  A.  Oh,  by  what  word,   what  title,   or 
what  name. 
Shall  I  entreat  your  pardon .'     Pardon !     Oh ! 

1  am  as  far  from  hoping  such  sweet  grace, 

As  Lucifer  from  heaven.  To  call  you  husband  ! 
(Oh,  me,  most  wretched !)  I  have  lost  that  name — 
I  am  no  more  your  wife. 


'  cast  heyond  the  moon — a  proverbial  phrase  for  at- 
tempting impossibihties. — Xakks. 


Nich.  'Sblood !  sir,  she  swoons. 

Frank.  Spare  thou  thy  tears,  for  I  will  weep 
for  thee ; 
And  keep  thy  countenance,  for  I'll  blush  for 

thee. 
Now,  I  protest,  I  think  'tis  I  am  tainted. 
For  I  am  most  asham'd;  and  'tis  more  hard 
For  me  to  look  upon  thy  guilty  face 
Than  on  the  sun's  clear  brow.     What  wouldst 
thou  speak  ? 

Mrs.  A.  I  would  I  had  no  tongue,  no  ears,  no 
eyes, 
No  apprehension,  no  capacity. 
When  do  you   spurn   me  like  a  dog?     When 

tread  me 
Under  feet?     When  drag  me  by  the  hair? 
Though  I  deserve  a  thousand,  thousand  fold. 
More  than  you  can  inflict — yet,  once  my  husband, 
For  womanhood,  to  which  I  am  a  shame, 
Though  once  an  ornament — even  for  his  sake, 
That  hath  redeem'd  our  souls,  mark  not  my  face, 
Nor  hack  me  with  your  sword ;  but  let  me  go 
Perfect  and  undeformed  to  my  tomb. 
I  am  not  worthy  that  I  should  prevail 
In  the  least  suit ;  no,  not  to  speak  to  you, 
Nor  look  on  you,  nor  to  be  in  your  presence, 
Yet,  as  an  abject,  this  one  suit  I  crave — 
This  granted,  I  am  ready  for  my  grave. 

Frank.  My  God,  with  patience  arm  me! — Else, 
nay,  rise, 
And  I'll  debate  with  thee.     Was  it  for  want 
Thou   play'dst  the  strumpet?     Wast  thou  not 

supplied 
With  every  pleasure,  fashion,  and  new  toy ; 
Nay,  even  beyond  my  calling  ? 

3Irs.  A.  I  was. 

Frank.  Was  it,  then,  disability  in  mo ; 
Or  in  thine  eye  seem'd  he  a  properer  man  ? 

3Irs.  A.  Oh  !  no. 

Frank.  Did  I  not  lodge  thee  in  my  bosom  ? 
Wear  thee  in  mj^  heart  ? 

Mi-s.  A.  You  did. 

Frank.  I  did,  indeed ;  witness  my  tears,  I  did. 
Go,  bring  my  infants  hither. — 

Enter  itvo  Children. 

Oh,  Nan!  oh,  Nan! 

If  neither  fear  of  shame,  regard  of  honour, 
The  blemish  of  my  house,  nor  my  dear  love. 
Could  have  withheld  thee  from  so  lewd  a  fact, 
Yet  for   these   infants,   these   young,   harmless 

souls, 
On  whose  white  brows  thy  shame  is  character'd, 
And  grows  in  greatness  as  they  wax  in  years ; 
Look  but  on  them,  and  melt  away  in  tears. 
Away  with  them !  lest,  as  her  spotted  body 
Hath  stain'd  their  names  with  stripe  of  bastardy, 
So  her  adulterous  breath  may  blast  their  spirits 
With  her  infectious  thoughts.    Away  with  them. 
[Exeunt  Children. 
Mrs.  A.  In  this  one  life,  I  die  ten  thousand 

deaths.  [Kneels. 

Frank.  Stand  up,  stand  up.    I  will  do  nothing 

rashly. 
I  will  retire  awhile  into  my  study, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  thy  sentence  presently. 

[Exit. 
Mrs.  A.  'Tis  welcome,  be  it  death.     Oh,  me, 

base  strumpet ! 
That,  having  such  a  husband,  such  sweet  children, 
Must    enjoy    neither!      Oh!     to    redeem    mine 

honour, 
I  would  have  this  hand  cut  off,  these  my  breasts 

sear'd ; 
Be  rack'd,  strappadoed,  put  to  any  torment : 
Nay,   to   wipe   but  this  scandal  out,   I   would 

hazard 


2i 


498 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


The  rich  and  dear  redemption  of  my  soul. 

He  cannot  be  so  base  as  to  forgive  me, 

Nor  I  so  shameless  to  accept  bis  pardon. 

Oh,  women,  women  !  you  that  yet  have  kept 

Your  holy  matrimonial  vow  unstaiu'd, 

Make  me  your  instance :  when  you  tread  awry, 

Your  sins,  like  mine,  will  on  your  conscience  lie. 

Enter  Sisly,  Spiggot,  all  the  serving-men,  and 
Jenkin,  as  newly  come  out  of  bed. 

All.  Oh,  mistress,  mistress!  what  have  you 
done,  mistress.' 

Nich.  What  a  caterwauling  keep  you  here  ? 

Jen.  Oh,  Lord !  mistress,  how  comes  this  to 
pass  ?  My  master  has  run  away  in  his  shirt,  and 
never  so  much  as  called  me  to  bring  his  clothes 
after  him. 

Mrs.  A.  See  what  guilt  is !    Here  stand  I  in 
this  place, 
Asham'd  to  look  my  servants  in  the  face. 

Enter  Mr.  Fkankford  and  Cranwell;  wliom 
seeing,  Mrs.  Fkankfokd  falls  on  her  knees. 

Frank.  My  words  are  registered  in  heaven 
already: 
With  patience  hear  me.     I'll  not  martyr  thee, 
Nor  mark  thee  for  a  strumpet ;  but  with  usage 
Of  more  humility  torment  thy  soul, 
And  kill  thee  even  with  kindness. 

Cran.  Master  Frankford — 

Frank.  Good  Mr.  Cranwell. — Woman,  hear  thy 
judgment. 
Go  make  thee  ready  in  thy  best  attire ; 
Take  with  thee  all  thy  gowns,  all  thy  apparel ; 
Leave  nothing  that  did  ever  call  thee  mistress. 
Or  by  whose  sight,  being  left  here  in  the  house, 
I  may  remember  such  a  woman  by. 
Choose  thee  a  bed  and  hangings  for  thy  chamber; 
Take  with  thee  everything  which  hath  thy  mark, 
And  get  thee  to  my  manor,  seven  mile  off, 
Whei-e  live — 'tis  thine  ;  I  freely  give  it  thee. 
My  tenants  by  shall  furnish  thee  with  wains 
To  carry  all  thy  stuff  within  two  hours : 
No  longer  will  I  limit  thee  my  sight. 
Choose  which  of  all  my  servants  thou  lik'st  best. 
And  they  are  thine  to  attend  thee. 

Mrs.  A.  A  mild  sentence. 

Frank.  But,  as  thou  hop'st  for  heaven,  as  thou 
believ'st 
Thy  name's  recorded  in  the  book  of  life, 
I  charge  thee  never,  after  this  sad  day, 
To  see  me,  or  to  meet  me,  or  to  send, 
By  word  or  writing,  gift  or  otherwise. 
To  move  me,  by  thyself,  or  by  thy  friends, 
Nor  challenge  any  part  in  my  two  children. 
So  farewell,  Nan ;  for  we  will  henceforth  be 
As  we  had  ne'er  seen,  ne'er  more  shall  see. 

Mrs.  A.  How  full  my  heart  is,  in  mine  eyes 
apjpears ; 
What  wants  in  words,  I  will  supply  in  tears. 

Frank.  Come,  take  your  coach,  your  stuff ;  all 
must  along ; 
Servants  and  all  make  ready,  all  be  gone. 
It  was  thy  hand  cut  two  hearts  out  of  one. 

[^Exetcnt. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Mountford,  gentleman-like, 
and  his  Sister,  gentlewoman-like. 

Susan.  Brother,  why  have  you  trick'd  me  like 
a  bride. 
Bought  me  this  gay  attire,  these  ornaments? 
Forget  you  our  estate,  our  povei-ty .' 

Sir  C.  Call  me  not  brother,  but  imagine  me 
Some  barbarous  outlaw,  or  uncivil  kern  ; 
For  if  thou  shut'st  thine  eye,  and  only  hear'st 
The  words  that  I  shall  utter,  thou  shalt  judge  me 


Some  staring  rufiSan,  not  thy  brother  Charles. 
Oh,  sister ! — 

Susan.  Oh,   brother!  what  doth  this   strange 
language  mean  ? 

Sir  C.  Dost  love  me,  sister?    Wouldst  thou 
see  me  live 
A  bankrupt  beggar  in  the  world's  disgrace. 
And  die  indebted  to  mine  enemies  ? 
Wouldst  thou  behold  me  stand  like  a  huge  beam 
In  the  world's  eye,  a  by- word  and  a  scorn  ? 
It  lies  in  thee  of  these  to  acquit  me  free. 
And  all  my  debt  I  may  outstrip  by  thee. 

Susan.  By  me?    Why,  I  have  nothing,  nothing 
left ; 
I  owe  even  for  the  clothes  upon  my  back  : 
I  am  not  worth — 

Sir  C.  Oh,  sister !  say  not  so : 
It  lies  in  you  my  downcast  state  to  raise ; 
To  make  me  stand  on  even  points  with  the  world. 
Come,  sister,  you  are  rich ;  indeed  you  are : 
And  in  your  power  you  have,  without  delay, 
Acton's  five  hundred  pounds  back  to  repay. 

Susan.  Till  now  I  had  thought  y'  had  lov'd  me. 
By  my  honour 
(Which  I  have  kept  as  spotless  as  the  moon), 
I  ne'er  was  mistress  of  that  single  doit 
Which  I  reserv'd  not  to  supply  your  wants ; 
And  do  ye  think  that  I  would  hoard  from  you  ? 
Now,  by  my  hopes  in  heaven,  knew  I  the  means 
To  buy  you  from  the  slavery  of  your  debts 
(Especially  from  Acton,  whom  I  hate), 
I  would  redeem  it  with  my  life  or  blood. 

Sir  C-  I  challenge  it ;  and,  kindred  set  apart, 
Thus,  ruffian-like,  I  lay  siege  to  thy  heart. 
What  do  I  owe  to  Acton  ? 

Susan.     Why,    some    five    hundred    pounds; 
towards  which,  I  swear. 
In  all  the  world  I  have  not  one  denier.* 

Sir  C.  It  will  not  prove  so.     Sister,  now  re- 
solve me : 
What  do  you  think  (and  speak  your  conscience) 
Would  Acton  give,  might  he  enjoy  your  bed  ? 

Susan.  He  would  not  shrink  to  spend  a  thou- 
sand pound. 
To  give  the  Mountfords'  name  so  deep  a  wound. 

Sir  C.  A  thousand  pound !    I  but  five  hundred 
owe: 
Grant  him  your  bed,  he's  paid  with  interest  so. 

Susan.  Oh,  brother! 

Sir  C.  Oh,  sister !  only  this  one  way. 
With  that  rich  jewel  you  my  debts  may  pay. 
In   speaking  this,   my  cold  heart   shakes  with 

shame ; 
Nor  do  I  woo  you  in  a  brother's  name. 
But  in  a  stranger's.     Shall  I  die  in  debt 
To  Acton,  my  grand  foe,  and  you  still  wear 
The  precious  jewel  that  he  holds  so  dear  ? 

Susan.  My  honour  I  esteem  as  dear  and  pre- 
cious 
As  my  redemption. 

Sir  C.  I  esteem  you,  sister, 
As  dear,  for  so  dear  prizing  it. 

Susan.  Will  Charles 
Have  uie  cut  off  my  hands,  and  send  them  Acton? 
Eip  up  my  breast,  and  with  my  bleeding  heart 
Present  him  as  a  token  ? 

Sir  C.  Neither,  sister: 
But  hear  me  in  my  strange  assertion. 
Thy  honour  and  my  soul  are  equal  in  my  regard; 
Nor  will  thy  brother  Charles  survive  thy  shame. 
His  kindness,  like  a  burthen,  hath  surcharg'd  me, 
Aud  under  his  good  deeds  I  stooping  go. 
Not  with  an  upright  soul.     Had  I  remaiu'd 
In  prison  still,  there  doubtless  I  had  died : 


1  denier — the  twelfth  of  a  sou. 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


499 


Then,  unto  him  that  freed  me  from  that  prison, 
Still  do  I  owe  this  life.     What  mov'd  my  foe 
To  enfranchise  me?    'Twas,  sister,  for  your  love: 
With  full  five  hundi-ed  pounds  he  bought  your 

love. 
And  shall  he  not  enjoy  it  ?     Shall  the  weight 
Of  all  this  heavy  burden  lean  on  me. 
And  will  not  you  bear  part  ?     You  did  partake 
The  joy  of  my  release ;  will  3^ou  not  stand 
In  joint-bond  bound  to  satisfy  the  debt? 
Shall  I  be  only  charg'd  ? 

Susan.  But  that  I  know 
These  arguments  come  from  an  honour'd  mind, 
As  in  your  most  extremitj^  of  need 
Scorning  to  stand  in  debt  to  one  you  hate, 
Naj',  rather  would  engage  your  unstain'd  honour, 
Than  to  be  held  ingrate,  1  shoiild  condemn  you. 
I  see  your  resolution,  and  assent ; 
So  Charles  will  have  me,  and  I  am  content. 
Sir  C.  For  this  I  trick'd  you  up. 
Susan.  But  here's  a  knife, 
To  save  mine  honour,  shall  slice  out  ray  life. 
Sir  C.  I  know  thou  pleasest  me  a.  thousand 

times 
More  in  thy  resolution  than  thy  grant. — 
Observe  her  love ;  to  sooth  it  to  my  suit, 
Her  honour  she  will  hazard  (though  not  lose) 
To  bi-ing  me  out  of  debt,  her  rigorous  hand 
Will  pierce  her  heart.     Oh,  wonder!     That  will 

choose, 
Eather  than  stain  her  blood,  her  life  to  lose. 
Come,  you  sad  sister  to  a  woful  brother. 
This  is  the  gate.     I'll  bear  him  such  a  present, 
Such  an  acquittance  for  the  knight  to  seal. 
As  will  amaze  his  senses,  and  surprise 
With  admiration  all  his  fantasies. 

Enter  Sir  Francis  Acton  and  Maley. 

Svsa7i.  Before    his    unchaste    thoughts    shall 
seize  on  me,  ■ 
Tis  here  shall  my  imprison'd  soul  set  free. 

Sir  F.  How !  Mountford  with  his  sister,  hand 
in  hand ! 
What  miracle's  afoot  ? 

Mai.  It  is  a  sight 
Begets  in  me  much  admiration. 

Sir  C.  Stand  not  amaz'd  to  see  rae  thus  at- 
tended. 
Acton,  I  owe  thee  money  ;  and,  being  unable 
To  bring  thee  the  full  sum  in  ready  coin, 
Lo!  for  thy  more  assurance,  here's  a  pawn: 
My  sister,  my  dear  sister,  whose  chaste  honour 
I  prize  above  a  million.    Here :  nay,  take  her  ; 
She's  worth  your  money,  man :  do  not  forsake 
her. 

Sir  F.  I  would  he  were  in  earnest. 

Susan.  Impute  it  not  to  my  immodesty. 
My  brother,  being  rich  in  nothing  else 
But  in  his  interest  that  he  hath  in  me. 
According  to  his  poverty  hath  brought  you 
Me,  all  his  store  ;  whom,  howsoe'er  you  prize. 
As  forfeit  to  your  hand,  he  values  highly. 
And  would  not  sell,  but  to  acquit  your  debt, 
For  any  emperor's  ransom. 

Sir  F.  Stern  heart,  relent, 
Thy  former  cruelty  at  length  repent. 
Was  ever  known,  in  any  former  age, 
Such  honourable,  wrested  courtesy  ? 
Lands,  honours,  life,  and  all  the  world  forego, 
Eather  than  stand  engag'd  to  such  a  foe. 

Sir  C.  Acton,  she  is  too  poor  to  be  thy  bride. 
And  I  too  much  oppos'd  to  be  thy  brother. 
There,  take  her  to  thee ;  if  thou  hast  the  heart 
To  seize  her  as  a  rape,  or  lustful  prey ; 
To  blur  our  house,  that  never  yet  was  stain'd  ; 
To  murder  her  that  never  meant  thee  harm  ; 


To  kill  me  now,  whom  once  thou  sav'dst  from 

death ; 
Do  them  at  once  on  her :  all  these  rely 
And  perish  with  her  spotless  chastity. 
Sir  F.   You  overcome  me  in  your  love,  Sir 

Charles. 
I  cannot  be  so  cruel  to  a  lady 
I  love  so  dearly.     Since  you  have  not  spar'd 
To  engage  your  reputation  to  the  world. 
Your  sister's  honour,  which  you  prize  so  dear, 
Nay,  all  the  comfort  which  you  hold  on  earth. 
To  grow  out  of  my  debt,  being  your  foe, 
Your  honour'd  thoughts,  lo !  thus  I  recompense. 
Your  metamorphos'd  foe  receives  your  gift 
In  satisfaction  of  all  former  wrongs. 
This  jewel  I  will  wear  here  in  my  heart: 
And  where  before  I  thought  her,  for  her  wants. 
Too  base  to  be  my  bride,  to  end  all  strife, 
I  seal  you  my  dear  brother,  her  my  wife. 
Susan.  You  still  exceed  us.      I  will  yield  to 

fate. 
And  learn  to  love,  where  I  till  now  did  hate. 
Sir    C.    With    that    enchantment    you    have 

charm'd  my  soul. 
And  made  me  rich  even  in  those  very  words : 
I  pay  no  debt,  but  am  indebted  more. 
Rich  in  your  love,  I  never  can  be  poor. 

Sir  F.  All's  mine  is  yours;  we  are  alike  in 

state ; 
Let's  knit  in  love  what  was  oppos'd  in  hate. 
Come,  for  our  nuptials  we  will  straight  provide, 
Blest  only  in  our  brother  and  fair  bride. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Cranwei.l,  Fkankford,  and  Nicholas. 

Cran.   Why  do  you  search  each  room  about 
your  Louse, 
Now  that  j^ou  have  despatch'd  your  wife  away  ? 
Sir  F.,  Oh,  sir !  to  see  that  nothing  may  be  left 
That  ever  was  my  wife's.     I  lov'd  her  dearly; 
And  when  I  do  but  think  of  her  unkindness. 
My  thoughts  are  all  in  hell :   to  avoid  which 

torment, 
I  would  not  have  a  bodkin  or  a  cuff, 
A  bracelet,  necklace,  or  rebato  wire,^ 
Nor  anything  that  ever  was  call'd  hers. 
Left  me,  by  which  I  might  remember  her. — 
Seek  round  about. 

Nich.  'Sblood !  master,  here's  her  lute  flung  in 
a  corner. 
Frank.  Her  lute  !     0  God !     Upon  this  instru- 
ment 
Her  fingers  have  run  quick  division,^ 
Sweeter  than  that  which  now  divides  our  hearts. 
These  frets  have  made  me  pleasant,  that  have 

now 
Frets  of  my  heart-strings  made.     Oh,  Master 

Cranwell, 
Oft  hath  she  made  this  melancholy  wood 
(Now  mute  and  dumb  for  her  disastrous  chance) 
Speak  sweetly  many  a  note,  sound  many  a  strain 
To  her  own  ravishing  voice ;  which  being  well 

strung, 
What  pleasant  strange   airs  have  they  jointly 

rung! — 
Post  with  it  after  her. — Now  nothing's  left : 
Of  her  and  hers  I  am  at  once  bereft. 
Nich.  I'll  ride  and  overtake  her ;  do  my  mes- 
sage, 
And  come  back  again.  {Exit. 

Cran.  Meantime,  sir,  if  you  please. 


'  rehato  wire — a  wire  to  stiffen  or  set  a  rebato,  which 
was  tlie  name  for  a  species  of  ruff  worn  round  the  neck. 
— Collier. 

-  division,  in  music,  means  just  time. 


I'll  to  Sir  Francis  Acton,  and  inform  him 
Of  what  hath  pass'd  'twixt  you  and  his  sister. 

Frank.  Do  as  you  please. — How  ill  am  1  bested, 
To  be  a  widower  ere  my  wife  be  dead ! 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Mrs.  Frankford,  with  Jenkin,  her  maid 
SiSLY,  her  Coadunan,  and  three  Carters. 

Mrs.  A.  Bid  my  coach  stay.     Why  should  I 
ride  in  state, 
Being  hurl'd  so  low  down  by  the  hand  of  fate  ? 
A  seat  like  to  my  fortunes  let  me  have ; 
Earth  for  my  chair,  and  for  my  bed  a  grave. 

Jen.  Comfort,  good  mistress :  you  have  watered 
your  coach  with  tears  already.  You  have  but 
two  miles  now  to  go  to  your  manor.  A  man 
cannot  say  by  my  old  Master  Frankford,  as  ho 
may  say  by  me,  that  ho  wants  manors ;  for  he 
hath  three  or  four,  of  which  this  is  one  that  we 
are  going  to  now. 

Sish/.  Good  mistress,  be  of  good  cheer.  Sor- 
row, j'ou  see,  hurts  you,  but  helps  you  not :  we 
all  mourn  to  see  you  so  sad. 

Carter.  Mistress,  1  see  some  of  my  landlord's 
men 
Come  riding  post:  'tis  like  he  brings  some  news. 

3Irs.  A.  Comes  he  from  Mr.  Frankford,  he  is 
welcome : 
So  is  his  news,  because  they  come  from  him. 

Enter  Nicholas  [with  the  lute]. 

Nich.  There. 

Mrs  A.  I  know  the  lute.     Oft  have  I  sung  to 
thee: 
"We  are  both  out  of  tune,  both  out  of  time. 

Nich.  Would  that  had  been  the  worst  instru- 
ment that  e'er  you  played  on  !  My  master  com- 
mends him  to  ye;  there's  all  he  can  find  that 
ever  was  yours.  He  hath  nothing  left  that  ever 
you  could  lay  claim  to  but  his  own  heart,  and 
he  could  afford  you  that.  All  that  I  have  to 
deliver  you  is  this :  he  prays  you  to  forget  him  ; 
and  so  he  bids  you  farewell. 

Mrs.  A.  I  thank  him:  he  is  kind,  and  ever 
was. 
All  you  that  have  true  feeling  of  my  grief, 
That  know  mj'  loss,  and  have  relenting  hearts, 
Gird  me  about,  and  help  me  with  your  tears 
To  wash  my  spotted  sins.     My  lute  shall  groan  ; 
It  cannot  weep,  but  shall  lament  my  moan. 

[She  plays. 
Enter  Wexdoll  behind. 

Wen.  Pursu'd  with  horror  of  a  guilty  soul. 
And  with  the  sharp  scourge  of  repentance  lash'd, 
I  fly  from  mine  own  shadow.     Oh,  my  stars ! 
What  have  my  parents  iu  their  lives  deserv'd, 
That  you  should  lay  this  peuance  on  their  son.' 
When  I  but  think  of  Master  Frankford's  love, 
And  lay  it  to  my  treason,  or  compare 
My  murdering  him  for  his  relieving  me. 
It  strikes  a  terror  like  a  lightning's  flash. 
To  scorch  my  blood  up.     Thus  1,  like  the  owl, 
Asham'd  of  day,  live  in  these  shadowy  woods. 
Afraid  of  every  leaf,  or  murm'ring  blast. 
Yet  longing  to  receive  some  perfect  knowledge 
How  he  hath  dealt  with  her.     Oh,  my  sad  fate  I 
Here,  and  so  far  from  home,  and  thus  attended! 
0  God !  I  have  divorc'd  the  truest  turtles 
That  ever  liv'd  together;  and,  being  divided, 
In  several  jslaces  make  their  several  moan  ; 
She  in  the  fields  laments,  and  he  at  home. 
So  poets  write  that  Orpheus  made  the  trees 
And  stones  to  dance  to  his  melodious  harp, 
Meaning  the  rustic  and  the  barbarous  hinds, 
That  had  no  understanding  part  in  Ihem  : 
So  she  from  these  rude  carters  tears  extracts, 


Making  their  flinty  hearts  with  grief  to  rise. 
And  draw  [down]  rivers  from  their  rocky  eyes. 
Mrs.  A.  If  you  return  unto  your  master,  say 
(Though  not  from  me,  for  I  am  all  unworthy 
To  blast  his  name  with  a  strumpet's  tongue) 
That  you  have  seen  me  weep,  wish  myself  dead : 
Nay,  you  may  say,  too  (for  my  vow  is  past), 
Last  night  you  saw  me  eat  and  drink  my  last. 
This  to  your  master  you  may  say  and  swear ; 
For  it  is  writ  in  heaven,  and  decreed  here. 
Nich.  I'll  say  you  wept :  I'll  swear  you  made 
me  sad. 
Why,  how  now,  eyes?     What  now?     What's 

here  to  do  ? 
I  am  gone,  or  I  shall  straight  turn  baby  too. 

Wen.  I  cannot  weep,  my  heart  is  all  on  fire. 
Curs'd  be  the  fruits  of  my  unchaste  desire ! 
3frs.  A.  Go,  break  this  lute  upon  my  coach's 
wheel, 
As  the  last  music  that  I  e'er  shall  make  ; 
Not  as  my  husband's  gift,  but  my  farewell 
To  all  earth's  joy  ;  and  so  your  master  tell. 
Nich.  If  I  can  for  crying. 
Weji.  Grief,  have  done, 
Or,  like  a  madman,  I  shall  frantic  run. 
Mrs.  A.  You  have  beheld  the  wofuU'st  wretch 
on  earth — 
A  woman  made  of  tears :  would  you  had  words 
To  express  but  what  you  see  !     My  inward  grief 
No  tongue  can  utter  ;  yet  unto  your  power 
You  may  describe  my  sorrow,  and  disclose 
To  thy  sad  master  my  abundant  woes. 
Nich.  I'll  do  your  commendations. 
Mrs.  A.  Oh!  no: 
I  dare  not  so  presume  ;  nor  to  my  childi'en : 
I  am  disclaim'd  in  both ;  alas  !  I  am. 
Oh  !  never  teach  them,  when  they  come  to  speak, 
To  name  the  name  of  mother:  chide  their  tongue, 
If  they  by  chance  light  on  that  hated  word  ; 
Tell  them  'tis  naught:  for  when  that  word  they 

name 
(Poor,  pretty  souls !)  they  harp  on  their  own 
shame. 
We7i.  To  recompense  their  wrongs,  what  canst 
thou  do? 
Thou  hast  made  her  husbandless,  and  childless 
too. 
Mrs.  A.  1  have  no  more  to  say. — Speak  not 
for  me ; 
Yet  you  may  tell  your  master  what  you  see. 
Nich.  I'll  do't.  [Exit. 

Wen.   I'll  sjieak  to  her,  and  comfort  her  in 
grief. 
Oh !  but  her  wound  cannot  be  cur'd  with  words. 
No  matter,  though ;  I'll  do  my  best  good  will 
To  work  a  cure  on  her  whom  I  did  kill. 
Mrs.  A.  So,  now  unto  my  coach,  then  to  my 
home. 
So  to  my  death-bed ;  for  from  this  sad  hour, 
I  never  will  nor  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  taste 
Of  any  cates  that  may  preserve  my  life. 
I  never  will  nor  smile,  nor  sleep,  nor  rest ; 
But  when  my  tears  have  wash'd  my  black  soul 

white. 
Sweet  Saviour,  to  thy  hands  I  yield  my  sprite. 
We7i.  {coming  f 011V ard").     Oh,  Mrs.  Frankford ! 
Mrs.  A.  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  fly ! 
The  devil  doth  come  to  tempt  me  ere  I  die. 
My  coach ! — This  sin,  that  with  an  angel's  face 
Conjur'd  mine  honour,  till  he  sought  my  wrack. 
In  my  repentant  eye  seems  ugly,  black. 

[Exeunt  all  except  Wendoll  and  Jenkin  ; 
the  Carters  whistling. 

Jen.  What !  my  young  master,  that  fled  in  his 
shirt?  How  come  you  by  your  clothes  again? 
You  have  made  our  house  in  a  sweet  pickle,  ha' 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


SOI 


ye  not,   think  you?     What!  shall  I  serve  you 
still,  or  cleave  to  the  old  house  ? 

Wen.  Hence,  slave !  away,  with  thy  unseason'd 

mirth. 
Unless  thou  canst  shed  tears,  and  sigh,  and  howl, 
Uurse  thy  s;id  fortunes,  and  exclaim  on  fate, 
Thou  art  not  for  my  turn. 

Jen.  Marry,  and  you  will  not,  another  will: 
farewell,  and  be  hang'd.  Would  you  had  never 
come  to  have  kept  this  coil  within  our  doors. 
We  shall  ha'  you  run  away  like  a  sprite  again. 

\Exlt. 
Wen.  She's  gone  to  death;  I  live  to  want  and 

woe : 
Her  life,  her  sins,  and  all  upon  my  head. 
And  I  must  now  go  wander,  like  a  Cain, 
In  foreign  countries  and  remoted  climes, 
Where  the  report  of  my  ingratitude 
Cannot  be  heard.     I'll  over  first  to  France, 
And  so  to  Gennany  and  Italy; 
Where,  when  I  have  recover'd,  and  by  travel 
Gotten    those   perfect  tongues,    and   that   these 

rumours 
May  in  their  height  abate,  I  will  return : 
And  I  divine  (however  now  dejected). 
My  worth  and  parts  being  by  some  great  man 

prais'd. 
At  my  return  I  may  in  court  be  rais'd.         [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Fuancis  Acton,  Sir  Charles  Mount- 
ford,  Cranwell,  Malby,  and  Susan. 

Sir  F.   Brother,   and  now  my  wife,   I  think 
these  troubles 
Fall  on  my  head  by  justice  of  the  heavens. 
For  being  so  sttict  to  you  in  your  extremities ; 
But  we  are  now  aton'd.*     I  would  my  sister 
Could  with  like  happiness  o'ercome  her  griefs 
As  we  have  ours. 

Susan.  You  tell  us,  Mr.  Cranwell,  wondrous 
things 
Touching  the  patience  of  that  gentleman  ; 
With  what  strange  virtue  he  demeans  his  grief. 

Cran.  I  told  you  what  I  was  a  witness  of  ; 
It  was  my  fortune  to  lodge  there  that  night. 
Sir  F.  Oh,  that  same  villain,  Wendoll!  'twas 
his  tongue 
That  did  corrupt  her  :  she  was  of  herself 
Chaste,  and  devoted  well.     Is  this  the  house  ? 
Cran.   Yes,  sir.      I  take  it,  here  your  sister 

lies. 
Sir  F.  My  brother  Frankford  show'd  too  mild 
a  spirit 
In  the  revenge  of  such  a  loathed  crime. 
Less  than  he  did,  no  man  of  spirit  could  do. 
I  am  so  far  from  blaming  his  revenge. 
That  I  commend  it.     Had  it  been  mj-^  case. 
Their  souls  at  once  had  from  their  breasts  been 

freed : 
Death  to  such  deeds  of  shame  is  the  due  meed. 

Enter  Jenkin  and  Sisly. 

Jen.    Oh,    my    mistress,    mistress !    my  poor 
mistress ! 

Sisly.  Alas !  that  ever  I  was  born ;  what  shall 
I  do  for  my  poor  mistress  ? 

Sir  C.  Why,  what  of  her  ? 

Jen.  0  Lord,  sir!  she  no  sooner  heard  that 
her  brother  and  her  friends  were  come  to  see 
how  she  did,  but  she,  for  very  shame  of  her 
guilty  conscience,  fell  into  such  a  swoon,  that 
we  had  much  ado  to  get  life  in  her. 

Susan.  Alas!  that  she  should  bear  bo  hard  a 
fate. 
Pity  it  is  repentance  comes  too  late. 

>  aton'd — made  at  one,  reconciled. 


Sir  F.  Is  she  so  weak  in  body  ? 

Jen.  Oh,  sir!  I  can  assure  you  there's  no  hope 
of  life  in  her;  for  she  will  take  no  sustenance: 
she  hath  plainly  starv'd  herself,  and  now  she's 
as  lean  as  a  lath.  She  ever  looks  for  the  good 
hour.  Many  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen  of  the 
country  are  come  to  comfort  her. 

Enter  Mrs.  Frankford,  in  her  hed.^ 

Mai.  How  fare  yon.  Mistress  Frankford .' 
Mrs.  A.  Sick,  sick!   oh,  sick!  give  me  some 
air.    I  pray, 
Tell  me,  oh!  tell  me,  where  is  Master  Frank- 
ford? 
Will  he  not  deign  to, see  me  ere  I  die? 
Mai.  Yes,  Mistress  Frankford :  divers  gentle- 
men. 
Your  loving  neighbours,  with  that  just  request 
Have  mov'd,  and  told  him  of  your  weak  estate : 
Who,  though  with  much  ado  to  get  belief. 
Examining  of  the  general  circumstance. 
Seeing  your  sorrow  and  your  penitence. 
And  hearing  therewithal  the  great  desire 
You  have  to  see  him  ere  you  left  the  world. 
He  gave  to  us  his  faith  to  follow  us. 
And  sure  he  will  be  here  immediately. 

Mrs.  A.  You  have  half  reviv'd  me  with  the 
pleasing  news. 
Eaise  me  a  little  higher  in  my  bed. — 
Blush  I  not,  brother  Acton?     Blush  I  not,  Sir 

Charles  ? 
Can  you  not  read  my  fault  writ  in  my  cheek  ? 
Is  not  my  crime  there  ?     Tell  me,  gentlemen. 
Sir  C.  Alas !  good  mistress,  sickness  hath  not 
left  you 
Blood  in  your  face  enough  to  make  you  blush. 
Mrs.  A.  Then,  sickness,  like  a  friend,  my  fault 
would  hide. — 
Is  my  husband  come  ?     My  soul  but  tarries 
His  arrive,  then  I  am  fit  for  heaven. 

Sir  F.  I  came  to  chide  you,  but  my  words  of 
hate 
Are  turn'd  to  pity  and  compassionate  grief. 
I  came  to  rate  you ;  but  ray  brawls,  you  see. 
Melt  into  tears,  and  I  must  weep  by  thee. — 
Here's  Master  Frankford  now. 

Enter  Frankford. 
Frank.  Good  morrow,  brother;  morrow,  gentle- 
men. 
God,  that  hath  laid  this  cross  upon  our  heads, 
Might  (had  He  pleas'd)  have  made  our  cause  of 

meeting 
On  a  more  fair  and  more  contented  ground ; 
But  He  that  made  us,  made  us  to  this  woe. 

Mrs.   A.   And   is  he   come?      Methinks  that 

voice  I  know. 
Frank.  How  do  you,  woman  ? 
Mrs.  A.  Well,   Master  Franldord,  well;  but 
shall  be  better, 
I  hope,  within  this  hour.     Will  you  vouchsafe 
(Out  of  your  grace  and  your  humanity) 
To  take  a  spotted  strumpet  by  the  hand? 
Frank.  This  hand  once  held  my  heart  in  faster 
bonds 
Than  now  'tis  grip'd  by  me.     God  pardon  them 
That  made  us  first  break  hold. 

Mrs.  A.  Amen,  amen. 
Out   of  my  zeal  to   heaven,   whither   I'm  now 
bound. 


1  In  the  simplicity  and  poverty  of  our  ancient  stage, 
it  often  happened  that  a  bed  was  thrust  upon  the  scene, 
in  order  that  it  mip;ht  represent  a  sleeping-room  instead 
of  a  sitting-room.  In  this  instance,  Mrs.  Frankford  was 
in  the  hed,  when  it  was  brought  before  the  audience.— 

COLLIEK. 


502 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


I  tvas  so  impudent  to  wisli  you  here ; 
And  cuce  more  beg  your  pardon.     Oh,  good  man, 
And  lather  to  my  children,  pardon  me. 
Pardon,  oh !  pardon  me :  my  fault  so  heinous  is, 
That  if  you  in  this  world  forgive  it  not, 
Heaven  will  not  clear  it  in  the  world  to  come. 
Faintness  hath  so  usurp'd  upon  my  knees, 
That  kneel  I  cannot ;  but  in  my  heart's  knees 
My  prostrate  soul  lies  thrown  down  at  your  feet, 
To    beg   your  gracious   pardon.      Pardon,   oh, 
pardon  me ! 

Franlc.  As  freely,  from  the  low  depth  of  my 
soul, 
As  my  Eedeemer  hath  forgiven  his  death, 
I  pardon  thee.     I  will  shed  tears  for  thee ; 
Pray  with  thee ;  and,  in  mere  pity  of  thy  weak 

estate, 
I'll  wish  to  die  with  thee. 

All.  So  do  we  all. 

Nich.  So  will  not  I; 
I'll  sigh  and  sob,  but,  by  my  faith,  not  die. 

Sir  F.   Oh,  Master  Frankford,  all   the  near 
alliance 
I  lose  by  her,  shall  be  supplied  in  thee : 
Tou  are  my  brother  hj  the  nearest  way ; 
Her  Idndred  hath  fall'u  off,  but  yours  doth  stay. 

Frank.  Even  as  I  hope  for  pardon,  at  that  day 
When  the  Great  Judge  of  heaven  in  scarlet  sits. 
So  be  thou  pardon'd.     Though  thy  rash  offence 
Divorc'd  our  bodies,  thy  repentant  tears 
Unite  our  souls. 

Sir  C.  Then  comfort,  Mistress  Frankford. 
You  see  your  husband  hath  forgiven  j^our  fall ; 
Then,  rouse  your  spirits  and  cheer  your  fainting 
soul. 

Susan.  How  is  it  with  you  ? 

Sir  F.  How  d'ye  feel  yourself? 

Mrs.  A.  Not  of  this  world. 

Frank.  I  see  you  are  not,  and  I  weep  to  see  it. 
My  wife,  the  mother  to  my  pretty  babes! 
Both  those  lost  names  I  do  restore  thee  back, 
And  with  this  kiss  I  wed  thee  once  again. 
Though  thou  art  wounded  in  thy  houour'd  name. 
And  with  that  grief  upon  thy  death-bed  liest, 
Honest  in  heart,  upon  my  soul,  thou  diest. 

Mrs.    A.    Pardon'd    on  earth,   soul,   thou  in 
heaven  art  free : 
Once  more  thy  wife  dies  thus  embracing  thee. 

IDies. 

FranTc.  New  married,  and  new  widow'd. — Oh ! 
she's  dead. 
And  a  cold  grave  must  be  her  nuptial  bed. 

Sir  C.  Sir,  be  of  good  comfort,  and  your  heavy 
Borrow 


Part  equally  amongst  us :  storms  divided 
Abate  their  force,  and  with  less  rage  ai-e  guided. 
Cran.   Do,  Master  Frankford:    he  that  hath 

least  part, 
Will  find  enough  to  drown  one  troubled  heart. 
Sir  F.  Peace  with  thee.  Nan.  —Brothers  and 

gentlemen 
(All  we  that  can  plead  interest  in  her  grief), 
Bestow  upon  her  body  funeral  tears. 
Brother,  had  you  with  threats  and  usage  bad 
Punish'd  her  sin,  the  grief  of  her  offence 
Had  not  with  such  true  sorrow  touch'd  her  heart. 
Frank.   I  see  it  had  not:   therefore,   on  her 

grave 
Will  I  bestow  this  funeral  epitaph, 
Which  on  her  marble  tomb  shall  be  engrav'd. 
In  golden  letters  shall  these  words  be  fill'd : 
Here  lies  she  whom  her  husband's  kindness  kill'd. 


EPILOGUE. 

An  honest  crew,  disposed  to  be  merry, 

Came  to  a  tavern  by,  and  call'd  for  wine : 
The  drawer  brought  it  (smiling  like  a  cherry), 
And  told  them  it  was  pleasant,  neat  and  fine. 
'  Taste  it,'  quoth  one :  he  did  so ;  '  Fie ! '  (quoth 

he) 
'  This  wine  was  good ;  now't  runs  too  near  the 
lee.' 

Another  sipp'd  to  give  the  wine  his  due, 

And  said  unto  the  rest  it  drank  too  flat : 
Th% third  said,  it  was  old;  the  fourth,  too  new; 
'  Nay,'  quoth  the  fifth,  '  the  sharpness  likes  me 
not.' 
Thus,  gentlemen,  you  see  how,  in  one  hour. 
The  wine  was  new,  old,  fiat,  sharp,  sweet,  and 
sour. 

Unto  this  wine  we  do  allude  *  our  play. 
Which  some  will  judge  too  trivial,  some  too 
grave : 

Tou,  as  our  guests  we  entertain  this  day. 
And  bid  you  welcome  to  the  best  we  have. 

Excuse  us,  then :  good  wine  may  be  disgraced, 

When  every  several  mouth  hath  sundry  taste. 

*  allude— coivpavs. 


JAMES     SHIRLEY. 


[James  Shirley,  the  last  of  the  '  great  race '  of  what  are  called  the  Elizahethan  dramatists, 
was  descended  from  the  Shirleys  of  either  Sussex  or  "Warwickshire,  and  was  born  in  Sep- 
tember 1596,  in  or  near  the  parish  of  St.  Mary  Woolchurch,  London.  In  October  1608, 
when  twelve  years  old,  he  was  admitted  into  Merchant-Taylors'  School,  where  he  remained 
till  June  1612,  giving  diligent  attention  to  his  studies.  On  leaving  school  he  is  said  to  have 
proceeded  to  St.  John's  College,  Oxford  ;  the  only  authority  for  this  assertion  being  Anthony 
Wood,  who  makes  the  following  statement  regarding  Shirley: — 'At  the  same  time,'  says 
"Wood,  '  Dr.  "William  Laud  presiding  that  house,  he  had  a  very  great  affection  for  him,  especially 
for  the  pregnant  parts  that  were  visible  in  him  ;  but  then  having  a  broad  or  large  mole  upon 
his  left  cheek,  which  some  esteemed  a  deformity,  that  worthy  doctor  would  often  tell  him 
that  he  was  an  unfit  person  to  take  the  sacred  function  upon  him,  and  should  never  have 
Ms  consent  so  to  do. '  If  Shirley  ever  was  at  Oxford,  he  quitted  it  without  taking  his  degree, 
and  became  a  student  at  Catherine  Hall,  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
and  afterwards  took  his  M.A.  Notwithstanding  the  objections  of  Laud,  Shirley,  on  having 
completed  his  course  at  college,  took  holy  orders,  and  was  appointed  to  a  living  at  or  near 
St.  Alban's,  Hertfordshire.  Here,  however,  he  remained  but  a  very  short  time,  as  soon 
after,  apparently  from  conscientious  and  disinterested  motives,  he  became  a  convert  to  the 
Eoman  Catholic  Church.  Abandoning  the  clerical  profession,  he  obtained  the  appointment 
of  Master  in  the  Grammar  School  of  St.  Alban's,  which  he  held  during  the  years  1623, 
1624,  'which  emplojonent  also,'  says  "Wood,  'he  finding  uneasy  to  him,  he  retired  to  the 
metropolis,  lived  in  Gray's  Inn,  and  set  up  for  a  play-maker. '  There  is  reason  to  believe 
that  while  still  teaching  at  St.  Alban's,  his  comedy  of  Love's  Tricks  was  performed  in 
London.  Shirley  appears  to  have  led  a  steady  life,  and,  according  to  "Wood,  gained  not 
only  a  considerable  livelihood  from  his  dramas,  but  also  attracted  the  attention  of  '  persons 
of  quality,'  especially  of  Queen  Henrietta  JMaria,  'who  made  him  her  servant.'  He  appears, 
however,  to  have  been  too  independent  to  take  proper  advantage  of  these  opportunities  of 
advancement.  '  I  never, '  he  says  in  the  dedication  to  The  Ilaid's  Ecvenge,  '  affected  the 
ways  of  flattery ;  some  say,  I  have  lost  my  preferment  by  not  practising  that  court  sin. ' 
Regarding  his  domestic  circumstances,  it  is  only  known  that  he  was  twice  married,  and  had 
several  children.  From  the  time  that  he  gave  up  teaching,  Shirley  continued  industriously 
writing  for  the  stage,  his  extant  works  filling  six  octavo  volumes  ;  besides  which,  a  considerable 
number  have  been  lost.  About  1637  he  visited  Ireland,  under  the  patronage  of  the  Earl  of 
Kildare,  and  while  there  brought  out  on  the  Dublin  stage  his  drama,  Royal  Master.  In  1642 
Parliament  ordered  the  suppression  of  stage-plays,  thus  cutting  off  the  occupation  of  Shirley  and 
other  dramatists,  as  well  as  of  the  actors.  As  might  be  expected,  both  dramatists  and  actors, 
almost  to  a  man,  took  the  side  of  the  king  in  the  important  struggle  which  followed,  many 
of  them  attaining  to  a  respectable  rank  in  the  royal  army.  '  "Wlien  the  rebellion  broke  out,' 
says  "Wood,  '  and  Shirley  thereupon  forced  to  leave  London,  and  so  consequently  his  wife 
and  children  (who  afterwards  were  put  to  their  shifts),  he  was  invited  by  his  most  noble 
patron,  "William,  Earl  (afterwards  Marquis  and  Duke)  of  Newcastle,  to  take  his  fortune  with 
him  in  the  wars ;  for  that  Count  had  engaged  him  so  much  by  his  generous  liberality 
towards  him.  that  he  thought  he  could  not  do  a  worthier  act  than  to  serve  him,  and  so 

consequently  his  prince. '    After  the  king's  cause  had  declined,  Shirley  returned  to  London, 

603 


504 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


where  lie  lived  in  comparative  obscurity,  resuming  his  old  occupation  of  teaching,  by  means 
of  which,  and  by  the  publication  of  some  early  poems  and  a  few  of  his  dramas,  as  well  as  of 
a  grammar  and  other  works,  he  managed  to  earn  a  scanty  livelihood.  The  restoration  of 
Charles  ir.  does  not  appear  to  have  bettered  in  any  respect  the  condition  of  Shirley.  '  On 
the  opening  of  the  theatres,  which  were  eagerly  attended  by  the  people,  several  of  his  pieces 
were  revived  with  success  ;  but  his  declared  resolution  of  never  again  attempting  dramatic 
poetry  was  not  to  be  shaken.  He  continued  to  earn  a  livelihood  by  teaching  his  school ; 
while  a  degenerate  race  of  playwTights  arose,  to  delight  with  bombast  and  obscenity  a 
tasteless  and  licentious  age. ' 

'  At  length, '  Wood  tells  us,  *  after  Mr.  Shirley  had  lived  in  various  conditions,  and  had 
seen  much  of  the  world,  he,  with  his  second  wife,  Frances,  were  driven  by  the  dismal  con- 
flagration that  happened  in  London,  an.  1666,  from  their  habitation  near  to  Fleet  Street, 
into  the  parish  of  St.  Giles's-in-the-Fields,  in  Middlesex,  where  being  in  a  manner  overcome 
with  affrightments,  disconsolations,  and  other  miseries,  occasioned  by  that  fire  and  their 
losses,  they  both  died  within  the  compass  of  a  natural  day ;  whereupon  their  bodies  were 
both  buried  in  one  grave  in  the  yard  belonging  to  the  said  church  of  St.  Giles's,  on  the  29th 
of  October  1666.'  At  his  death  Shirley  had  just  entered  on  his  seventy-first  year.  As  we 
have  already  said,  Shirley  seems  to  have  led  a  comparatively  blameless  life  ;  '  gentle, 
modest,  and  full  of  sensibility,  he  seems  to  have  conciliated  the  aff'ection  of  all  his  associates. ' 

Thirty-three  regular  dramas  written  by  Shirley  are  still  extant :  of  these  the  principal 
are— The  Brothers  (licensed  1626) ;  The  Wedding  (printed  1629) ;  The  Grateful  Servant 
(licensed  1629)  ;  The  Traitor  (licensed  1631)  ;  The  Changes,  or  Love  in  a  Maze  (licensed 
1632)  ;  Hyde  Park  (licensed  1632)  ;  The  Duke's  Ilistress  (licensed  1636)  ;  The  Humorous 
Courtier  (published  1640)  ;  The  Cardinal  (licensed  1641) ;  The  Sisters  (licensed  1642)  ; 
Honoria  and  Mammon,  and  The  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses  for  the  Shield  of  Achilles 
(published  1659). 

Notwithstanding  Dryden's  unscrupulous  sneer  in  his  MacFlecknoe  at  this  dramatist, 
Shirley  undoubtedly  deserves  to  rank  honourably  among  his  great  contemporaries  and  pre- 
decessors. He  is  certainly  superior  to  Heywood,  and  in  several  respects  puts  one  in  mind  of 
the  grace  and  ease  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  as  well  as  of  their  power  of  depicting  the  man- 
ners of  good  society.  He  also,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  resembles  these  dramatists  in  another 
less  commendable  point,  viz. ,  the  obscenity  with  which  their  plays  are  disfigured,  although 
his  language  is  seldom  so  gi'oss  and  coarse,  and,  as  compared  with  many  of  his  immediate 
successors,  is  purity  itself.  '  Though  he  occasionally, '  saj^s  Dyce,  '  fails  in  giving  vigour 
and  individuality  to  his  characters,  the  dramatis  iiiersonce  of  his  best  productions  are  strongly 
di-awn  and  clearly  discriminated.  In  the  extrication  of  the  fable  he  sometimes  betrays  care- 
lessness and  haste  ;  but  his  plots  are  generally  conducted  with  admirable  art  and  judgment. 
He  abounds  in  brilliant  thoughts,  in  noble  and  majestic  sentiments,  yet  exhibits  little  of 
profound  reflection.  His  imagination  seldom  takes  a  lofty  flight ;  he  loves  to  crowd  his 
dramas  with  events  of  romantic  beauty  ;  but  he  shows  no  fondness  for  the  ideal  world,  its 
ghosts  and  magic  wonders.  His  fancy  was  exuberant.  His  scenes  are  rich  in  delicate 
imagery  and  picturesq^ue  similes ;  and  even  in  those  plays  where  character  is  somewhat 
faintly  delineated,  his  eloquent  and  softly-coloured  dialogue  bestows  a  charm. '  Though  he 
•was  the  last  of  this  '  great  race '  of  Titanic  dramatists,  he  is  by  no  means  the  least. 

We  have  selected,  as  being  two  of  his  best  productions,  Tlie  Traitor  and  The  Brothers. 


JAMES  SHI  RLE  V. 


THE    TRAITOR: 

A  TRAGEDY. 
ACTED  BY  HER  MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 

WrJTTEN  BY  JAMES  SHIELEY. 


TO  THE  EIGHT  HONOUEAELE 

WILLIAM    CAVENDISH, 

EARL   OP  NEWCASTLE,    VISCOUNT   MANSFIELD,    LORD    BOLSOVEE   AND   OGLE. 


My  Lord, — The  honour  of  your  name,  and  clear- 
ness of  soul,  which  want  no  living  monuments 
in  the  heart  of  princes,  have  already  made  the 
title  of  this  poem  innocent,  though  not  the 
author ;  who  confesseth  his  guilt  of  a  long 
ambition,  by  some  service  to  be  known  to  you, 
and  his  boldness  at  last,  by  this  nide  attempt 
to  kiss  your  Lordship's  hands. 

Fame  with  one  breath  hath  possessed  the 
world  with  your  Lordship's  general  knowledge, 
and  excellent  nature,  both  an  ornament  to  your 
blood,   and  in    both  you    stand  the    rare    and 


justified  example  to  our  age.  To  the  last  these 
cold  papers  address  themselves,  which  if  (with 
truce  to  your  richer  contemplations)  you  vouch- 
safe to  read  and  smile  upon,  not  only  they  shall 
receive  'a  life,  beyond  what  the  scene  exactly 
gave  them  in  the  presentment,  rewarded  with 
frequent  applause,  but  your  Lordship  shall  in- 
finitely honour  him,  whose  glory  is  to  be  men- 
tioned 

The  humblest  of  your  Lordship's  servants, 

James  Shirley. 


^ramatis  |]i;rsona. 


Alexander,  Duhe  of  Florence. 

LoRKXZO,  /lis  kinsman  and  favourite. 

SciARRHA,  brother  to  Amidea. 

PiSANO,  lover  to  Oriana. 

Cosmo,  his  friend. 

Florio,  Sciarrha's  brother. 

Depazzi,  a  creature  0/ Lorenzo's 

Sor,"^'}^^^'~ 

Petruchio,  Pisano's  servant. 
EoGERO,  page  to  Depazzi. 


Gentlemen. 
Servants. 

Ajiidea,  Sciarrha's  sister. 

Oriana,  beloved  of  Pisano  (Cosmo's  Mis- 

Morosa,  her  mother.  [tress'). 

Youth. 

Lust. 

Pleasure. 

Death. 

Furies. 


Scene  —Florence. 


ACT  L— SCENE  L 

A  Room  in  PiSANo's  Hovse. 
Enter  Pisano  and  Petruchio. 

Pis.  Didst  bid  him  come  ? 

Pet.  I  did. 

Pis.  Go  back  again, 
And  tell  him  I  am  gone  abroad. 

Pet.  He's  here 
Already,  sir. 

Enter  Cosmo. 

Pis.  Oh,  Cosmo ! 
Cos.  Dear  Pisano, 


That  I  could  let  thee  nearer  into  me ! 

My  heart  counts  this  embrace  a  distance,  yet ; 

Let  us  incorporate. 

Pis.  I  was  wooing,  Cosmo, 
My  man,  to  tell  thee  I  was  gone  abroad, 
Before  thou  cam'st. 

Cos.  How's  this  ?  your  words  and  looks 
Are  strange,  and  teach  me  to  infer  1  am 
Not  welcome ;  that,  on  riper  counsel,  you 
Do  wish  mv  absence. 

Pis.  What,  for  telling  truth  ? 
He  thus  should  have  but  made  thee  fit  to  see 
Thy  friend;  thou  com'st  with  expectation 
To  hear  me  talk  sense,  dost  not  ? 

Cos.  Yes, 


5o6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Pis.  La,  now! 
And  to  discourse  as  I  was  wont,  of  state. 
Our  friendship,  or  of  women  ?  no  such  matter. 

Cos.    This  is  more   wild    than    usual;    your 
language 
Is  not  so  clear  as  it  was  wont ;  it  caiTies 
Wot  the  same  even  thread ;  although  some  words 
May  knit,  the  sense  is  scatter'd. 

Pis.  Eight,  right,  Cosmo : 
The  reason  is,  I  have  straggled, 
And  lost  myself,  I  know  not  where,  in  what 
Part  of  the  world; — and   would  not  this  have 

shown 
As  well  in  him  {points  to  Pet.']  to  have  prepar'd 
thee  now  ? 

Cos.  What  liumourls  this,  Pisano  ?  I  am  yet 
To  understand. 

Pis.  To  understand  ?  why,  Cosmo, 
Had  I  not  changed  my  dialect  and  method, 
What  need  this  tedious  apology .' 
I'hat's  it,  I  would  have  had  thee  know  before. 
Thou  canst  not  understand  me,  yet  thou  hast 
A  name  in  Florence,  for  a  ripe  young  man, 
Of  nimble  apprehension,  of  a  wise 
And  spreading  observation  ;  of  whom 
Ah'eady  our  old  men  do  prophesy 
Good  and  great  things,  worthy  thy  fair  dimen- 
sions ! 

Cos.  This  is  an  argument  above  the  rest, 
Pisano  is  not  well ;  for,  being  temperate, 
He  was  not  wont  to  flatter  and  abuse 
His  friend. 

Pis.  Beside,  there  is  another  reason, 
Thou  shouldst  discover  me  at  heart,  through  all 
These  mists :   thou   art  in  love,  too,  and  who 

cannot. 
That  feels  himself  the  heat,  but  shrewdly  guess 
At  every  symptom  of  that  wanton  fever .'' — 
Oh,  Cosmo! 

Cos.  What  misfortune  can  approach 
Your  happy  love  in  fairest  Amidea  ? 
You  have  been  long  contracted,  and  have  pass'd 
The  tedious  hope ;  Hymen  doth  only  wait 
An  opportunity  to  light  his  torch. 
Which  will  burn  glorious  at  your  nuptials: 
Let  jealous  lovers  fear,  and  feel  what  'tis 
To  languish,  talk  away  their  blood,  and  strength. 
Question  their  unkind  stars ;  you  have  your  game 
Before  you,  sir. 

Pis.  Before  me  ?  where  ?  why  dost 
Thou  mock  me,  Cosmo  ?  she's  not  here. 

Cos.  It  is 
No  pilgrimage  to  travel  to  her  lip. 

Pis.  'Tis  not  for  you. 

Cos.  How,  sir  ;  for  me  ?  you've  no 
Suspicion  I  can  he  guilty  of 
A  treason  to  our  friendship.     Be  so  just. 
If  malice  have  been  busy  with  my  lame, 
To  let  me  know — 

Pis.  You  hastily  interpret. 
Thy  pardon,  I  have  only  err'd,  but  not 
With  the  least  scruple  of  thy  faith  and  honour 
To  me.     Thou  hast  a  noble  soul,  and  lov'st  me 
Eather  too  well ;  I  would  thou  wert  my  enemy. 
That  we  had  been  born  in  distant  climes,  and 

never 
Took  cement  from  our  sympathies  in  nature. 
Would  we  had  never  seen,  or  known  each  other ! 
This  may  seem  strange  from  him  that  loves  thee, 

Cosmo, 
More  precious  than  his  life. 

Cos.  Love  me,  and  wish 
This  separation  ? 

Pis.  I  will  give  thee  proof ; 
So  well  I  love  thee,  nothing  in  the  world 
Thy  soul  doth  heartily  affect,  but  I 
Do  love  it  too :  does  it  not  trouble  thy 


Belief  ?  I  wear  not  my  own  heart  about  me, 
But  thine  exchang'd ;  thy  eyes  let  in  my  objects ; 
Thou  hear'st  for  me,  talk'st,  kissest,  and  enjoy'st 
All  my  felicities. 

Cos.  What  means  this  language? 

Pis.  But  what's  all  this  to  thee  ?    Go  to  Oriana, 
And  bathe  thy  lips  in  rosy  dew  of  kisses  ; 
Eenew  thy  eye,  that  looks  as  Saturn  hung 
Upon  the  lid;  take  in  some  golden  beam. 
She'll  dart  a  thousand  at  one  glance  ;  and  if. 
At  thy  return,  thou  find'st  I  have  a  being 
In  this  vain  world,  I'll  tell  thee  more. 

\_Exit. 

Cos.  But,  sir,  you  must  not  part  so. 

Pet.  Not  with  my  good  will ; 
I  have  no  great  ambition  to  be  mad. 

Cos.  Petruchio,  let  me  conjure  thee,  tell 
What  weight  hangs  on  thy  master's  heart  ?  why 

does  he 
Appear  so  full  of  trouble .' 

Pet.  Do  you  not  guess? 

Cos.  Point  at  the  cause ;  I  cannot. 

Pet.  Why,  he  loves — 

Cos.  The  beauteous  Amidea  :  I  know  that. 

Pet.  Some  such  thing,  was;   but  you  are  his 
friend,  my  lord : 
His  soul  is  now  devoted  to  Oriana, 
And  he  will  die  for  her,  if  this  ague  hold  him. 

Cos.  Ha! 

Pet.  Your  doublet  pinch  you,  sir;    I  cannot 
tell; 
But  ne'er  a  woman  in  the  world  should  make 
Me  hang  myself.     It  may  be,  for  his  honour, 
He'll  choose  another  death,  he  is  about  one ; 
For  'tis  not  possible,  without  some  cure. 
He  should  live  long :  he  has  forgot  to  sleep ; 
And  for  his  diet,  he  has  not  eaten  this  se'nnight 
As  much  as  would  choke  a  sparrow ;  a  fly  is 
An  epicure  to  him.     Good  sir,  do  you  counsel 
him. —  \_Exit  Cosmo. 

So,  so,  it  works ; 

This  was  my  Lord  Lorenzo's  plot,  and  I 
Have  been  his  engine  in  the  work,  to  batter 
His  love  to  Amidea,  by  praising 
Oriana  to  him.     He  is  here.     My  lord — 

Enter  Lorenzo  attended. 

Lor.  Petruchio,  where's  your  lord  ?  how  moves 
the  work  ? 

Pet.    To    your  own   wish,   my  lord;   he  has 
thrown  off 
The  thought  of  Amidea,  and  is  mad 
For  Cosmo's  mistress,  whom,  by  your  instructions, 
I  have  commended  so. 

Lor.  My  witty  villain  ! 

Pet.  Cosmo  is  with  him,  to  whom  cunningly 
I  have  discovered  his  disease,  and  I 
Beseech  you  interrupt  them  not. 

Lor.  This  may 
Have  tragical  effects,  Petruchio : 
For  Cosmo,  we  shall  prune  his  fortune  thus. 
Oriana's  wealth  would  swell  him  in  the  state; 
He  grows  too  fast  already.     Be  still  ours. 

Pet.  My  lord,  you  bought  my  life,  when  you 
procured 
My  pardon  from  the  Duke.  \_Exit  Lorenzo. 

Re-enter  Pisano  and  Cosmo. 
Pis.  Oh,  friend,  thou  canst  not  be  so  merciful. 
To  give  away  such  happiness :  my  love 
Is,  for  some  sin  I  have  committed,  thus 
Transplanted.      I  look'd  ratter  thou    shouldst 

kill  me. 
Than  give  away  this  comfort;  'tis  a  charity 
Will  make  thee  poor,  and  'twere  a  great  deal 

better 
That  I  should  languish  still,  and  die. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


507 


Cos.  While  I  have  art  to  help  thee  ?  Oriana 
Aud  I  were  but  in  treaty ;  howsoever, 
I  were  not  worthy  to  be  call'd  his  friend, 
Whom  I  preferr'd  not  to  a  mistress.     If 
You  can  find  dispensation  to  quit 
With  Amidea,  your  first  love,  be  confident 
Oriana  may  be  won  ;  and  it  were  necessary 
You  did  prepare  the  mother ;  be  not  modest. 

Pis.    Each  syllable  is  a  blessing — Hark,  Pe- 
truchio.  [Whispers  Mm. 

Cos.  There  is  an  engine  levell'd  at  my  fate. 
And  I  must  arm.  [Aside. 

Pis.  Away !  [Exit  Petruciiio. 

Cos.  This  for  thy  comfort: 
Although  some  compliments  have  pass'd  between 
Me  and  Oriana,  I  am  not  warm 
Yet  in  the  mother's  fancy,  whose  power  may 
Assist  you  much ;  but  lose  no  time :  let's  follow. 

Pis.  Th(Ju  miracle  of  friendship !  [Exeunt. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 

A  lioom  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Fkederico,  Ploeio,  and  Alonzo. 

Duhe.  Letters  to  us  ?  from  whom  ? 

Alon.  Castruchio. 

Duhe.  The  exile?  whence? 

Alon.  Sienna,  my  good  lord ; 
It  came  enclos'd  within  my  letter,  which 
Impos'd  my  care  and  duty  in  the  swift 
Delivery. 

[Ee  delivers  letters.,  which  the  Duke  reads. 

Fred.  The  duke  is  pale  o'  the  sudden. 

Duke.  A  palsy  does  possess  me ;  ha !  Lorenzo  ? 
Our  cousin  the  enemy  of  our  life  and  state  ! 
My  bosom  kinsman  ? — Not  too  loud ;  the  traitor 
May  hear,  and  by  escape  prevent  our  justice. 

[Aside. 

Flo.  What  traitor? 

Duhe.  Signior  Alonzo,  come  you  hither ; 
What  correspondence  maintain  you  with  this 
Castruchio  ? 

Alon.  None,  my  lord ;  but  I  am  happy 
In  his  election,  to  bring  the  first 
Voice  to  your  safety. 

Duhe.  Most  ingrateful  man ! 
Turn  rebel !  I  have  worn  him  in  my  blood. 

Alon.  'Tis  time  to  purge  the  humour. 

Duke.  I  will  do  it. — 
Our  guard! — Were  he  more  precious,  had  he 

shared 
Our  soul,  as  he  but  borrows  of  our  flesh, 
This  action  makes  him  nothing ;  had  I  been 
In  heaven,  I  could  have  lent  him  my  eternity. 
He  turn  conspirator  ?  Oh  the  fate  of  princes ! 
But  stay,  this  paper  speaks  of  no  particular ; 
He  does  not  mention  what  design,  what  plot. 

Alon.  More  providence  is  necessary. 

Duhe.  Eight, 
Right,  good  Alonzo ;  thou'rt  an  honest  man, 
And  lov'st  us  well.    What's  to  be  done? 

Alon.  'Tis  best 
To  make  his  person  sure ;  by  this  you  may 
Discover  soonest  who  are  of  his  faction. 

Duhe.  And  at  our  leisure  study  of  his  punish- 
ment. 
Which  must  exceed  death ;  every  common  trespass 
Is  so  rewarded :  first,  apply  all  tortures 
To  enforce  confession,  who  are  his  confederates. 
And  how  they  meant  to  murder  us ;  then  some 

rare 
Invention  to  execute  the  traitor, 
So  as  he  may  be  half  a  year  in  dying, 
Will  make  us  famed  for  justice. 


Enter  Lorenzo  and  Depazzi. 

Alon.  He  is  here, 
Shall  we  apprehend  him  ? 

Lor.  Happy  morning  to 
My  gracious  sovereign  ! 

Duke.  Good  morrow,  coz. — 
Can  ti-eason  couch  itself  within  that  frame  ? — 

[Aside, 
We  have  letters  for  you. 

[Gives  Lorenzo  the  letters. 

Lor.  Letters !  these,  dread  sii-. 
Have  no  direction  to  me,  your  highness 
Is  only  named. 

Duke.  They  will  concern  your  reading. — 
Alonzo,  now  observe  ana\-atch  him. — Florio, 
Depazzi,  come  you  hither ;  does  Lorenzo 
Look  like  a  traitor  ? 

Dep.  How,  sir  ?  a  traitor  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  sir. 

De;;.  I,  sir?  by  my  honour,  not  I,  sir;  I  defy 
him  that  speaks  it.     I  am  in  a  fine  pickle. 

[Aside. 

Lor.  I  have  read. 

Duke.  Not  blush  ?  not  tremble  ?  read  again. 

Lor.  The  substance  is,  that  you  maintain 
A  vigilant  eye  over  Lorenzo,  who 
Hath  threaten'd,  with  your  death,  his  country's 

liberty ; 
And  other  things,  touching  reducing  of 
A  commonwealth.' 

Duke.  I  like  not  that.  [Aside. 

Dep.  All's  out ! 
A  pox  upon  him  for  a  traitor,  he 
Has  hedged  me  in ;  but  I'll  confess.  [Aside. 

Duhe.  What  answer 
Make  you  to  this,  Lorenzo  ? 

Lor.  This,  o'  the  sudden, 
Sir;  I  must  owe  the  title  of  a  Traitor 
To  your  high  favours ;  envy  first  conspir'd, 
And  malice  now  accuses  :  but  what  story 
Mention'd  his  name,  that  had  his  prince's  bosom, 
Without  the  people's  hate  ?  'tis  sin  enough, 
In  some  men,  to  be  great ;  the  throng  of  stars, 
The  rout  and  common  people  of  the  sky. 
Move  still  another  way  than  the  sun  does, 
That  gilds  the   creature :    take    your  honours 

back, 
Aud,  if  you  can,  that  purple  of  my  veins. 
Which  flows   in    yours,    and    you    shall   leave 

me  in 
A  state  I  shall  not  fear  the  great  one's  envy. 
Nor  common  people's  rage ;  and  yet,  perhaps. 
You  may  be  credulous  against  me. 

Duke.  Ha! 

Alon.  The  duke  is  cool. 

Duhe.  Alonzo,  look  you  prove 
Lorenzo  what  you  saj'. 

Alon.  I  say,  my  lord  ? 
I  have  disco  ver'd  all  my  knowledge,  sir. 

Dep.  Stand  to't. 

Lor.  With  licence  of  your  highness,  what 
Can  you  imagine  I  should  gain  by  treason  ? 
Admit  I  should  be  impious,  as  to  kill  you — 
I  am  your  nearest  kinsman,  and  should  forfeit 
Both  name  and  future  title  to  the  state. 
By  such  a  hasty,  bloody  disposition  ; 
The  rabble  hate  me  now,  how  shall  I  then 
Expect  a  safety  ?     Is  it  reformation 
Of  Florence  they  accuse  me  of  ?  suggesting 


1 touching  reducing  of 

A  commonwealth — i.e.,  bringing  back  the  common- 
wealth, which  had  been  overthrown  by  the  present 
duke.  It  is  a  Latinism,  and  is  used  in  this  sense  by 
Jonson,  and,  generally,  by  our  old  writers. — Giffobd. 


5o8 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


I  disaffect  a  monarchy,  which  how 
Vain  and  ridiculous  would  appear  in  me, 
Your  wisdom  judge  ;  in  you  I  live  and  flourish  ; 
What,  in  your  death,  can  I  expect,  to  equal 
The  riches  I  enjoy  under  your  warmth  ? 
Should  I,  for  the  aid  and  talk  of  a  new  govern- 
ment, 
A  commonwealth,  lose  all  my  certainties  ? 
And  you  above  them  all,  whose  favours  have 
Fallen  like  the  dew  upon  me  ?  have  I  a  soul 
To  think  the  guilt  of  such  a  murder  easy. 
Were  there  no  other  torments  ?  or  can  I 
Expect  the  people  will  reward  your  murderer 
With  anything  but  death  ?  a  parricide ! 

Alon.  So,  so,  the  duke's  already  iu  his  circle. 
A  \Aside. 

Lor.  But  I  am  tamapiK  if  I  had  no  sense, 
Nor  other  argument  to  vindicate 
My  loyaltj%  thus  poison'd  by  a  paper, 
In  my  eternal  fame,  and  by  a  slave  ? 
Call  to  my  brow  some  one  that  dare  accuse  me. 
Let  him  have  honour,  great  as  mine,  to  forfeit, 
Or,  since  your  grace  hath  taken  me  so  near 
Your  own  height,  that  my  scale  maj'  not  expect 
Such  a  proportion'd  adversary,  yet  let  him 
Have  name  within  his  country,  and  allow  him 
A  soul,  'gainst  which  I  may  engage  my  more 
Than  equal  honour,  then  I'll  pi-aise  your  justice  ; 
But  let  him  not  be  one  condemn'd  already, 
A  desperate  exile. — Is  it  possible 
A  treason  hatch'd  in  Florence,  'gainst  the  duke, 
Should  have  no  eyes  at  home  to  peneti'ate 
The  growing  danger,  but  at  Sienna  one 
Must  with  a  perspective  discover  all  ? 
Ask  this  good  counsellor,  or  these  gentlemen. 
Whose  faiths  are  tried,  whose  cares  are  always 

waking 
About  your  person,  how  have  I  appear'd 
To  them,  that  thus  I  should  be  rendered  hateful 
To  j'ou  and  my  good  country  ?  they  are  virtuous. 
And  dare  not  blemish  a  white  faith,  accuse 
My  sound  heart  ol  dishonour.     Sir,  you  must 
Pardon  my  bold  defence ;  my  virtue  bleeds 
By  your  much  easiness,  and  1  am  compell'd 
To  break  all  modest  limits,  and  to  waken 
Your  memory  (if  it  be  not  too  late 
To  say  you  have  one)  with  the  story  of 
My  fair  deservings.     Who,  sir,  overthrew 
With  his  designs,  your  late  ambitious  brother, 
Piippolito,  who,  like  a  meteor,  threaten'd 
A  black  and  fatal  omen  ? 

Duke.  'Twas  Lorenzo. 

Lor.  Be  yet  as  just,  and  say  whose  art  directed 
A  countermine  to  check  the  pregnant  hopes 
Of  Salviati,  who  for  his  cardinal's  cap, 
In  Eome  was  potent,  and  here  popular  ? 

Duke.  None  but  Loi-enzo. 

Dep.  Admirable  traitor !  \_Aside. 

Lor.  Whose  service  was  commended  when  the 
exiles. 
One  of  whose  tribe  accuseth  me,  had  raised 
Oommotions  in  our  Florence  ?  When  the  hingo 
Of  state  '  did  faint  under  the  burthen,  and 
The  people  sweat  with  their  own  fears,  to  think 
The  soldier  should  inhabit  their  calm  dwellings, 
Who  tiien  rose  up  your  safety,  and  crush'd  all 
Their  plots  to  air  ? 

Duke.  Our  cousin,  dear  Lorenzo. 

Lor.  When  he  that  should  reward,  forgets  the 
men 
That  purchas'd  his  security,  'tis  virtue 
To  boast  a  merit.     With  my  services 
J  Lave  not  starv'd  your  treasury  ;  the  grand 

*  hinge  of  state.    The  duke,  the  person  on  whom  the 
whole    government    turned ;     a    lorced    expression.— 

GiFFORD. 


Captain  Gonzales  accounted  to  king  Ferdinand 
Three  hundred  thousand  crowns,  for  spies;  what 

bills 
Have  I  brought  in  for  such  intelligence  ? 

Dep.  I  do  grow  hearty.  \_Aside. 

Duke.  All  thy  actions 
Stand  fresh  before  us,  and  confirm  thou  art 
Our  best  and  dearest  friend ;  thus  we  assure 
Our  confidence ;  they  love  us  not  that  feed 
One  jealous  thought  of  our  dear  coz,  Lorenzo. 
New  welcome  to  us  all ;  for  you,  Alonzo, 
Give  o'er  your  paper  kites,  learn  wit,  'tis  time. — 

\Walks  aside  loith  Lor, 
Where  shall  we  meet  to-night  ? 

Lor.  Pardon  me,  sir ; 
I  am  a  dangerous  man. 

Duke.  No  more  of  that ; 
I'll  credit  my  soul  with  thee. — Shall  we  revel 
This  night  with  Amidea  .' 

Dep.  The  duke  courts  him. 
Well,  go  thy  ways,  for  one  of  the  most  excellent, 
Impudent  traitors —  \_Asi(.le. 

Duke.  Yet  a  murmuring 
Of  traitor  .'  we  shall  sooner  suspect  Lini 
That  thinks  Lorenzo  guilty. 

Dep.  I,  my  lord. 
Dare  boldly  swear,  his  honour  is  as  free 
From  any  treason,  as  myself. — 
1  did  prophesy  this  issue.  \_Aside. 

Duke.  'Tis  an  age 
Till  night;  I  long  to  fold  her  in  my  arms. 
Prepare  Sciarrha  ;  but  be  very  wise 
In  the  discovery,  he  is  all  touchwood. 

Lor.  I   know   he  is  her  brother ;    leave  the 
managing 
Of  things  to  me. 

Duke.  Still  when  we  expect 
Our  bliss,   time  ci-eeps ;  but  when  the  happier 

things 
Call  to  enjoy,  each  saucy  hour  hath  wings. 

\_Exeunt, 


ACT  II.— SCENE  L 
A  Room  in  Sciarrha's  House. 
Enter  SciARKHA  and  Lorenzo. 

Set.  My  sister!     Though  he  be  the  duke,  he 
dares  not. — 
Patience,  patience !  if  there  be  such  a  virtue, 
I  want  it.  Heaven ;  yet  keep  it  a  little  longer, 
It  were  a  sin  to  have  it;  sucli  an  injury 
Deserves  a  wrath  next  to  your  own.' — My  sister ! 
It  has  thrown  wild-fire  in  my  brain,  Lorenzo, 
A  thousand  furies  revel  in  my  skull. 
Has  he  not  sins  enough  in's  court  to  damn  hiin, 
But  my  roof  must  be  guilty  of  new  lusts. 
And  none  but  Amidea.'  these  the  honours 
His  presence  brings  our  house  ! 

Lor.  Temper  j'our  rage. 

Sci.  Are  all   the   brothels  rifled  ?    no  quaint 
piece 
Left  him  in  Florence,  that  will  meet  his  hot 
And  valiant  luxury,  that  we  are  come  to 
Supply  his  blood  out  of  our  families? 
Diseases  gnaw  his  title  off ! 

Lor.  My  lord — 

Sci.  He  is  no  prince  of  mine  ;  he  forfeited 
His  greatness  that  black  minute  he  first  gave 
Consent  to  my  dishonour. 


•  Deserves  a  wrath  next  to  your  otcn  This  is  not  ex- 
pressed with  our  author's  usual  perspicuity;  it  means, 
a  vengeance  next  to  an  affront  offered  to   Heaven.—. 

GiFFOIlD. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


509 


Lo)\  Then  I'm  sorry — 

Sci.  Why  should  you  be  sorry,  sir  ? 
Tou  say  it  is  my  sister  he  would  strumpet. 
Mine !     Amidea  !  'tis  a  wound  you  feel  not ; 
But  it  sti-ikes   through  and   through  the  poor 

Sciarrha. 
I  do  not  think  but  all  the  ashes  of 
My  ancestors  do  swell  in  their  dark  urns, 
At  this  report  of  Amidea's  shame : 
It  is  their  cause,  as  well  as  mine ;  and  should 
Heaven  suffer  the  duke's  sin  to  pass  unpunish'd, 
Their  dust  must  of  necessity  conspire 
To  make  an  earthquake  in  the  templo. 

Lor.  Sir, 
You  said  you  would  hear  me  out. 

Sci.  Why,  is  there  more 
Behind  ? 

Lor.  And  greater :  master  your  high  blood 
Till  I  conclude,  Sciarrha.     I  accuse  not 
Your  noble  anger,  which,  I  have  observ'd, 
Is  not  on  every  cheap  and  giddy  motion 
Inflamed  ;  but,  sir,  be  thrifty  in  your  passion, 
This  is  a  petty  trespass. 

Sci.  Has  mischief  any  name 
Beyond  this.'  will  it  kill  me  with  the  sound  ? 

Lor.  My  lord,  though  the  dishonouring  your 
sister 
Be  such  a  fact  the  blood  of  any  other 
But  Alexander  could  no  less  than  expiate, 
Yet  this  sin  stretches  further,  and  involves. 
With  hers,  your  greater  stain.    Did  you  e'er  pro- 
mise him .' — 
Yet,  why  do  I  make  any  question  ? 
It  were  another  crime  to  think  Sciarrha 
Could  entertain  a  thought  so  far  beneath 
His  birth. — You  stoop  to  such  a  horrid  baseness ! 
Then  all  the  virtue  of  mankind  would  sicken, 
And  soon  take  leave  of  earth. 

Sci.  You  torture  me. 

Lor.  What  then  could  the  duke  find,  to  give 
him  any 
Encouragement,  you  would  be  guilty  of 
An  act  so  fatal  unto  honour .'     What, 
When  you  were  least  yourself  (as  we  are  all 
Frail  compositions),  did  appear  so  wicked 
In  you,  he  should  conceive  a  hoj^e,  and  flatter 
Himself  with  possibility  to  corrupt 
Your  soul  to  a  deed  so  monstrous .' 

Sci.  To  what .' 

Im:  Though  all  the  teeming  glories  of  his 
dukedom. 
Nay,  Florence'  state,  offer'd  itself  a  bribe, 
And  tempted  the  betraying  of  j'our  name 
To  infamy,  yet  to  imagine  you 
Would  turn  officious  pander  to  his  lust ! 
'Tis  horrid,  affrights  nature  ;  I  grow  stiff 
With  the  imagination. 

Sci.  Ha! 

Loi\  Yet  this 
Was  his  command  I  should  impose. 

Sci.  Lorenzo, 
I   do  want  breath ;  my  voice  is  ravish'd  from 

me; 
I  am  not  what  I  was ;  or — if  I  be 
Sciarrha  thou  hast  talk'd  to  all  this  while, 
Look  heedfully  about  me,  and  thou  maj-st 
Discover,  through  some  cranny  of  my  flesh, 
A  fire  within  ;  my  soul  is  but  one  flame. 
Extended  to  all  jjarts  of  this  frail  building. 
I  shall  turn  ashes,  I  begin  to  shrink ; — 
Is  not  already  my  complexion  alter'd .' 
Does  not  my  face  look  parch'd,  and  my  skin 

gather 
Into  a  heap  ?  my  breath  is  hot  enough 
To  thaw  the  Alps. 

Lor.  Your  fancy  would  transport  you. 

Sci.  It  is  my  rage;  but  let  it  cool,  [Lorenzo], 


And  then  we'll  talk  of  something,  something,  sir. 
Shall  be  to  purpose. 

Lor.  Now  the  flame  is  mounted. 
Sly  lord,  I  have  given  proof,  although  he  be 
My  duke,  and  kinsman,  I  abhor  his  vices, 
Howe'er  the  world,  without  examination, 
Shoot  their  malicious  noise,  and  stain  my  actions: 
'Tis  policy  in  princes  to  create 
A  favourite,  who  must  bear  all  the  guilt 
Of  things  ill  managed  in  the  state;  if  any 
Design  be  happy,  'tis  the  pi-ince's  own. 
Heaven  knows  how  I  have  counsell'd  this  young 

man, 
}\y  virtue  to  prevent  his  fate  ;  and  govern 
With  modesty  :  Oh  the  religious  da\-s 
Of  commonwealths!  we  haVe  outlived  that  bless- 
ing, '^^yi 

Sci.  But  I  have  thought  a  cure  for  this  great 
state 
[mposthume. 

Lor.  What? 

Sci.  To  lance  it ;  is't  not  ripe  ? 
Let  us  draw  cuts,  whether  your  hand  or  mine 
Shall  do  an  act  for  Florence'  liberty. 
And  send  this  tyrant  to  another  world. 

Lor.  How  !  I  draw  cuts  ? 

Sci.  Coy  it  not  thus,  Lorenzo, 
But  answer:  by  your  name  and  birth,  you  aro 
His  kinsman,  we  all  know  it ;  that  you  dwell 
In's  bosom,  great  in  favour  as  in  blood. 
We  know  that  too ;  and,  let  me  tell  you  more, 
We  know  you  but  disguise  your  heart,  aud  wish 
Florence  would  change  her  title. 

IjOr.  How  is  this  ? 

Sci.  We  know  you  have  firm  correspondence 
with 
The  banish'd  men,  whose  desperate  fortunes  wait 
Your  call  to  tumult  in  our  streets  ;  all  this, 
Not  to  feed  your  ambition  with  a  dukedom, 
By  the  remove  of  Alexander,  but 
To  serve  your  countrj%  and  create  their  peace 
Who  groan  under  the  tyranny  of  a  proud, 
Fjascivious  monarch. — Is't  not  true,  Lorenzo  .' 
My  phrase  is  blunt,  my  lord. 

I-iOr.  My  genius 
And  thine  are  friends ;  I  see  they  have  convers'd, 
Aud  I  applaud  the  wisdom  of  mj-  stars. 
That  made  me  for  his  friendship  who  preserves 
The  same  religious  fire.     I  will  confess, 
When  Alexander  left  his  piety 
To  Florence,  I  placed  him  beneath  my  country, 
x\s  we  should  all ;  but  we  have  lost  our  souls. 
Or  changed  our  active  spirits,  for  a  dull 
And  lazy  sufferance  ;  let  this  secret  be 
An  argument,  how  much  I  dare  repose 
Upon  Sciarrha's  honour  ;  virtue  witness, 
I  choose  no  other  destiny  :  command 
Lorenzo's  fate,  dissolve  me  with  your  breath  ; 
I'll  ever  live,  in  your  exchange  of  faith, 
A  patriot,  or  die  my  country's  martyr. 

Sci.  Thou  hast  a  fire  beyond  Prometheus', 
To  quicken  earth ;  thy  flame  is  but  a  prophecy 
Of  that  high  pyramid  the  world  shall  build 
To  thy  immortal  name  :  it  was  the  glory 
Of  Romans  to  prefer  their  empire's  safety 
To  their  own  lives ;  they  were  but  men  like  ua, 
And  of  the  same  ingredients,  our  souls 
Create  of  no  inferior  substance  ;  ha  .' — 

Lor.  Heaven  knows,  I've  no  particular  design 
To  leap  into  a  throne  ;  I  will  disciaim 
The  privilege  of  blood;  let  me  advance 
Our  liberty,  restore  the  ancient  laws 
Of  the  republic,  rescue  from  the  jaws 
Of  lust  your  mothers,  wives,  your  daughters, 
sisters — 

Sci.  Sisters!  ^ 

Lor.  From  horrid  rape — 'las,  Amidea! 


5IO 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Sci.   I  am  resolv'd  ;   by  all  that's  blest,   he 
dies. 
Eeturn  my  willingness  to  be  his  pander, 
My  sister's  readiness  to  meet  his  dalliance ; 
His  promises  have  bought  our  shame : — he  dies ; 
The  roof  he  would  dishonour  with  his  lust 
Shall  be  his  tomb ;  bid  him  be  confident ; 
Conduct  him,  good  Lorenzo,  I'll  dispose 
My  house  for  this  great  scene  of  death. 

Lor.  Be  constant.  [Exit. 

Enter  Florio  and  Amidea. 

Flo.  Now,  brother,  what  news  brings  the  great 
Lorenzo  ? 

Sci.  Let  me  have   truce,  vexation,   for  some 
minutes. —  /"■  sj  \_Aside. 

What  news  ?  preferM|^s,  honours,  ofSces. — 
Sister,  you  must  to  court. 

Ami.  Who,  I  to  court  ? 

Sci.  Or  else  the  court  will  come  to  you.     The 
duke 
Hath  sent  already  for  us,  Amidea : 
Oh  that  I  knew  what  happy  stars  did  govern 
At  thy  nativity !  It  were  no  sin 
To  adore  their  influence. 

Ami.  What  means  my  brother? 

Flo.  He  is  transported. 

Ami.  I  shall  suspect  your  health. 

Sci.  I  easily  could  forget  I  am  Sciarrha, 
And  fall  in  love  myself. — Is  she  not  fair. 
Exceeding  beautiful,  and  tempting,  Florio  ? 
Look  on  her  well,  methinks  I  could  tm-n  poet, 
And   make    her  a  more    excellent  piece    than 

heaven. 
Let  not  fond  men  hereafter  commend  what 
They  most  admire,  by  fetching  from  the  stars, 
Or  flowers,  their  glory  of  similitude. 
But  from  thyself  the  rule  to  know  all  beauty  ; 
And  he  that  shall  arrive  at  so  much  boldness, 
To  say  his  mistress'  eyes,  or  voice,  or  breatli, 
Are  half  cio  bright,  so  clear,  so  sweet  as  thiue. 
Hath  told  the  world  enough  of  miracle. 
These  are  the  duke's  own  raptures,  Amidea ; 
His  own  poetic  flames ;  an  argument 
He  loves  my  sister. 

Ami.  Love  me  ? 

Sci.  Infinitely. 
I  am  in  earnest ;  he  employ'd  Lorenzo, 
No  meaner  person,  in  this  embassy ; 
You  must  to  court.     Oh  happiness ! 

Ami.  For  what  ? 

Sci.  What  do  great  ladies  do  at  court,  I  pray  ? 
Enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  dance,  kiss 
The  amorous  lords,   and  change   court  breath ; 

sing  ;  lose 
Belief  of  other  heaven ;  tell  wanton  dreams, 
Eehearse  their  sprightly  bed-scenes,  and  boast 

which 
Hath  most  idolaters ;  accuse  all  faces 
That  trust  to  the  simplicity  of  nature, 
Talk  witty  blasphemy. 

Discourse  their  gaudy  wardrobes,  plot  new  pride. 
Jest  upon  courtiers'  legs,  laugh  at  the  wagging 
Of  their  own  feathers,  and  a  thousand  more 
Delights,  which  private  ladies  never  think  of. 
But  above  all,  and  wherein  thou  shalt  make 
All  other  beauties  envy  thee,  the  duke, 
The  duke  himself  shall  call  thee  his,  and  single 
From  the  fair  troop  thy  person   forth,  to  ex- 
change 
Embraces  with,  lay  siege  to  these  soft  lips. 
And  not  remove,  till  he  hath  suck'd  thy  heart. 
Which   soon   dissolv'd  with  thy  sweet   breath, 

shall  be 
Made  part  of  his,  at  the  same  instant  he 
Conveyirjg  a  new  soul  into  thy  breast 
With  a  creating  kiss. 


Ami.  You  make  me  wonder ; 
Pray  speak,  that  I  may  understand. 

Sci.  Why  will  you 
Appear  so  ignorant  ?  I  speak  the  dialect 
Of  Florence  to  you.     Come,  I  find  your  cunning ; 
The  news  doth  please,  the  rolling  of  your  eye 
Betrays  you,  and  I  see  a  guilty  blush 
Through  this  white  veil,  upon  your  cheek;  you 

would 
Have  it  confirm'd ;  you  shall ;  the  duke  himself 
Shall  swear  he  loves  you. 

Ami.  Love  me !  why  ? 

Sci.  To. court, 
And  ask  him ;  be  not  you  too  peevish  now, 
And  hinder  all  our  fortune  :  I  have  promis'd  him, 
To  move  you  for  his  armful,  as  I  am 
Sciarrha,  and  your  brother;  more,  I  have  sent 
Word  to  him  by  Lorenzo,  that  you  should 
Meet  his  high  flame ;  in  plain  Italian, 
Love  him,  and — 

Ami.  What,  for  Heaven !  bo  the  duke's  ? 

Sci.    No,   no,   his  mistress;     command    him, 
make  us. 

Ami.  Give  up  my  virgin  honour  to  his  lust  ? 

Sci.  You  may  give  it  a  better  name ;  but  do  it. 

Ami.  1  do  mistake  you,  brother,  do  I  not? 

Sci.   No,   no,   my  meaning  is  so  broad,  you 
cannot. 

Ami.  I  would  I  did  then.     Is't  not  possible 
That  this  should  be  a  dream  ?  where  did  you 

drop 
Your  virtue,  sir  ? — Florio,  why  move  yon  not  ? 
Why  are  you  slow  to  tell  this  man, — for  sure 
'Tis  not  Sciarrha, — he  hath  talk'd  so  ill. 
And  so  much,  that  we  may  have  cause  to  fear, 
The  air  about's  infected  ? 

Flo.  Are  not  you 
My  brother  ? 

Sci.  Be  not  you  a  fool,  to  move 
These  empty  questions,  but  join  to  make  her 
Supple  and  pliant  for  the  duke.     I  hope 
We  are  not  the  first  have  been  advanced  by  a 

wagtail : 
No  matter  for  the  talk  of  musty  people. 
Look  up  to  the  reward;   thou  art  young,  and 

skill'd 
In  these  court  temptings,  naturally  soft, 
And  moving,  I  am  rough-hewn  ;  assist,  wilt, 
With  some  quaint  charm,  to  win  her  to  this 
game? 

Flo.  My  sister? 

Sci.  Ay,  ay. 

Ami.  Come  not  near  him,  Florio, 
'Tis  not  Sciarrha;  sure,  my  brother's  nurse 
Play'd  the  impostor,  and  with  some  base  issue 
Cheated  our  house. 

Sci.  Gipsy,  use  better  language, 
Or  I'll  forget  your  sex. 

Flo.  Offer  to  touch  her 
With  any  rudeness,  and  by  all  that's  virtuous— 

Sci.  Why,  how  now,  boy  ? 

Flo.  I  do  not  fear  your  sword.  [Draws. 

This,  with  my  youth  and  innocence,  is  more 
Defence  than  all  thy  armoury ;  what  devil 
Has  crept  into  thy  soul  ? 

Sci.  You  will  not  help  ? ' 
■  Flo.  I'll  never  kill  thee. 

Sci.  'Tis  vsry  well. 
Have  you  consider'd  better  o'  the  motion. 

Ami.  Yes. 


1  Sci.  Tou  will  not  Mp  ?—i.e.,  you  will  not  then  assist 
me  in  persuading  Amidea  to  yield  to  the  duke? — I  do 
not,  however,  quite  see  the  purport  of  Florio's  answer; 
and  suspect  an  error  of  the  press:  '111  never  kill  thee,' 
should  probably  be,  '111  rather  kill  thee;'  to  which 
Sciairha's  '  'Xis  very  well, 'forms  an  apt  reply. — GiirOKU 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


511 


Scl.  Aud  what  is  your  resolve  ? 

Ami.  To  have  my  name 
Stand  in  the  ivory  register  of  virgins 
When  I  am  dead.     Before  one  factious  thought 
Should  lurk  within  me  to  betray  my  fame 
To  such  a  blot,  my  hands  shall  mutiny, 
And  boldly  with  a  poniard  teach  my  heart 
To  weep  out  a  repentance. 

Sci.  Let  me  kiss  thee. 
My  excellent,  chaste  sister. — Florio, 
Thou  hast  my  soul ;  I  did  but  try  your  virtues. 
'Tis  truth,  the  duke  does  love  thee,  viciouslj', 
Let  him,  let  him !  he  comes  to  be  our  guest ; 
This  night  he  means  to  i-evel  at  our  house, — 
The  Tarquin  shall  be  entertaiu'd ;  he  shall. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Ser.  My  lord,  Pisano  is  come.  \Exit. 

Sci.  I  had  forgot  his  promise.     Look  up,  sister, 
And  shine  with  thine  own  smiles  ;  Pisano's  come, 
Pisano,  thy  contracted,  honour'd  friend; 
A  gentleman  so  rich  in  hopes,  we  shall      ' 
Be  happy  in's  alliance. 

E7itei'  Pisano,  Cosmo,  and  Frederico. 

Welcome  all. 
But  you  above  the  rest,  my  brother  shortly. 
Sister,  and  Florio,  entertain  your  noble 
Friends  ;  some  few  minutes  I  am  absent.     We 
Must  not  forget  prepare  for  the  duke's  coming ; 
I'D.  soon  return.  [Exit. 

Ami.  You  are  not  cheerful,  sir ; 
How  is't,  my  lord  ?  you  were  not  wont  to  look 
So  sad  when  you  came  hither. 

Pis.  I  am  not  well,  Amidea. 

Ami.  Oh  my  heart ! 

Pis.  Be  you 
Comforted,  lady ;  let  all  griefs  repair 
To  this,  theii"  proper  centre. 

[Lays  his  hand  on  his  breast. 

Flo.  Sir,  how  fare  you  ? 

Pis.  Alter'd  of  late  a  little. 

Fred.  Virtuous  lady, 
I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her,  and  accuse 
Pisano's  levity.  [Aside. 

Pis.  Would  he  were  come  back ! 
I  might  have  finish'd  ere  he  went,  and  not 
Delay'd  his  business  much ;  two  or  three  words, 
And  I  had  despatch'd. 

Ami.  How,  sir  ?  your  language  is 
Another  than  you  used    to  speak ;    you  look 

not 
With  the  same  brow  upon  me. 

Cos.  'Las !  sweet  lady. — 
But  who  shall  accuse  me  ?  [Aside. 

Pis.  We  shall  expect  too  long.     Lady,  I  am 
come 
To  render  all  my  interest  in  your  love. 
And  to  demand  myself  again ;  live  happier 
In  other  choice,  fair  Amidea,  'tis 
Some  shame  to  say  my  heart's  revolted. 

Ami.  Ha! 

Pis.  Here's  witness,  all  is  cancell'd  betwixt  us; 
Nay,  an  you  weep — Farewell ! 

Ami.  He's  gone ! 

Flo.  I  am  amazed. 

Pis.  Now  lead  me  to  my  blessing. 

[Exeunt  Pis.  Cor.  and  Fred. 

Flo.  Shall  a  long  suit  and  speeding  in  his  love, 
With  the  world's  notice,  and  a  general  fame 
Of  contract  too,  just  in  the  instant,  when 
A  marriage  is  expected,  be  broke  off 
With  infamy  to  our  house  ? 

Ami.  Brother,  if  ever 
You  loved  poor  Amidea,  let  not  this 


Arrive  Sciarrha's  ear,  there's  danger  in 
His  knowledge  of  it ;  this  may  be  a  trial 
Of  my  affection. 

Flo.  A  trial,  no,  it  show'd 
Too  like  a  truth. 

Ami.  My  tears  entreat  your  silence. 

Flo.    You  have  power  to  command  it;    dry 
your  eyes  then, 
He  is  return'd. 

Re-enter  ScrARRiiA. 

Sci.  How  now ! 
Weeping  ?  Where  is  Pisano,  and  his  friends  ? 
Flo.  They're  gone,  sir. 

Sci.B.2i\ 

Ami.  Guess  by  my  eyes^ou  may, 
Something  of  sorrow  hath^^alleu;  no  sooner 
You  were  departed,  but  some  strange  distemper 
Invaded  him ;  we  might  discern  a  change 
In's  countenance,  and  though  we  pray'd  him  to 
Eepose  with  us,  he  would  straight  back  again ; 
So,  with  Frederico, 
And  Signior  Cosmo,  he  return'd. 

Flo.  The  alteration  was  strange  and  sudden. 

Sci.  'Las!  noble  gentleman — but  come,  clear  up 
Your  face  again,  we  hope  it  will  not  last : 
Look  bright  again,  I  say,  I  have  given  order — 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  My  lord,  the  duke's  already  come. 

[Exit. 
Sci.  Eemove, 
Good  Amidea,  and  reserve  thy  person 
To  crown  his  entertainment ;  be  not  seen  yet. 

[Exit  Amidea. 

Enter  Duke,  Lorenzo,  Alonzo,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Sciarrha,  we' are  come  to  be  your  guest. 

Sci.   Your  highness   doth  an   honour  to  our 
house. 

Buke.  But  Where's  thy  sister  ?  she  must  bid  us 
welcome. 

Sci.  She  is  your  grace's  handmaid. 

Bulce.  For  this  night. 
Let  the  whole  world  conspire  to  our  delight. 
Lorenzo—  [Whispers  him. 

Lor.  Sir,  be  confident — and  perish.        [Aside. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IL 

The  Garden  o/Morosa's  House. 
Enter  MoROSA,  Oriana,  and  Servant. 

Mor.  You  should  not  rashly  give  away  your 
heart. 
Nor  must  you,  without  me,  dispose  yourself. — 
Pray  give  access  to  none — yet,  if  Pisano 
Inquire,  direct  him  to  the  garden. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Cosmo 
Is  young,  and  promising,  but,  while  Lorenzo 
Lives,  must  expect  no  sunshine. 

Re-enter  Servant  with  Pisano  and  Cosmo. 

Pis.  There's  for  thy  pains. — 

[Exit  Servant. 
They  are  now  at  opportunity. 

Cos.  My  lord. 
Do  you  prepare  the  mother,  and  let  me  dose 
With  Oriana. 

Pis.  What  service  can  reward  thee  ? 

Cos.  Take  occasion 
To  leave  us  private;  this  hour  be  propitious  I 
Win  but  the  matron  to  you.  ^ 

Pis.  She  is  prepar'd  already. 


512 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Cos.  Lose  no  time, 
Take  the  other  walk. 

[Exeunt  PisANO  and  Morosa. 
Ori.  My  dear  Cosmo. 
Cos.  My  best  Oriana. 
Ori.  You  have  been  too  much  absent,  I  must 

chide  you. 
Cos.    You  cannot,    sweet;    I   would   I  knew 
which  way 
To  make  thee  angry ;  yes,  that  I  might  see 
How  well  it  would  become  thee.     I  do  fear 
Thou  art  some  angel,  and  that  sin  would  be 
An  argument  to  me,  tliat  thou  wert  mortal ; 
I  must  suspect,  thy  too  much  goodness  else. 
And  leave  thee  for  the  fellowship  of  saints, 
I  am  too  wicked.       ^^ 

Ori.  You  will  mal^ne  angry. 
Cos.  But  you  will  love  me  still,  I  fear. 
Ori.  Do  you  fear  it? 
Is't  a  misfortune .' 
Cos.  What.? 
Ori.  My  love. 
Cos.  Your  anger ; 
And  yet  the  t'other  oftentimes  may  carry 
An  evil  M'ith  it ;  we  may  love  too  well, 
And  that's  a  fault. 

Ori.  Not  where  the  object's  good. 
Cos.  Oh  yes  :  always  beware  of  the  extremes. 
Ori.  What  mean  you?  I  affect  none  but  my 
Cosmo. 
Nor  him  with  too  much  flame. 

Cos.  If  you  should,  lady, 
'Twere  nobly  done. 
Ori.  To  love  another  ? 
Cos.  Yes, 
If  there  be  cause,  that  may  be  call'd  a  virtue  : 
For  what  have  I  to  engross  the  affection 
Of  any  lady,  if  she  can  discern 
A  greater  merit  in  some  other  man  ? 
Wisdom  forbid,  but  she  command  her  smiles. 
To  warm  and  cherish  him. 

Ori.  So  we  should  be 
Inconstant. 

Cos.  Why  not  ?  if  our  reason  be 
Convinced,  that's  no  such  fault,  as  the  world 

goes. 
Let  us  examine  all  the  creatures,  read 
The  book  of  nature  through,  and  we  shall  find 
Nothing  doth  still  the  same  ;  the  stars  do  wander. 
And  have  their  divers  influence  ;   the  elements 
Shuffle  into  innumerable  changes : 
Our  constitutions  vary  ;  herbs  and  trees 
Admit  their  frosts  and  summer;  and  why  then 
Should  our  desires,  that  are  so  nimble,  and 
More  subtle  than  the  spirits  in  our  blood. 
Be  such  stay'd  things  within  us,  and  not  share 
Their  natural  liberty  ?     Shall  we  admit  a  change 
In  smaller  things,  and  not  allow  it  in 
What  most  of  all  concerns  us  ? 
Ori.  What? 
Cos.  Our  loves. 

Ori.  Have  you  suspicion  I  am  changed,  and 
thus 
Would  school  me  for  it  ?  or  shall  I  imagine 
That  you  are  alter'd  ? 

Cos.  Yes,  I  am,  and  therefore 
Proclaim  thy  freedom  ;  I  do  love  thee  less, 
To  show  I  love  thee  more. 
Ori.  AVhat  riddle's  this  ? 
Cos.  I  will  explain.     Upon  maturity 
Of  counsel,  Oriana,  I  have  found 
I  am  not  worthy  of  thee,  therefore  come 
To  make  thee  satisfaction  for  my  sin 
Of  loving  thee,  by  pointing  out  a  way, 
And  person,  will  become  thy  affection  better. 
Ori.  "^u  have  a  pretty  humour. 
Cos.  What  dost  think 


Of  brave  Pisano?  shall  his  merit  plead 
Succession  in  thy  chaste  thoughts  ? 

Ori.  I  do  know  him. 

Cos.  Thou  canst  not  choose,  and  I  could  study 
none 
Worthy  thy  love  but  him. 

On.  'Tis  very  likely 
You  would  resign  then  ? 

Cos.  Ay,  to  honour  thee ; 
His  service  will  deserve  thee  at  the  best 
And  richest  value. 

On.  Why,  it  shall  be  so. 

Cos.    Nay,   but  be   serious,   and  declare   me 
happy. 
That  I  may  say,  I  have  made  thee  just  amends, 
[And]  I  will  thank  thee. 

On.  Why,  sir,  I  do  love  him. 

Cos.    Oh,  when  did  Cupid  aim  that  golden 
shaft? 
But  dost  thou  love  him  perfectly,  with  a 
Desire,  when  sacred  rites  of  marriage 
Are  past,  to  meet  him  in  thy  bed,  and  call  him 
Thy  husband  ? 

Ori.  Why,  sir,  did  you  ever  think 
I  was  so  taken  with  your  worth  and  person, 
I  could  not  love  another  lord  as  well? 
By  your  favour,  there  be  many  as  proper  men, 
And  as  deserving ;  you  may  save  your  plea, 
And  be  assured  I  need  no  lesson  to 
Direct  my  fancy.     I  did  love  Pisano 
Before,  but  for  your  sake  I  mean  to  place  him 
A  great  deal  nearer. — Sure  he  does  but  jest. 

[Aside. 
You  did  love  me. 

Cos.  Now,  by  my  heart,  I  love  thee. 
This  act  shall  crown  our  story,  Oriana, 
Thou  dost  not  know  how  much  thou  honourest 

me, 
For  he's  not  in  the  common  list  of  friends. 
And  he  does  love  thee  past  imagination. 
Next  his  religion  he  has  placed  the  thought 
Of  Oriana,  he  sleeps  nothing  else. 
And  I  shall  wake  him  into  heaven,  to  say 
Thou  hast  consented  to  be  his. 

Ori.  Pray  tell  me, 
Rut  truly,  I  beseech  you  ;  do  you  wish 
Pisano  mine  indeed  ?   [or]  are  you  jealous, 
And  name  him  to  accuse  me  ? 

Cos.  Not,  by  goodness  ; 
But  if  there  be  a  charm  beyond  thy  innocence. 
By  that  I  would  conjure  thee,  Oriana, 
Love  him,  and  make  three  happy;  it  shall  bo 
My  bliss  to  call  you  his,  let  me  but  own 
A  servant  in  your  memory. 

Ori.  Unkind 
And  cruel  Cosmo  !  dost  thou  think  it  possible 
I  can  love  any  but  thyself  ?  thou  wilt 
Undo  my  heart  for  ever. 

Re-enter  Pisano  and  Mokosa. 

Mor.  You  shall  bo 
Ever  most  welcome  ;  if  I  be  her  mother, 
She  must  declare  obedience. — Oriana — 

Cos.  Go  cheerfully,  thy  mother  calls  to  him 
Whose  orator  I  have  been. — 'Las,  poor  lady! 
I  half  repent  me,  since  she  is  so  constant : 
But  a  friend's  life  weighs  down  all  other  love  ; 
Beside,  I  thus  secure  my  fate  ;  Lorenzo 
Threatens  my  spring,  he  is  my  enemy.      [Aside, 

Ori.  You'll  not  compel  affection  ? 

Pis.  No,  but  court  it ; 
With  honour,  and  religion,  thus  invite  it. 

Mor.  1  shall  forget  the  nature  of  a  parent, 
Unless  you  show  more  softness  and  regard 
To  what  is  urg'd.    What  promise  could  you  mako 
To  Cosmo  without  me  ?  or,  if  you  had— 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


513 


Cos.  Here  Cosmo  doth  give  up  all  title  to  it ; 
I  have  no  part  in  Oriana  now. 

Ori.  I've  heard  too  much ;  do  with  me  whnt 
you  please, 
I  am  all  passive,  nothing  of  m3'self, 
But  an  obedience  to  unhappiness.  {Exit. 

Cos.  Follow  her,  Pisano. 
Pis.  Thou  art  all  friendship. 
Cos.  Trace  their  warm  steins,  virgins'  resolves 
are  weak. 
Leave  not  her  eyes  until  you  see  day  break. 

\_Exeunf. 

ACT  III.— SCEXE  I. 

A  Boom   in  Depazzi's  House. 

Enter  Depazzi  and  Eogeko. 

Dep.  Eogero ! 

Hog.  My  lord. 

Dep.  Make  fast  the  chamber  door,  stifle  the 
key-hole  and  the  crannies,  I  must  discourse  of 
secret  matters;  dost  thou  smell  nothing,  Kogero.' 
Ha.? 

Roff.  Smell  ?  not  anything,  my  lord,  to  offend 
my  nostril. 

Bep.  Come  hither ;  what  do  the  people  talk 
abroad  of  me  ?  Answer  me  justly,  and  to  the 
point;  what  do  they  say  ? 

Bog.  Faith,  my  lord,  they  say  that  you  are — 

Dcp.  They  lie,  I  am  not ;  they  are  a  lousy, 
impudent  nndtitude  ;  a  many-headed,  and  many- 
horned  generation,  to  say  that  I  am— 

Bog.  A  noble  gentleman,  a  just  and  discreet 
lord,  and  one  that  deserved  to  have  his  honours 
without  monej'. 

Bep.  Oh,  is  that  it?  I  thought  the  rabble 
would  have  said,  I  had  been  a  traitor.  I  am 
half  mad,  certainly,  ever  since  I  consented  to 
Lorenzo  ;  'tis  a  very  hard  condition,  that  a  man 
must  lose  his  head  to  recompense  the  procuring 
of  his  honours.  What  if  I  discover  him  to  the 
duke .''  Ten  to  one,  if  Lorenzo  come  but  to  speak, 
his  grace  will  not  have  the  grace  to  believe  me, 
and  then  I  run  the  hazard  to  be  thrown  out  of 
all  on  t'other  side.  'Tis  safest  to  be  a  traitor. 
[Aside.^ — Hum,  who  is  that  you  whispered  to  ? 

Bog.  I  whisper .' 

Bc2}.  Marry  did  you,  sirrah. 

Bog.  Not  I,  good  faith,  my  lord. 

Bep.  Sirrah,  sirrah,  sirrah,  I  smell  a  rat  be- 
hind the  hangings.  {Takes  up  the  hanglngs.~\ 
— Here's  nobody.  Ha  ?  Are  there  no  trunks '  to 
convey  secret  voices  ? 

Bog.  Your  lordship  has  a  pair  on. 

Bep.  I  do  not  like  that  face  in  the  arras ;  on 
my  conscience  he  points  at  me.  'Pox  iipon  this 
treason,  I  have  no  stomach  to't.  I  do  see  myself 
upon  a  scaffold,  making  a  pitiful  speech  already. 
1  shall  have  my  head  cut  off.  Seven  years  ago 
I  laid  my  head  upon  a  wager,  I  remember,  and 
lost  it ;  let  me  see, — it  shall  be  so,  'tis  good 
policy  to  be  armed.  [Aside.'] — Kogero,  imagine 
I  were  a  traitor. 

Bog.  How,  sir  ? 

Bep.  I  but  say  imagine;  we  may  put  the  case ; 
and  that  I  were  apprehended  for  a  traitor. 

Bog.  Heaven  defend  !'- 

Bep.  Heaven  has  something  else  to  do,  than  to 
defend  traitors.  I  say,  imagine  I  were  brought 
to  the  bar. 


•  trunks — i.e.  tubes.  Rogero's  reply  is  a  pun  on  this 
word,  and  the  name  of  the  large  breeches,  or  Irunk- 
hose,  worn  in  Shirley's  time. — GitFORD. 

*  defend — i.e.  forbid.  Depazzi  uses  the  word  in  its 
modem  sense. — Gifford. 


Bog.  Good,  my  lord  !  you  brought  to  the  bar? 
Bep.  I  will  beat  you,  if  you  will  not  imagine, 
at  my  bidding.     I  say,  suppose  I  now  were  at 
the  bar,  to  answer  for  my  life. 
Bog.  Well,  sir. 

Bep.  Well,  sir?  that's  as  it  happens;  you 
must  imagine  I  will  answer  the  best  I  can  for 
myself.  Conceive,  I  pr'ythee,  that  these  chairs 
were  judges,  most  grave  and  venerable  beards 
and  faces,  at  my  arraignment,  and  that  thyself 
wert,  in  the  name  of  the  duke  and  state,  to 
accuse  me,  what  couldst  thou  say  to  me  ? 

Bog.  I  accuse  your  good  honour  ?     For  what, 
I  beseech  you  ? 
Bep.  For  high  treason,  you  blockhead. 
Bofj.  I  must  be  acquaint^  with  some  particu- 
lars first.  w 

Bep.  Mass,  thou  saj^est  right.  Why,  imngine, — 
do  you  hear?  you  must  but  imagine, — that  some 
great  man  had  a  conspiracy  against  the  duke's 
person,  and  that  I,  being  an  honest  lord,  and  one 
of  this  great  man's  friends,  had  been  drawn  in, 
for  that's  the  plain  truth  on't;  'twas  against  mj-- 
will,  but  that's  all  one.  Well,  thou  understand'st 
me  ;  show  thy  wit,  Kogero,  scratch  thy  nimble 
pericranium,  and  thunder  out  my  accusation  ex 
tevipore.  Here  I  stand,  Siguier  Depazzi,  ready 
to  answer  the  indictment. 

Bog.  Good,  my  lord,  it  will  not  become  me, 
being  yoin-  humble  servant. 

Bep.  Humble  coxcomb !  is  it  not  for  my  good  ? 
I  say,  accuse  me,  bring  it  home,  jerk  me  soundly 
to  the  quick,  Eogero  ;  tickle  me,  as  thou  lov'st 
thy  lord  ;  I  do  defy  thee,  spare  me  not,  and  the 
devil  take  thee  if  thou  be'st  not  malicious. 

Bog.  Why  then  have  at  you.    1  [First,  Signior 
Depazzi,  thou  art  indicted  of  high  treason  ;  hold 
up  thy  hand  :  Guilty,  or  not  guilty  ?J 
Bep.  Very  good. 

Bog.  Naj',   very  bad,   sir: — [Answer,  I   say; 
guiltj',  or  not  guilty  ?] 
Bep.  [Not  guilty.] 

Bog.  ['Tis  your  best  course  to  say  so  :] — well, 
imagine  I  rise  up  the  duke's  most  learned  iu  the 
laws,  and  his  nimble-tongued  orator ;  have  at 
you,  signior. 

Bep.  Come,  come  on,  sir,  here  I  stand. 
Bog.  [I  will  prove  thou  liest  in  thy  throat,  if 
thou  deniest  thy  treason,  and  so  I  address  myself 
to  the  most  understanding  seats  of  justice. — Most 
wise,  most  honourable,  and  most  incorrupt  judges, 
sleep  not,  I  beseech  you ;  my  place  hath  called 
me  to  plead,  in  the  behalf  of  my  prince  and 
country,  against  this  notable,  this  pernicious, 
and  inipudent  traitor,  who  hath  plotted  and  con- 
trived such  high,  heinous,  and  horrible  treasons, 
as  no  age  nor  history  hath  ever  mentioned  the 
like.  Here  he  stands,  whose  birth  I  will  not 
touch,  because  it  is  altogether  unknown  who 
begot  him.  He  was  brought  up  among  the 
small  wares  in  the  city,  became  rich  by  sinister 
and  indirect  practices,  married  a  merchant's  wife 
at  adventures,  and  was  soon  after  advanced  to  be 
a  head  ofhcer.] 
Bep.  Why,  you  rascal ! ' 

Bog.  [Peace,  sirrah,  peace!  Nay,  your  lord- 
ships shall  find  him  very  audacious.  This  fellow, 
not  content  to  have  his  branches  spread  within 
the  city — I  speak  it  to  his  face,  let  him  deny  it — 
was  afterward,  by  the  corruption  of  his  confede- 
rate, and  the  mere  grace  of  his  highness,  raised 
to  honour,  received  infinite  favours  from  his 
prince  of  blessed  memory,  yet,  like  a  wretch,  a 


J  [The  language  of  the  mock-trial  is  encloSfed  within 
brackets.] 


2k 


514 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


villain,  a  viper,  a  rat  of  Nilus,  lie  hatli  practised 
treasons  against  the  sacred  person  of  the  duke, 
for  which  he  deserveth  not  only  to  die,  but  also  to 
suffer  tortures,  whips,  racks,  strapadoes,  wheels, 
and  all  the  fiery  brazen  bulls  that  can  be  invented, 
as  I  shall  make  it  appear  to  this  honourable  and 
illustrious  court.] 

Dtp.  This  rogue's  transported. 

Rog.  [With  all  my  heart ;  I  obey  your  lord- 
ships : — thus  then  I  pass  from  these  circumstances, 
and  proceed  to  the  principal  villanies  that  we 
have  to  lay  to  his  charge.  Imftrimis^  thou,  Siguier 
Depazzi,  didst  offer  to  a  groom  one  hundred 
crowns  to  poison  his  highness'  hunting-saddle.] 

Dep.  [Did  I .'] 

Rog.  [Do  not  iutemapt  me,  varlet;  I  will  prove 
it; — his  hunting-saalle,  and  woe  shall  be  unto 
thy  breech  therefore  ;  and  finding  this  serpentive 
treason  broken  in  the  shell, — do  but  lend  your 
reverend  ears  to  his  next  designs — I  will  cut 
them  off  presently, — this  irreligious,  nay,  atheis- 
tical traitor,  did  with  his  own  hands  poison  the 
duke's  prayer-book;  oh,  impiety!  and  had  his 
highness,  as  in  former  times  he  accustomed,  but 
prayed  once  in  a  month,  which,  by  special  grace, 
he  omitted,  how  fatal  had  it  been  to  Florence ! 
but  as  by  justice  his  excellence  did  then,  and  by 
his  own  want  of  devotion,  prevent  this  assassi- 
nate's  purpose,  so  we  hope,  in  his  own  discretion, 
and  the  counsel  of  his  state,  he  will  take  heed 
how  he  prays  hereafter  while  he  lives,  to  which 
every  true  subject  will  say.  Amen.] 

Dep.  [May  it  please  your  honours — '\ 

Rog.  [Thou  impudent,  brazen-faced  traitor, 
wilt  thou  deny  it.'  Moreover,  an't  like  your 
good  lordships,  he  hath  for  this  fortnight  or  three 
weeks  before  his  apprehension,  walked  up  and 
down  the  court  with  a  case  of  pistols  charged, 
wherewith,  as  he  partly  confessed,  he  intended 
to  send  the  duke  to  heaven  with  a  powder !] 

Dep.  This  rogue  will  undo  the  devil  at  inven- 
tion.— [May  it  please  this  honourable — ] 

Rog.  [These  are  but  sprinklings  of  his  ti-eason.] 

Dep.  Will  you  justify  this  ?  •  Did  I  any  of 
these  things,  you  tadpole .' 

Rog.  Hold  yourself  contented,  my  lord ;  he 
that  is  brought  to  the  bar  in  case  of  treason, 
must  look  to  have  more  objected  than  he  can 
answer,  or  any  man  is  able  to  justify. 

Dep.  [I  confess,  an't  please  your  good  lord- 
ships— 'y 

Rog.  [Mark,  he  will  confess — ] 

Dep.  That's  the  way  to  be  sent  of  a  headless 
errand : — [Indeed  I  confess  that  I  never  intended 
any  treason  to  his  highness,  nor  ever  sought  the 
prince's  life ;  true  it  is,  that  I  heard  of  a  con- 
spiracy.] 

Rog.  [That,  that,  my  lords,  hath  overthrown 
him.  He  saith  he  never  sought  the  prince's  life, 
ergo^  he:sought  his  death.  Besides,  he  hath  heard 
of  treason  ;  now,  he  that  heareth  and  discovereth 
not,  is  equally  guilty  in  fact :  for  in  offences  of 
this  nature  there  are  no  accessaries,  evgo,  he  is  a 
principal,  and  being  a  principal  traitor,  he  de- 
serveth  condemnation.] 

Dep.  [Shall  I  not  speak  ?] 

Rog.  [No ;  traitors  must  not  be  suffered  to 
speak,  for  when  they  have  leave,  they  have 
liberty,  and  he  that  is  a  traitor  deserveth  to  be 
close  prisoner.] 

Dep.  [All  that  this  fellow  hath  uttered  is  false 
and  forged,  abominable  lies.] 

Rog.  [1  will  speak  truth,  and  I  will  be  heard, 
and  no  man  else,  in  this  place.] 

Dep.  [I  never  dreamt  of  a  hunting-saddle,  nor 
never  had  so  much  as  a  thought  of  any  prayer- 
book.] 


Rog.  [Tou  sit  here  to  do  justice ;  I  speak  for 
the  duke,  and  the  safety  of  the  commonwealth.] 

Dep.  [As  for  pistols,  'tis  well  known  I  could 
never  endure  the  report  of  them.  I  defy  powder 
and  shot  as  I  do  him  that  accuseth  me.] 

Rog.  [I  defy  all  the  world  that  will  hear  a 
traitor  speak  for  himself;  'tis  against  the  law, 
which  provides  that  no  man  shall  defend  treason, 
and  he  that  speaks  for  himself,  being  a  traitor, 
doth  defend  his  treason.  Thou  art  a  capital  ob- 
streperous malefactor.] 

Dep.  Thou  art  a  madman. 

Rog.  Go  to,  you  have  plaj-ed  the  fool  too  much. 

Dep.  Thou  continual  motion  cease  ;  a  pox 
upon  thee,  hold  thy  tongue. 

Rog.  The  pox  will  not  serve  your  turn. 

Dep.  Why  then,  this  shall.  \Beats  him. 

Rog.  Hold,  hold,  good  my  lord,  I  ani  sensible ; 
I  have  done,  imagine  I  have  done ;  I  but  obeyed 
your  lordship,  whose  baton  I  find  stronger  than 
my  imagination.  My  lord,  you  will  answer  this, 
to  strike  in  the  court  thus  ? 

Dep.  I  am  as  weary — hark,  Kogero  {knoching 
withui] — one  knocks.  See,  see  ;  there's  to  make 
thee  amends  {gives  him  money. '\ ;  see,  good  Rogero, 
and  say  nothing.  [Exit  Kogeeo.]  Pray  heaven 
it  be  no  pursuivant. 

Re-enter  Eogero  with  Petruchio  hearing  a  letter, 

Rog.  Petruchio,  my  Lord  Pisano's  secretary. 

Dep.  But  Lorenzo's  engine,^  a  very  knave. 

[Aside. 

Pet.  My  very  good  lord. 

[Gives  him  the  letter. 

Dep.  What's  here  ?  It  can  be  no  goodness. 
[Reads  aside.']  My  lord,  I  would  not  have  you  go 
to  bed  to-night — he  will  not  let  me  sleep  now,  I 
dreamt  as  much ; — something  will  be  done  to  give 
Florence  libei-ty.  In  the  depth  of  night  you  may 
cunningly  disjyerse  some  rumours  in  the  city,  that 
the  duke  is  dead ;  the  people  must  be  distracted ; 
in  the  common  fright  be  not  you  wanting  in  your 
person  to  assist  their  fears,  and  speak  well  of- — 
Lorenzo.  Speak  well  of  the  devil. — My  humble 
service  to  your  lord,  and  say  he  has  power  to 
command  me  in  all  thiugs. 

Pet.  My  very  good  lord. 

Dep.  No  matter  an  you  were  'both  hang'd. 
[Aside.] — Eogero,  show  him  the  wine  cellar. 
[Exeunt  Eogero  and  Petruchio.] — Let  me  see, 
I  must  report  the  duke's  death ;  I  cannot  abide 
this  word  death ;  yet  he  desires  me  but  to  report 
it.  Hum,  if  it  be  false,  why,  so  much  the  better ; 
there  will  be  the  less  harm  in  it :  if  it  should 
prove  true,  they  will  believe  me  another  time. 
Well,  I  wiU  drink  myself  half  drunk,  and  be 
fortified.  [Exit. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  Sciaerha's  House.    Preparations  for 
a  Masque. 

Enter  Duke,  Amidea,  Lorenzo,  Sciarrha, 
Elorio,  and  Attendants. 

Duhe.  Sciarrha,  you  exceed  in  entertainment ; 
Banquet  our  eyes  too  ? 

Lor.  He  will  feast  all  senses. 

Sci.  Only  a  toy,  my  lord ;  I  cannot  call't 
A  masque,  nor  worthy  of  this  presence,  j'et  _ 
It  speaks  the  freedom  of  my  heart,  and  gratitude 
For  this  great  honour. 

Duhe.  Amidea  must 
Sit  near  us. 

1  engine— tool. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


515 


Sci.  Lords,  your  places ;  'twill  not  be 
Worth  half  this  ceremony. — Let  thein  begin. 

Enter  Lust  riclily  apparelled,  the  Pleasures 

attending. 

Dul;e.  Who's  the  presenter.' 

Sci.  Lust,  sir;  pray  observe. 

hint.  Noio  let  Lust  possess  the  throne 

Of  Love,  and  rule  in  hearts  alone: 
You  sweet  tempters  to  my  sin, 
Beauty,  smiles,  and  kisses  win 
Upon  frail  mortals,  let  them  know 
There  is  no  hajjpiness,  but  you. 
Shoot  no  arroios  tipp  d  with  lead. 
Each  shaft  have  his  golden  head.^ 
Call  no  love,  delude  men  still, 
Through  the  flesh  their  sjnriis  Mil; 
JVoc  spend  all  your  art  to  take 
Common  persons  ;  greatness  make. 
By  your  potent  charms,  to  be 
Subjects  unto  hell  and  me  : 
Inflame  but  kings  with  loose  desire, 
You  soon  set  all  the  world  on  fire. 

Enter  a  young  Man  richly  habited,  and  crowned. 

Duke.  What's  he.' 

Sci.  A  wild  young  man  that  follows  Lust ; 
He  has  too  much  blood,  it  seems. 

Duke.  Why  looks  he  back  ? 

Sci.  There  is  a  thing  call'd  Death,  that  follows 
him; 
With  a  large  train  of  Furies  ;  but  the  Sirens 
Of  Lust  make  him  secure,  and  now  the  hag 
Embraces  him,  and  cu-cles  him  with  pleasures ; 
The  harpies  mean  to  dance  too. — ^Here  Lust,  the 
Pleasures,    and   the    young  Man  join   in    a 
Dance-] — Hang  his  conscience  ! 
It  whines  too  much. 

Lor.  This  is  too  plain.  [^Aside. 

Sci.  He  does  not  tremble  yet. — 
By  and  by,  sir,  you  shall  see  all  his  tormentors 
Join  with  them  ;  there's  the  sport  on't. 

L07:  Methinks  they 
Should  have  been  first,  for  th'  antimasque.^ 

Sci.  Oh  no! 
In  hell  they  do  not  stand  upon  the  method. 
As  we  at  court;    the   grand^  masque  and  the 
Begin  the  revels. —  [glory 

Enter  Death. 

Sister,  you  do  ill 
To  keep  the  duke  in  talk;  he  cannot  see 
The  devil  for  you,  and  the  whips  :  does  not 
That  death's  head  look  most  temptingly  ?   the 
Have  kiss'd  the  lips  off.  [worms 

Enter  Furies,  icho  join  in  the  dance,  and  in  the 
end  carry  the  young  Man  away.  The  rest  flee 
in  confusion. 

How  does  your  highness  like  this  dance? 

Duke.  My  eyes  so  feasted  here,  I  did  not  mark 
it, 
But  I  presume  'twas  handsome. 

Sci.  Oh  the  lethargy 
Of  princes ! — We  have  kept  you,  sir,  from  bed. — 
Moi-e  lights. 


1  golden  head.  This  is  rather  an  imitation  of  the  old 
Moralities,  than  a  Masque. 

2  antimasque  —  apparently  a  contrast  to  the  masque, 
being  a  ridiculous  interlude,  dividing  tlie  parts  of  the 
more  serious  masque.  Yet  Jonson  himself  gives  it 
antic-masque,  in  the  Masque  of  Augurs.  They  were  in 
effect  antic,  and  were  usually  performed  hy  actors  hired 
from  the  theatres,  the  masque  being  often  by  ladies  and 
gentlemen. — Nares. 

3  grand.  For  grand  masque,  the  old  copy  reads  ground 
masque. — GiffOKD. 


Duke.  Good  night  to  all ;  to  you  the  best: — 
Sciarrha,  bind  us  ever  by  performance. 

Sci.  We  are  all  yours. 

Duke.  And  Florence  thine.     Once  more — 
Brightest  of  ladies. 

Lor.  You  are  firm  ?  [Aside  to  Sci. 

Sci.  Suspect  not. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Ami.  and  Flo. 

Flo.  I  do  not  like  my  brother's  moral  masque ; 
The  duke  himself  was  personated :  I 
Wonder  it  did  not  startle  him. 

Ami.  I  hope 
Scian-ha  does  not  mean  so  ill  as  that 
Did  promise.    He's  return'd ;  his  looks  are  full 

Be-enter  ScijfeEHA. 

Of  threat'ning. 

Sci.  Amidea,  go  not  to  bed ; 
And  yet  no  matter ;  I  can  do't  alone. 
Take  both  your  rest,  and  in  your  prayers  com- 
mend 
The  duke  to  heaven,  'tis  charity ;   [he]  has  made 
His  will  already,  and  bequeath'd  his  body 
To  you,  sister;  pity  his  soul,  for  'tis  now 
Within  few  minutes  of  departing. 

Ami    How  ? 

Sci.    Wh_-    this  way  [showing  a  poniard.'] — I 
must  help  him  in  his  groans^. 
To  bring  his  flesh  a-bed. 

Ami.  You  will  not  kill  him  ? 

Sci.  I  am  not  of  your  mind. 

Ami.  I  know  you  cannot. 

Sci.  You  are  not  studied  so  perfect  in 
His  destiny,  I  hoije ;  I  will  endeavour — 

Ami.  To  kill  your  prince  ? 

Flo.  What,  hero  7 

Sci.  No,  in  his  chamber. 

Ami.  Shall  it  be  read  in  stories  of  our  Florence, 
Sciarrha  first  did  stain  his  family 
With  such  a  treason  ? 

Flo.  Was  he  not  invited  ? 

Sci.  Yes,  by  his  lust. 

Flo.  And  in  your  crowned  tables, 
And  hospitality,  will  you  mm-der  him? 

Sci.    Yes,   and  the  reason  wherefore  he  was 
murder'd. 
Shall  justify  the  deed  to  all  posterity; 
He  came  to  wrong  my  sister. 

Flo.  Wanton  heat ; 
Let  youthful  blood  excuse  him. 

Sci.  So  it  must. 

Flo.  Mistake  me  not ;  oh,  think  but  who  he  is. 
The  duke :    that  word  must  needs  awake  your 
piety. 

Ami.  How  will  good  men  in  this  remembrance 
Abhor  your  cruelty,  that  send  to  hell 
One  with  the  weight  of  all  his  sins  upon  him! 

Sci.  It  is  too  late  to  cool  with  argument 
My  incensed  blood.     Will  you  go  dally  with 

him. 
And  let  him  board  your  pinnace  ?  I  have  gone 
So  far  in  promise,  if  you  clasp  not  with  him, 
It  will  be  dangerous  if  he  outlive 
This  night. 

Ami.  I  have  thought  on't;    send  him  to  my 
bed. 

Sci.  Ha! 

Ami.  Do  not  question  what  I  propose ;  Heaven 
Witness  to  my  chaste  thoughts. 

Sci.  Wilt  thou  trust  him  ? 

Ami.  I  will  do  much,  sir,  to  preserve  his  life. 
And  your  innocence :  be  not  you  suspectful ; 
At  the  worst,  you  can  but  respite  yoiu"  revenge. 

Sci.   Dost  thou  not  fear  unhappy  Lucrece's 
chance. 
Or  wretched  Philomel's  dishonour  ? 


i6 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Ami.  No : 
Give  me  his  life,  and  send  your  wanton  to  me  : 
I'll  to  my  chamber  ;  fear  me  not,  Sciarrha, 
Have  not  one  thought  so  bad,  I  shall  not  prosper; 
Virgins  in  heaven  shall  suffer  with  me.    , 

Flo.  Trust  her.  ^Exeunt  Ami.  and  Flo. 

Sci.  'Tis  but  deferring  of  my  justice ; 
She  will  not  kill  him,  sure  ;  draw  on  her  soul 
The  guilt  she  hates  in  mine  ;  if  she  do  yield 
To  the  hot  encounter,  ha!  'twill  I  then]  be  just, 
That  both  theu-  hearts  weep  blood,  to  pui-ge  their 
lust.  [Exit. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III, 
Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  Florio  and  AiiiUEA. 

Flo.  My  poniard  ? 

Ami.  I've  no  black  intent 
To  stain't  with  any  blood. 

Flo.  Take  it ;  I  know 
Thou  art  my  virtuous  sister,  it  were  wickedness 
To  doubt  thy  purpose,  or  the  event. 

Ami.  Now  leave  me. 

Flo.  Thou  hast  a  guard  of  angels. 

Ami.  They  are  coming. 

[Florio  conceals  himself  behind  the  hangings. 

Enter  Sciarrha  and  the  Duke. 

Sci.  Look,  there  she  is,  sir;  you  know  how  to 
undress  her. 

Duke.  Dearest  Sciarrha. 

Sci.  To  your  recreation. — 
Here  I'll  obscure  myself.     (Acide:  sees  Florio 
as  he  retires  behind  the  hangings.^ — Florio  ? 
'tis  well. 

Duke.  Lady,  you  know  mo  ? 

Ami.  Yes  ;  my  prince. 

Duke.  I  was  so 
Till  I  saw  thee,  but  I  gave  up  that  title, 
A  conquest  to  thy  beauty,  which,  among 
Her  other  wonders,  hath  created  me 
A  subject  and  [a]  servant,  and  I  shall 
Be  happier  to  be  received  yours  by 
One  of  those  names,  than  Duke  of  Tuscany. 

Ami.  Oh,  take  yourself  again,  [sir] ;  vise  your 
greatness 
To  make  the  hearts  of  Florence  bow  to  you. 
And  pay  their  duties  thus.  \_Kneels. 

Duke.  Eise,  Amidea, 
And  since  you  have  given  my  power  back,  it  will 
iiecome  me  to  command. 

Ami.  And  me  to  obey.  [Rises. 

Duke.    I   see  thy  noble    brother    Lath    been 
faithful 
To  my  desires ;  he  has  prepar'd  thee  with 
A  story  of  my  love,  which  thou  reward'st 
With  too  much  humbleness.    Thou  hast  a  quaiTel, 
And  a  just  one,  with  thy  stars,  that  did  not  make 

thee 
A  princess,  Amidea ;  yet  thou'rt  greater, 
And  born  to  justify  unto  these  times, 
Venus,  the  Queen  of  Love,  was  but  thy  figure. 
And  all  her  graces  prophecies  of  thine, 
To  make  our  last  age  best.     I  could  dwell  ever 
Here,  and  imagine  I  am  in  a  temple, 
To  offer  on  this  altar  of  thy  lip, 

[Kisses  her  often. 
Myriads  of  flaming  kisses,  with  a  cloud 
Of  ...  1  sighs  breath'd  from  my  heart, 


'  0/  .  .  .  sighs  breath'' d  from  my  heart.  The  old  copy 
reads,  '  Of  sighs  breath'd,'  etc.  Something  had  pro- 
bably been  dropped  at  the  press,  as  the  sense  now 
seems  incomplete. — Giffoud. 


Which,  by  the  oblation,  would  increase  his  stock, 
To  make  my  pay  eternal. 
Ami.  What  mean  you  ? 

Duke.    That  question  is  propounded  timely; 
hadst  thou 
Not  interrupted  me,  I  should  have  lost 
Myself  upon  thy  lips,  and  quite  forgot 
There  is  a  bliss  beyond  it,  which  I  came  for. 
Let  others  satisfy  theniselvea  to  read 
The  wonders  in  thy  face,  make  proud  their  eye, 
By  seeing  thine,  tui-n  statues  at  thy  voice, 
And  think  they  never  fix  enough  to  hear  thee. 
A  man  half  dead  with  famine  would  wish  here 
To  feed  on  smiles,  of  which  the  least  hath  power 
To  call  an  anchorite  from  his  prayers,  tempt 

saints 
To  wish  their  bodies  on.     Thou  dost  with  ease 
Captivate  kings  with  every  beam,  and  mayst 
Lead  them  like  prisoners  round  about  the  world, 
Proud  of  such  golden  chains;  this  were  enough, 
Had  not  my  fate  provided  more,  to  make  me 
Believe  myself  immortal  in  thy  touches, 
I'll  laugh  at  all  the  fables  of  the  gods, 
And  teach  our  poets,  after  I  know  thee, 
To  write  the  true  Elysium. 

Ami.  Good,  my  lord, 
I  understand  you  not,  and  yet  I  fear 
You  do  not  mean  well ;  if  you  have  brought  with 

you 
A  sinful  purpose,  which  I  may  suspect — 

Duke.  Whj',  lady,  what  do  you  imagine  I 
Came  hither  for? 

Ami.  I  know  not. 

Duke.  How! 
1st  come  to  that  ?  your  brother  gave  yoti  more 
Desirous  of  the  sj^ort,  and  brought  me  hither, 
Rij)e  for  your  dalliance.   Did  you  not  expect  me  ? 

Ami.  Yes. 

Duke.  And  to  what  other  purpose  ? 

Ami.  To  tell  you  that  you  are  not  virtuous. 

Duke.  I'm  of  your  mind. 

Ami.  But  I  am  not  so  wicked 
To  be  of  yours.     Oh,  think  but  who  you  are: 
Your  title  speaks  you  nearest  heaven,  and  points 
You  out  a  glorious  reign  among  the  angels; 
Do  not  depose  yourself  of  one,  and  be 
Of  the  other  disinherited. 

Duke.  I  Avould 
Your  brother  heard  you ;  pr'ythee,  do  not  waste 
This  tedious  divinity,  I  am 
Eesolv'd  to  grapple  with  you. 

Ami.  Keej)  off.  [Shows  the  poniard. 

Duke.  Ha! 
Turn'd  Amazon? 

Ami.  Prince,  come  not  too  near  me, 
For,  by  my  honour,  since  you  have  lost  your 

own. 
Although  I  bow  in  duty  to  your  person, 
I  hate  your  black  thoughts ;  tempt  not  my  just 

hand 
With  violent  approach,  I  dare  and  will 
Do  that  will  grieve  you,  if  you  have  a  soul, 

Duke.  Thou  dar'st  not  kill  me. 

Ami.  True,  but  I  dare  die. 

Duke.  Be  thy  own  murderer? 

Ami.  Eather  than  you  should  be  my  ravisher. 

Duke.  Thou  canst  not  be  so  merciless,  'tis  less 
sin 
To  be  unchaste ;  I  am  thy  prince,  I  pr'ythee 
Throw  by  that  cruel  weapon,  let  our  war 
Be  soft  embraces,  shooting  amorous  smiles, 
Kill  and  restore  each  other  with  a  kiss, 
I  know  thou  canst  not  be  unkind  so  long : 
Then,  I  command  thee. 

Ami.  I  must  not  obey. 
To  be  your  strumpet :  though  my  hand  be  un- 
I  shall  soon  find  my  heart.  [skilful. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


517 


Duhe.  I'll  not  believe — 

Ami.  Let  this  deserve  your  faith  I  dare  be  just, 
\She,  wounds  her  arm. 
This  crimson  river  issuing  from  my  arm. 

Duke.  Hold! 

Ami.  Never ;  it  shall  flow,  and  if  this  channel 
Yield  not  enough,  I'll  strike  another  vein, 
And  after  that  another,  and  not  pity 
The  murmuring  stream,  till  through  a  prodigal 

wound 
I  have  drain'd  the  fountain  :  this  doth  weep  for 

you, 
And  shall  extol  my  death,  if  it  may  teach 
You  to  correct  your  blood. 

Duke.  There's  so  much  gone 
From  me,  I  cool  apace  ;  this  action 
Hath  shot  an  ague  through  me ;  Amidea, 
Pity  thyself. 

A7ni.  Not  till  you  swear  repentance  ; 
I  do  not  faint  yet,  'tis  somewhat  about. 
But  I  can  find  a  nearer  way ;  tliis  does  it. 

[Offering  to  strike  herselj  again. 

Duhe.  Contain ;    1  am  sorry,  sorry  from  my 
soul; 
Trust  me,  I  do  bleed  inward,  Amidea, 
Can  answer  all  thy  drops  :  oh,  pardon  me. 
Thou  faint'st  already,  dost  not  ?  1  am  fearful. 
The  phcenix,  with  her  wings,  when  she  is  dying. 
Can  fan  her  ashes  into  anotht- r  life ; 
But  when  thy  breath,  more  sweet  than  all  the 

spice 
That  helps  the  other's  funeral,  returns 
To  heaven,  the  world  must  be  eternal  loser. 
Look  to  thy  wound. 

Ami.  May  I  believe  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.  I  dare  not  thiuk  awry ;  again  I  ask 
Forgiveness ;  in  thy  innocence  I  see 
My  own  deformity. 

[SciARRiiA,  followed  by  Florio,  comes  hastily 
from  behind  the  hangings  and  embraces 
Amidea. 

Sci.  Now  a  thousand  blessings 
Eeward  thy  goodness  ;  thou  deserv'st  a  statue, 
A  tall  one,  which  should  reach  above  the  clouds, 
Jostle  the  moon,  that  people  afar  off 
Beholding  it,  may  be  invited  hither, 
la  hope  to  climb  to  heaven  by't ;  but  apply 
Betimes  unto  thy  wound. — Florio,  assist  her. 

[Florio  leads  off  A  jiidea. 
And  now,  mj'  lord — 

Duke.  Sciarrha,  I'll  begin  to  be  thy  lord ; 
I  brought  intentions  of  dishonour  to  thee, 
And  thy  fair  sister,  but  I  am  reconciled 
To  virtue,  and  will  study  how  to  satisfy 
For  you  and  Florence. 

Sci.  You  will  be  more  precious. 
Than  had  you  never  fallen ;  I  am  all  joy 
In  your  conversion. 

Duke.  .  .  .  ' 

Sci.  Lorenzo !    I   think  he   has   not  said  his 
prayers  yet, 
But— 

Duke.  What.' 

Sci.  I  cannot  tell,  maybe  he  does  not  use  it. 

Duke.  How? 

Sci.  My  lord,  you  now  are  lovely ; 
'Twere  better  you'd  forget  him;  he's  not  right 
At  heart,  I  fear. 

Duke.  Fear  nothing. 

Sci.  To  be  plain, 
You  cherish  your  disease  in  him,  and  are 
Not  safe  while  he  is  near  you. 


^  .  .  .  .]  Somewhat  has  probably  been  dropped  here ; 
as  Sciarrha  appears  to  reply  to  a  question  from  the  duke 
relating  to  Lorenzo. — Gifford. 


Ditke.  Do  not  envy  him.i 

Sci.  Then  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  he  is  a  traitor. 
Within    my    knowledge,    hath    conspir'd    your 
death. 

Duke.  With  whom .' 

Sci.  With  me;  I  should  have  kill'd  you,  sir, 
This  night,  and  every  minute  he  expects 
To  hear  j'ou  number'd  with  the  dead.     I  can 
Demonstrate  this  :  your  pardon,  but  in  truth. 
The  injuries  you  meant  us  were  severe. 
And  he  with  as  much  violence  did  urge  them 
To  your  destruction ;  but  your  piety 
Hath  charm'd  my  purpose,  and  I  look  upon  you 
With  new  obedience. 

Re-enter  Florid. 

Duke.  Impossible ! 

Sci.  We  will  not  shift  the  scene  till  you  be- 
lieve it. 
Florio,  entreat  my  Lord  Lorenzo  hither. 

[Exit  Flo. 
Step  but  behind  the  arras,  and  your  ear 
Shall  tell  you  who's  the  greatest  traitor  living. 
Observe  but  when  I  tell  him  you  are  slain. 
How  he'll  rejoice,  and  call  me  Florence's  great 
Preserver,  bless  my  arm,  that  in  your  blood 
Hath  given  our  groaning  state  a  liberty ; 
Then  trust  Sciarrha :  but  obscure,^  I  hear  him. 
[Duke  retires  behind  the  hangings. 


Enter  Lore>'Zo. 


{_Aside 


Lor.  Whom  talk'd  ho  to  ? 

Sci.  'Tis  done — 

Lor.  What,  good  Sciarrha? 

Sci.  The  duke  is  dead. 

Lor.  We  are  not  left  so  miserable ! 
Heav'n  is  more  kind  to  Florence. 

Sci.  With  this  hand 
I  made  a  passage  for  his  soul. 

Lor.  Defend, 
Omnipotence !  what !  murder'd  ?  and  by  noble 
Sciarrha?  how  my  ear  abuses  me! 

Sci.  Did  not  we  plot  it  too  ? 

Lor.  How  !  we  ?  collect, 
I  fear  you  are  not  well :  pray  tell  me  why 
You  talk  thus  ?  where 's  the  duke  ?    ho  hath  a 

guard, 
An  army  of  heaven  about  him ;  who  in  Florence 
Dares  be  so  black  a  devil  to  attempt 
His  death  ? 

Sci.  This  is  fine  cunning;  why,  what  devil  is 
Lorenzo,  if  he  dare  deny  it ;  we  are  in  private, 
You  need  appear  no  stranger  to  that's  done 
By  your  direction. 

Lor.  I  in  the  practice  ? 
Then  let  me  creep  into  the  earth,  and  raise 
A  monster  to  affright  mankind.     Sciarrha, 
I  must  abhor  thee  for  it.     Oh  my  prince  ! 
My  dearest  kinsman ! — may  thy  hand  rot  ofi ! — 
Treason,  treason ! 

Sci.  Then  my  sword  shall  fetch 
Another  witness  in  thy  heart. 

[As  they  draw,  the  duke  comes  hastily  forth 
and  interposes. 

Duke.  Hold! 

Lor.   Tush,  let  him  come, 
My  royal  lord ;  nay,  let  him  kill  me  now  : 
I've  so  much  joy  and  peace  about  me,  'twere 
A  sin  to  wish  my  life  beyond  this  minute. 


1  Do  not  envy  him— i.e.,  in  the  old  sense  of  the  word, 
do  not  bear  him  any  ill-will ;    do  not  injure  him.— 

GiFFORD. 

-  Out  obscure,  I  hear  him.]    The  old  copy  reads,  '  but 
observe,  I  hear  them.'— Gifford. 


SIS 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Duke.  Put  up,  I  say. 

Sci.  My  lord^  we  are  both  cozen'd : 
That  very  smile's  a  traitor. 

Duke.  Come,  be  cahn : 
Tou  are  too  passionate,  Scirrrha,  and 
Mistook  Lorenzo. 

Lor.  But  I  hold  him  noble : 
I  see  he  made  this  trial  of  my  faith, 
And  I  forgive  him. 

Duke.  You  shall  be  friends ;  you  shall,  I  say. 

Enter  hastily  Cosmo  and  Alonzo. 

Cos.  The  duke— 
Alan.  Where's  the  duke  ? 
Cos.  My  lord,  we  are  blest  to  see  you  safe ; 
report 
Hath  frighted  all  the  city  with  your  death: 
People  forsake  their  beds,  and  seeking  how 
To  be  inform'd,  increase  the  wretched  tumult. 
Alon.  There's  nothing  but  confusion ;  all  men 
tremble, 
As  if  some  general  fire  invaded  Florence. 
jScI.  Have  comfort,  sir. 
Duke.  What's  to  be  done  ? 
Lor.  Depazzi  has  remembered.  [Aside. 

My  lord,  there  is  no  safety  for  the  state, 
Unless  you  personally  appease  them. 
Duke.  How.' 

Lor.  I  hope  they'll  tear  him ;   would  he  were 
dead  any  way  !  [Aside. 

Alon.  He  hath  counsell'd  well. 
Cos.  Your  presence  only  hath  the  power    to 

charm  them. 
Duke.  I  fear  their  rage :  where  is  our  guard  ? 
Alonzo,  haste  afore,  proclaim  our  pardon, 
And  that  we  live  to  give  the  offenders  mercy. 
Why  are  we  born  to   greatness,   mock'd   with 

state, 
When  every  tumult  staggers  our  proiid  fate? 
iSci.  [Aside  to  Lor.'\ — Uur  quarrel  is  deferr'd, 
sir.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  ill  Lorenzo's  House. 

Enter  Lorenzo. 

Lor.  My  plots  thrive  not ;  my  engines '  all  de- 
ceive me. 
And  in  the  very  point  of  their  discharge 
Eecoil  with  danger  to  myself :  are  there 
No  faithful  villains  left  in  nature  ?  all 
Turn'd  honest  ?     Man  nor  spirit  aid  Lorenzo, 
Who  hath  not  patience  to  expect  his  fate, 
But  must  compel  it.     How  Sciarrha  play'd 
The  dog-bolt  2  with  me  !  and  had  not  I  provided 
In  wisdom  for  him,  that  distress  had  ruined  me. 
His  frozen  sister,  Amidea,  too. 
Hath  half  converted  him  ;  but  I  must  set 
New  wheels  in  motion,  to  make  him  yet 
More  hateful,  and  then  cut  him  from  his  stalk, 
Kipe  for  my  vengeance.     I'll  not  trust  the  rabble ; 
Confusion  on  ['em  !] — the  giddy  multitude. 
That,  but  two  minutes  ere  the  duke  came   at 

them, 
Bellow'd  out  Liberty,  shook  the  city  with 
Their  throats,  no  sooner  saw  him,  but  they  melted 
With  the  hot  apprehension  of  a  gallows  : 
And  when  a  pardon  was  proclaim'd  (a  fine 
State-snaffle  for  such  mules),  they  turn'd  their 

cry 
To  acclamations,  and  deaf'd  heaven  to  beg 

'  ejigines — tools  or  stratagems. 

*  do'j-lolt.    See  Lily's  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 


His  long  and  prosperous  reign.     A  sudden  rot 
Consume  this  base  herd  !  an  the  devil  want 
Any  cattle  for  his  own  teeth,  these  are  for  him. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Sciarrha,  my  lord,  desires  to  speak  with 

you. 
Lor.  Sciarrha!  come  near — [tvkis2)ers  him.'] — 

you- understand.'  admit  him.        [Exit  Serv. 

Enter  Sciarrha. 

Welcome,  my  noble  lord  ; 
You  were  not  wont  to  visit  me. 

Sci.  Nor  mean 
Ever  to  do't  again. 

Lor.  You  bring  frowns, 
I  can  be  sullen  too :  what  is  your  pleasure? 

Sci.  You  have  abused  me. 

Lor.  You  have  injured  me. 

Sci.  In  what  ? 

Lor.  Betrayed  me  basely  to  the  duke. 

Sci.  You  denied  then  you  were  a  traitor  ? 

Lor.  Yes, 
I  was  no  fool  to  run  my  neck  upon 
The  axe,  and  give  you  such  a  cause  of  triumph. 
Were  it  again  in  question — 

Sci.  You  are  a  villain,  sir. 
And  I 

Must  have  it  certified  under  your  own  hand, 
To  show  the  duke. 

Lor.  You  shall  be  humbled  to 
Confess  the  contrary,  nay,  subscribe 
That  I  am  honest,  and  desire  my  pardon. 
Look,  I  have  a  sword,  and  ann,  and  vigour ; 
Dare  fight  with  thee,  didst  ride  upon  a  whirlwind, 
Provoke  thee  on  a  rock,  in  waves,  in  fire. 
And  kill  thee  without  scruple  ;  such  a  strength 
Is  innocence. 

Sci.  Innocence!  dost  not  fear  a  thunderbolt  ? 
I  shall  be  charitable  to  the  world,  an  I 
Cut  thee  in  pieces ;  and  yet  then  I  fear 
Thou  wilt  come  together  again  :  the  devil  does 
Acknowledge  thee  on  earth  the  greater  mischief, 
And  has  a  fear,  when  thou  art  dead,  he  shall  not 
Be  safe  in  hell ;  thou  wilt  |Conspire  with  some 
Of  his  black  fiends,  and  get  his  kingdom  from 

him. 
Didst  not  thou  rail  upon  the  duke  ? 

Lor.  I  grant  it. 

Sci.  Call  him  a  tyrant  ? 

Lor.  More,  I  do  confess 
I  did  exasperate  you  to  kill  or  murder  him ; 
Give  it  what  name  you  please;  with  joy  I  brought 

him, 
Under  the  colour  of  your  guest,  to  be 
T  he  common  sacrifice  :  all  this  I  remember ; 
But  is  Heaven's  stock  of  mercy  spent  already. 
That  sins,  though  great  and  horrid,  may  not  be 
Forgiven,  to  the  heart  that  groans  with  peni- 
tence ? 
Are  the  etei*nal  fountains  quite  seal'd  up  ? 
I  was  a  villain,  traitor,  murderer. 
In  my.  consenting  to  his  death,  but  hope 
Those  stains  are  now  wash'd  off. 

Sci.  Hast  thou  repented  ? 

Lor.  Trust  me,  I  have. 

Sci.  The  devil  is  turn'd  religious! 
Augment  not  thy  damnation. 

Lor.  As  he  was 
A  lustful  duke,  a  tyrant,  I  had  lost  him. 
In  his  return  to  piety,  he  commanded 
My  prayers,  and  fresh  obedience  to  wait  on  him; 
He's  now  my  prince  again. 

Sci.  This  is  but  cunning 
To  save  your  life. 

Lor.  My  life ! — Within  there !    Ha !  welcome. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY 


519 


Enter  divers  Gentlemen  armed. 

1  Gent.  My  gracious  lord. 

2  Gent.  Wilt  please  your  honour 
Command  my  service  ? 

3  Gent.  Or  me  ? 

4  Gent.  Or  any  ? 

5  (7eHi.  Our  swords  and  lives  are  yours. 

Sci.  Perhaps  your  lordship  hath  some  business 
with 
These  gentlemen,  I'll  take  some  other  time. 

Lor.  By  no  means,  good  Sciarrha: 
You  visit  seldom ;  those  are  daily  with  me, 
Men  that  expect  employment,  that  wear  swords, 
And  carry  spirits,  both  to  be  engag'd, 
If  I  but  name  a  cause. — Gentlemen,  draw. 

Sci.  My  providence  has  betray'd  me.      [Aside. 

Lor.  Now,  Sciarrha, 
Tou  that  with  single  valour  dare  come  home 
To  affront  me  thus  ;   know,  but  too  late,  thy 

heart 
Is  at  the  mercy  of  my  breath:  these  swords 
Can  fetch  it  when  I  please  ;  and,  to  prevent 
Tour  boast  of  this  great  daring — I  beseech, 
As  you  do  love  and  honour  your  Lorenzo, 
No  hand  advance  a  weapon,  sheath  again, 
And  leave  us  ;  I  owe  service  to  your  loves, 
But  must  not  so  dishonour  you. 

All  Gent.  We  obey.  [Exeunt. 

iSci.  They're  gone  :  this  is  some  nobleness. 

[Aside. 

Lor.  Tou  see 
I  do  not  fear  your  sword  ;  alone,  I  have. 
Too  much  advantage  ;  yet  you  may  imagine 
How  easily  I  could  correct  this  rashness : 
But  in  my  fear  to  offend  gracious  Hekven 
With  a  new  crime,  having  so  late  obtain'd 
My  peace,  I  give  you  freedom. 

Sci.  Do  I  dream .' 

Lot:  Pray  chide  me  still,  I  will  be  patient 
To  hear  my  shame. 

Sci.  Is  this  to  be  believed  ? 
Doth  not  Lorenzo  counterfeit  this  virtue  ? 
He  does  :  it  is  impossible  he  should  rei:ient. 

Lor.  Why  ?  tell  me,  Sciarrha,  and  let  us  argue 
awhile 
In  cooler  blood ;  did  not  you  once  resolve 
To  kill  the  duke  too  ? 

Sci.  I  confess — 

Loi:  To  give  him  death  with  your  own  hand  .' 
Methinks  it  should  be  the  same  parricide 
In  you,  if  not  a  greater;  yet  you  chang'd 
Toiu-  purposes  ;  why  did. you  not  go  through, 
And  murder  him  ? 

Sci.  He  was  converted. 

Loj:  Good! 
That  taught  you  mercy,  and  perhaps  repentance 
For  your  intent. 

Sci.  It  did. 

Lor.  Why  should  not,  sir. 
The  same  conversion  of  the  duke  possess 
My  heart,  with  as  much  piety  to  him, 
And  sorrow  for  myself  ?     If  I  should  say 
Tou  are  but  cunning  in  this  shape  of  honesty, 
And  still  suspect  your  soul  to  be  a  traitor, 
Might  you  not  blame  my  want  of  charity  ? 

Sci.  He  says  but  right,  wo  are  both  men,  frail 
things.  [Aside. 

'Tisnot  impossible. 

Lor.  I  am  reconciled 
To  heaven  already,  and  the  duke :  if  you 
Be  still  unsatisfied,  I  am  ready,  sir — 

Sci.  The  cu-cumstance  consider'd,  I  incline 
To  think  this  may  be  honest. 

Lo7:  Come,  Sciarrha, 
We  are  both  hasty :  pardon  my  rash  language 
In  the  beginning,  I  will  study  service 


Shall  make  you  love  me ;    I    have  been   too 

wicked. 
Too  full  of  j)assion,  inexorable  : 
My  nature  is  con-ected  ;  at  this  minute 
I'm  friends  with  all  the  world,  but  in  your  love 
Shall  number  many  blessings. 
Sci.  I  am  converted. 

Enter  Petruchio. 

Lor.  [taJces  Pet.  aside.'] — What's  the  news? 

Pet.  My  lord  Depazzi  prays  some  conference 
In  the  next  chamber ;  we  arriv'd  by  chance 
Together  at  your  gate  :  I  do  not  like 
His  talk,  sir. 

Lor.  Hang  him,  property !  let  him 
Expect ;  thou  art  come  in  the  opportunit_ 
I  could  have  wish'd ;  be  wise,  and  second  me. 

[  Whispers  him. 

Sci.  He  waits  upon  Pisano, 
Whose  health  I  may  inquire;  I  have  not  seen 

him 
Since  he  departed  sick ;  a  fit  occasion. 

Lor.  [aloud.^  Married  to  Oriana?   thou  mis- 
tak^st, 
'Tis  Amidea,  Lord  Sciarrha's  sister. 

Pet.  That  contract's  broken,  and  the  old  lady 
!XIorosa  is  violent  to  have  the  marriage  finish'd 
with  her  daughter. 

Lor.  [coming  foriDard.l — Sciarrha, 
Is't  time  Pisano  marries  Oriana, 
The  rich  Morosa's  daughter .' 

Sci.  Ha! 

Lor.  We  did  expect  to  hear  your  sister  should 
Have  been  his  bride ;  has  he  forsaken  Amidea  ? 

Sci.  Do  not  you  serve  Pisano  ? 

Pet.  Tes,  my  lord. 

Sci.  And  dare  you  talk  he's  to  be  married 
To  Oriana? 

Pet.  If  they  live  till  to-morrow  : 
There's  great  provision,  to  my  knowledge,  and — 

Sci.  Take  that,   and  learn  to   speak  a  truth 
hereafter.  [Strikes  Mm. 

Lor.  That  blow  shall  cost  his  life. —       [Aside. 
It  is  not  possible  ho  dare  affront 
You  thus  ;  the  world  takes  notice  of  a  contract ; 
He's  much  to  blame  if  he  should  wrong  so  sweet 
A  lady  as  Amidea.    Now,  by  Hymen, 
'Tis  not  so  honoiu'able;  he  need  not  scorn. 
Such  an  aUiance. 

Pet.  I  am  not  to  give 
Account  for  my  lord's  actions,  let  him  answer 
And  justify  his  honour :  but,  my  lord, 
Since  I  am  provoked,  I  must  declare  he  has 
Call'd  back  his  vows  to  Amidea,  given 
Her  freedom,  and  does  mean  to  use  his  own, 
And  this  he  dares  publish. 

%or.  What!  disclaim'd 
A  lady  of  her  birth  and  glorious  merit  ? 

Sci.  Thou  art  a  villain. 

Lor.  My  lord,  he  is  not  worth  your  anger ;  he 
Declares  but  what  his  master  hath  committed, 
'Tis  none  of  his  fault. 

Pet.  It  becomes  my  duty 
To  take  correction,  my  lord,  from  you ; 
I  am  a  servant,  a  poor  gentleman. 

Sci.  Shall  I 
Suspect  the  circumstance  at  his  departure .' 

[Aside, 

Lor.  It  is  strange  you  knew  not  this  before. 

Sci.  I  must  examine  if  he  dares — 

Lor.  Be  patient. 

Sci.  Teach  fools  and  children  patirtice. 
May  dogs  eat  up  Sciarrha :  let  me  live 
The  prodigy  of  sorrow  ;  die  a  death 
That  may  draw  tears  from  Scythians,  if  Pisano 
Lead  o'er  his  threshold  any  soon-won  dame. 
To  be  my  sister's  shame  I  I  am  calm  now. 


520 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


One  [tluis]  false,  Heaven,  wby  should  thy  altars 

save  ? 
'Tis  just  that  Hvmen  light  him  to  his  grave. 

\Exlt. 
Lor.  A  thousand  Furies  swell  his  rage!    al- 
though 
risano  bleed,  this  is  the  safest  killing  ; 
Wise  men  secure  their  fates,  and  execute 
Invisibly,  like  that  most  subtle  flame 
That  burns  the  heart,  yet  leaves  no  part  or  touch 
Upon  the  skin  to  follow  or  suspect  it. — 
Farewell,  dull,  passionate  fool!    how  this  doth 

feed  me ! 
Kill,  and  be  lost  thyself ;  or,  if  his  sword 
Conclude  thy  life,  both  ways  I  am  reveng'd. 
Petruchio,  thou  didst  hit  my  instructions  rarely. 
And  I  applaud  thee :  now  send  in  Depazzi, 
And  visit  me  anon. 

Fet.  I  shall,  my  lord.  \_Exit. 

Lor.  Some  politician. 
That  is  not  wise  but  by  a  precedent, 
Would  think  me  weak  for  using  such  an  instru- 
ment 
As  this  Depazzi ;  but  I  know  by  proof, 
Such   men   whom  fear  and    honour  make   our 

creatures. 
Do  prove  safe  engines;  fools  will  still  obey. 
When  cunning  knaves  our  confidence  betray. 

Enter  Depazzi. 

Dep.  My  lord,  I  would  speak  a  word  or  two  in 
private. 

Lor.  You  may. 

Dep.  Is  nobody  within  hearing  ?  all  clear  be- 
hind the  arras  ? 

Lor.  Make  no  doubt,  sir. 

Dep.  My  lord,  the  truth  is — I  am  very  fear- 
ful—  is  your  lordship  sure  there  are  no  eves- 
droppers  ? 

Lor.  What  needs  this  circumstance?  I  pray 
come  to  the  point. 

Dep.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  your  lordship,  that 
you  have  been  my  very  good  lord,'  neither  am  I 
ignorant  that  I  am  your  hiimble  servant;  you 
advanced  me,  brought  me  into  the  number  of  the 
nobles,  and  I  brought  you  a  reasonable  number 
of  crowns:  I  am  not  the  first  wise  citizen  that 
hath  been  converted  into  a  foolish  courtier  ;  but, 
my  lord,  I  beseech  you  pardon  me  : — it  will  out. 

Lor.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Dep.  I  am  ready  to  burst. 

Lor.  With  what? 

Dep.  Ti-eason,  treason  ; — now  'tis  out,  and  I 
feel  my  body  the  lighter  for  it  already.  The  last 
plot  did  not  take,  5'ou  see  ;  and  I  would  humbly 
entreat  your  lordship  to  excuse  me,  and  get 
somf^body  else  hereafter  to  be  your  traitor,  in  my 
stead. 

Lor.  How,  sir? 

Dep.  If  you  did  but  know  the  tenderness  of  my 
constitution,  or  feel  the  pangs  and  convulsions 
that  I  suffer,  you  would  pity  me.  I  fall  away,  you 
see,  I  cannot  sleep  for  dreaming  of  an  axe  ;  I 
have  caus'd  my  hangings  of  Holofernes^  to  be 
taken  down  in  my  dining-room,  because  I  dare 
not  look  upon  a  head  that  is  cut  off  in  it,  some- 
thing of  my  complexion.  My  wisdom  tells  me  I 
am  a  fool  to  be  so  fearful ;  but  my  conscience 
tells  me  I  am  a  greater  fool  if  I  have  not  wit 
enough  in  my  pate  to  keep  my  head  on  my 
shoulders.    I  beseech  your  lordship  take  me  into 


'  you  have  been  my  very  good  lord — i.e.  my  patron.    The 
phrase  is  thus  used  hy  ali  the  writers  of  Shirley's  time. 

— GlFFORD. 

2  i.e.  hangings  of  tapestry  having  the  subject  of  Judith 
and  Holofernes  wrought  on  them. 


your  consideration.  I  am  but  a  mortal,  though  I 
be  a  lord ;  every  man  hath  not  the  like  gift  of 
impudence ;  I  have  a  weak  stomach,  and  treason 
is  physic  to  me,  and  although  I  do  not  vomit  up 
your  secrets,  they  may  out  some  other  way. 

Lor.  You  will  not  betray  me  ? 

Dep.  But,  alas !  in  such  a  case  I  may  soon 
bewray  myself,  and  then  your  lordship  may  be 
smelt  out.  To  pi-event,  therefore,  some  mischief 
that  may  happen,  I  desire  to  leave  off  while  I  am 
well;  and  that  your  lordship  may  know  I  mean 
plainly,  I  have  brought  you  all  your  letters  ;  I 
durst  not  trust  any  other  place  with  them,  for 
fear  of  state  rats ;  I  have  unript  my  bosom  to 
you,  and  there  they  are  to  a  title — now,  I  may 
safely  swear  [I]  have  no  hand  with  your  lord- 
ship. 

Lor.  This  is  very  strange. 

Dep.  Mistake  not,  my  good  lord,  I  am  still 
your  creature,  but  I  have  a  great  mind  to  be 
honest  a  little,  while  among  the  weaker  sort  of 
nobility :  yet  thus  much  persuade  yourself,  I  will 
never  wrong  your  loi'dship  in  a  syllable  ;  should 
you  tell  me  of  a  thousand  treasons  and  strata- 
gems, I  will  never  reveal  any;  I  scorn  that: 
but  your  lordship  must  pardon  me,  I  will  be  a 
traitor  no  longer,  that's  certain  ;  I  will  be  honest, 
and  the  rather  because  nobody  shall  hit  me  in 
the  teeth  after  I  am  dead,  and  say,  LooJc  where 
Depazzi  carries  his  head  very  high!  And,  my 
lord,  the  more  to  induce  your  lordship  to  dismiss 
me — Eogero  I 

Enter  Rogero. 

Rog.  My  lord. 

Dep.  Give  me  the  gold. — I  have  brought  fifteen 
hundred  crowns  more. 

Lor.  Wherefore  ? 

De]).  That  I  may  have  j'our  lordship's  good 
will,  to  leave  my  office,  before  it  be  taken  fro7n 
me,  and  preferr'd  to  a  worse ;  'tis  half  the  price 
I  paid  for't.  I  love  peace,  and  a  little  honesty  ; 
I  know  your  honour  will  find  an  abler  man  for 
it,  and  it  is  fit  I  should  pay  for  my  quietus. 

Lor.  And  what  do  you  resolve  ? 

Dep.  To  return  to  the  dunghill,  from  whence  I 
came ;  for  though  I  was  born  in  the  city,  I  have 
some  land  in  the  coimtry,  dirty  acres,  and  man- 
sion-house, where  I  will  be  the  miracle  of  a 
courtier,  and  keep  good  hospitality,  love  my 
neighbours  and  their  wives;  be  admired  amongst 
the  justices,  sleep  upon  every  bench,  keep  a  chap- 
lain in  my  own  house  to  be  my  idolater,  and 
furnish  me  with  jests ;  and  when  I  have  nothing 
else  to  do,  I  will  think  of  the  court,  and  how 
much  I  have  been  obliged  to  your  lordship.  My 
lord,  I  may  do  you  service  with  a  leading  voice 
in  the  country ;  the  kennel  will  cry  on  my  side 
if  it  come  to  election :  you  or  your  friend  shall 
carry  it  against  the  commonwealth. 

Lor.  Well,  sir,  since  you  have  express'd  your- 
self so  freely,  I  will  not  counsel  you  against  your 
disposition  to  stay  at  court ;  you  may  go  when 
and  whither  you  please;  and  though  at  parting 
I  have  nothing  worth  your  acceptation,  I  will 
bestow  these  crowns  upon  your  servant. 

[Gives  EoG.  the  money. 

Dep.  Thou  shalt  give  them  me  again. 

Rog.  Indeed,  my  lord,  /  love  a  Utile  honesty; 
'tis  his  lordship's  bounty ;  it  will  be  a  stock  to 
set  me  up  for  myself  at  court,  when  your  lord- 
ship is  retired  into  the  country. — I  humbly  thank 
your  lordship,  and  take  my  leave  of  yours. 

[Exit  with  the  money. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.  The  duke,  my  lord.  [Exit  Servant 

Dep.  How !  the  duke  ? 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


521 


Enter  the  Duke. 

Duke.  Signior  Depazzi. 

Lor    He  has  been  earnest  with  me,  an't  please 
your  higlmess, 
To  be  his  humble  suitor,  ho  may  have 
Freedom  to  leave  the  court. 

Duke.  He  shall  be  bauish'd. 

Dep.  How? 

L07:  AVhat  time  will  your  grace  allow  [him]  to 
provide  ? 

Duke.  Two  hours. 

Dep.  I  had  rather  lose  my  bead  at  home,  and 
save  charges  of  travel,  I  beseech  j'our  grace. 

Duke.  Well,  'tis  granted;  let  him  not  trouble  us. 

Lor.  Enjoy  the  country,  and  return  vchen  the 
duke  sends  for  you. 

Dep.  I  humbly  thank  his  highness^  and  will 
pray  for  your  increase  of  grace.  [Exit. 

Duke.  Lorenzo,  are  we  private  ? 

Lor.  Tes,  my  lord. 

Duke.  I  am  very  melancholy. 

Lor.  I  Icnow  the  cause,  'tis  Amidea. 

Duke.  Eight. 

Lor.  I  do  not  wish  her  dead. 

Duke.  It  were  a  sin. 

Lor.  Not  in  heaven,  sir ;   yet  there  be  ladies 
that  -would  think  it  a  promotion. 

Duke.  It  were  pity  she  would  leave  the  world, 
Till  she  hath  taughc  [the  rest]  by  her  example 
The  neai-est  way. 

Lor.  I  am  very  confident  she's  yet  honest. 

Duke.  Yet,  Lorenzo .' 

Lor.  Ay,  sir,  but  I'm  not  of  opinion 
It  is  impossible  to  know  a  change. 

Duke.  Take  heed. 

Lor.  I  must  confess  she  has  been  very  valiant, 
In  making  you  remove  your  siege,  and  show'd  a 
Pretty  dexterity  at  the  poniard  ; 
Let  herself  blood  ; '  but  this  a  mortal  virgin 
Might  do,  and  not  be  ador'd  for't :  other  women 
Have  gone  as  far,  or  else  false  legends  have 
Been  thrust  upon  the  easy  world  ;  some  say 
There  have  been  creatures  that  have  kill'd  them- 
selves, 
To  save  their  sullen  chastities  ;  but  I 
Have  no  strong  faith  that  way:    yet  you  were 

startled 
To  see  her  strike  her  arm,  and  grew  compas- 
sionate. 

Duke.  I  was  not  marble :  we  break  adamant 
With  blood,2  and  could  I  be  a  man,  and  not 
Be  mov'd  to  see  that  hasty  ebb  of  life 
For  my  sake  ? 

Lor.  I  have  read  some  aged  stories: 
What  think  you  of  Lucrece  ?  she  is  remember'd. 

Duke.  Chastity's  great  example. 

Lor.  How  the  world 
Was  cozen'd  in  her  !  she  knew  of  Tarquin  first. 
And  then  suspecting  she  should  never  meet 
Again  the  active  gentleman,  [and]  having 
Determined  of  his  death,  with  well  dissembled 
Sorrow  did  stab  herself,  in  hope  to  meet 
The  gamester  in  Elysium.     Amidea 
You  will  allow  beneath  this  Eoman  dame  ? 

Duke.  Lorenzo,  had  the  burning  ravisher 
Made  this  attempt  on  Amidea,  she 


^  Let  herself  Wood.    The  old  copy  reads,  ^  See  herself 

bleed.'     The  allusion  is  to  the  wound  which  Amidea 

,  Rave  herself  in  her  bed-chamber.     The  text  was  evi. 

dently  inconect ;  whether  it  be  now  improved  must  be 

left  to  the  reader. — Giffokd. 

ice  break  adamant 

With  blood. — Tliis  is  a  very  ancient  notion ;  it  is  mentioned 
by  Greene,  and  Lyly,  and  many  more  of  our  old  writers, 
who  had  it  from  I'lniy,  Solinus,  <fcc — Giffokd. 


Would  have  compell'd  his  penitence,  to  quench 
His  fire  with  holj'  tears.     1  had  a  body 
Eefined  to  air,  or  I  was  borne  up  by 
A   thousand   wings  :   methought   I   could  have 

flown 
And  kiss'd  the  cheek  of  Cynthia,  thence  with 

ease 
Have  leap'd  to  Venus'  star ;  but  I  was  wounded, 
And  the  gay  feathers,  in  whose  pride  I  had 
My  confidence,  serv'd  now  but  witli  their  weight 
To  hasten  me  to  earth. 

Lor.  Ascend  again. 
And  fix  in  your  lov'd  orb;  he  brings  this  comfort 
That  can  assure  it,  if  you  have  not  lost 
A  heart  to  entertain  with  love  and  pleasure 
The  beauteous  Amidea. 

Duke.  Ha ! 

Lor.  You  shall  enjoy  her. 

Duke.  Enjoy  fair  Amidea  ?  do  not  tempt. 
Or  rather  mock  my  frailty  with  such  promise. 

Lor.  Shake  off  your  melancholy  slumber,  I 
Have  here  decreed  j-ou  shall  possess  her :  she 
Be  sent  submissive  to  your  arms,  and  you 
Be  gracious  to  accept  what  she  made  coy  of. 

l)uke.  Is  this  in  nature  "i 

Lor.  Thus :  Sciarrha's  life 
And  fortunes  are  already  growing  forfeit, 
These  brains  have  plotted  so :  your  mercy  shall 
Purchase  what  you  can  wish  for  in  his  sister; 
And  he  acknowledge  rifling  of  her  honour 
A  fair  and  cheap  redemption. 

Duke.  Do  this ; 
And  I'll  repent  the  folly  of  my  penitence, 
And  take  thee  to  my  soul,  a  nearer  pledge. 
Than  blood  or  nature  gave  me  :  I'm  renew'd, 
I  feel  my  natural  warmth  return.     When,  where 
Is  this  to  be  expected  ?     I  grow  old. 
While  our  embraces  are  deferr'd. 

Lor.  I  go 
To  hasten  your  delight ;  prepare  your  blood 
For  amorous  game  :  Sciarrha's  fate  is  cast 
Firmer  than  destiny. 

Duke.  Thou  art  my  prophet, 
I'll  raise  thee  up  an  altar. 

Lor.  Trust  these  brains. 

Duke.  Thou  makest  my  spirit  caper  in  my  veins. 

[  Exeunt. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  IL 

A  Street. 

Cosmo  and  two  Gentlemen  appear  at  an  iqiper 
window. 

1  Gent.  This  way  they  pass. 
Cos.  I  would  not  see  them. 

2  Gent.  Why .' 

1  Gent.  What !  melancholy  o'  the  sudden  ?  it 
is  now 

Past  cure. 

Cos.  I  know  it  is,  and  therefore  do  not 
Desire  to  witness  their  solemnity. 
Should  Oriana  see  me  to-day — 

2  Gent.  What  then  ? 
Cos.  The  object, 

I  fear,  would  be  too  prodigious. 

2  Gent.  We  dispute  not 
Those  nice  formalities. 

Enter  Alonzo,  Pisano,  Geiana,  and  Mokosa. 

1  Gent.  She  has  spied  you  already. 
Cos.  I'm  sorry  for't. 

[Oriana  faints.     Cosmo  and  Gentlemen 
retire. 
Mar.  How  is't,  my  child  ? 


522 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Pis.  My  clearest  Oriana ; — 
She  faints !  what  grief  is  so  unmannerly 
To  interrupt  thee  now  ?  Oriana ! 

Mor.  Daughter! 

Pis.  Will  Heaven  divorce  us  ere  the  priest  have 
made 
Our  marriage  perfect  ?  we  in  vain  hereafter 
Shall  hear  him  teach,  that  our  religion  binds 
To  have  the  church's  ceremony.     She  returns. 

Ori.  Why  were  you  so  unkind  to  call  me  from 
A  pleasing  slumber  ?"  Death  has  a  iine  dwelling. 

Alon.  This  shows  her  heart's  not  yet  consent- 
ing; 'tis 
Her  mother's  fierce  command. 

Oi'i.  Something  spake  to  me  from  that  window. 

Pis.  There  is  nothing. 

On'.  Nothing  now. 

Pis.  Set  forward. 

Alon.  I  do  not  like  this  interruption ;  it 
Is  ominous. 

Enter  Amidea  hastily. 

Ami.  Not  for  my  sake,  but  for  your  own,  go 
back, 
Or  take  some  other  way,  this  leads  to  death ; 
My  brother — 

Pis.  What  of  him  ? 

Ami.  Transported  with 
The  fury  of  revenge  for  my  dishonour, 
As  he  conceives,  for  'tis  against  my  will. 
Hath  vow'd  to  kill  you  in  your  nuptial  glory. 
Alas !  I  fear  his  haste  ;  now,  good  my  lord, 
Have  mercy  on  yourself ;  I  do  not  beg 
Your  pity  upon  me,  I  know  too  well 
You  cannot  love  me  now,  nor  would  I  rob 
This  virgin  of  your  faith,  since  you  have  pleas'd 
To  throw  me  from  your  love :  I  do  not  ask 
One  smile,  nor  one  poor  kiss ;  enrich  this  maid, 
Created  for  those  blessings  ;  hvA,  again 
I  would  beseech  you,  cherish  your  own  life, 
Though  I  be  lost  for  ever. 

Alon.  It  is  worth 
Your  care,  my  lord,  if  there  be  any  danger. 

Pis.  Alas !  her  grief  hath  made  her  wild,  poor 
lady. 
I  should  not  love  Oriana  to  go  back ; 
Set  forward. — Amidea,  you  may  live 
To  be  a  happier  bride :  Sciarrha  is  not 
So  irreligious  to  profane  these  rites. 

Ami.  Will  you  not  then  believe  me  ? — Pray 
persuade  him, 
You  are  his  friends. — Lady,  it  will  concern 
You  most  of  all,  indeed  ;  I  fear  you'll  weep 
To  see  Lim  dead,  as  well  as  I. 
,    Pis.  No  more ; 
Go  forward. 

Ami.  I  have  done ;  pray  be  not  angry, 
That  still  I  wish  you  well :  may  Heaven  divert 
All  harms  that  threaten  you;  full  blessings  crown 
Your  marriage !  I  hope  there  is  no  sin  in  this ; 
Indeed  I  cannot  choose  but  pray  for  you. 
This  might  have  been  my  wedding-day — 

Ori.  Good  Heaven, 
I  would  it  were !  my  heart  can  tell,  I  take 
No  joy  in  being  his  bride,  none  in  your  pi'aj'crs; 
You  shall  have  my  consent  to  have  him  still ; 
I  will  resign  my  place,  and  wait  on  you, 
If  you  will  marry  him. 

Ami.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me  ; 
But  if  you  do,  I  can  forgive  you  too. 

Ori.  Dear  Amidea,  do  not  think  I  mock 
Your  sorrow  ;  by  these  tears,  that  are  not  worn 
By  every  virgin  on  her  wedding-day, 
I  am  compell'd  to  give  away  myself: 
You  •  hearts  were  promis'd,   but   he  ne'er  had 

ii;ine. 
Am  not  I  wretched  too  ? 


Ami.  Alas,  poor  maid ! 
We  two  keep  sorrow  alive  then ;  but  I  pr'ythee, 
When  thou  art  married,  love  him,  pr'ythee  love 

him. 
For  he  esteems  thee  well ;  and  once  a  day 
Give  him  a  kiss  for  me ;  but  do  not  tell  him, 
'Twas  my  desire  :  perhaps  'twill  fetch  a  sigh  ' 
From  him,  and  I  had  rather  break  my  heart. 
But  one  word  more,  and  Heaven  be  with  you 

all.-  ^ 

Since  you  have  led  the  way,  I  hope,  my  lord, 
That  1  am  free  to  marry  too  ? 

Pis.  Thou  art. 

Ami.  Let  me  beseech  you  then,  to  be  so  kind, 
After  your  own  solemnities  are  done. 
To  grace  my  wedding;  I  shall  be  married  shortly. 

Pis.  To  whom  ? 

Ami.  To  one  whom  you  have  all  heard  talk  of, 
Your  fathers  knew  him  well:    one,  who  will 

never 
Give  cause  I  should  suspect  him  to  forsake  me ; 
A  constant  lover,  one  whose  lips,  though  cold. 
Distil  chaste  kisses  :  though  our  bridal  bed 
Be  not  adorn 'd  with  roses,  'twill  be  green  ; 
We  shall  have  virgin  laurel,  cypress,  yew. 
To  make  us  garlands  ;  though  no  pine  do  burn, 
Our  nuptial  shall  have  torches,  and  our  chamber 
Shall  be  cut  out  of  marble,  where  we'll  sleep. 
Free  from  all  care  for  ever:  Death,  my  lord, 
I  hope,  shall  be  mj  husband.     Now,  farewell ; 
Although  no  kiss,  accept  my  parting  tear. 
And  give  me  leave  to  wear  my  willow  here. 

[_ExU. 

Enter  Sciakrha,  followed  at  a  distance  iy 
Lorenzo,  with  a  Guard. 

Alon.  Sciarrha!  then  I  prophesy — 

Sci.  Pisauo !  where's  Pisano  ? 

Pis.  Here,  Sciarrha. 
I  should  have  answered  with  less  clamour. 

Sci.  But 
I  would  not  lose  my  voice  ;  I  must  be  heard. 
And  [it]  does  concern  you.    I  profess  no  auguiy, 
I  have  not  quarter'd  out  the  heavens,  to  take 
The  flight  of  birds,  nor  by  inspection 
Of  entrails  made  a  divination  ; 
But  I  must  teU  you,  'tis  not  safe  to  marry. 

Pis.  Why? 

Sci.  'Twill  be  fatal ;  Hymen  is  gone  abroad. 
And  Venus,  lady  of  your  nativity. 
Is  found,  by  wise  astrologers,  this  day, 
I'  the  House  of  Death. 

Pis.  This  must  not  fright  me,  sir. — Set  forward, 

Sci.  One  cold  word, — you  are  a  villain ! 
I  do  not  flatter. 

Pis.  I  am  patient : 
This  day  I  consecrate  to  love,  not  anger ; 
We'll  meet  some  other  time. 

Sci.  Deride  my  fury  ? 
Then  to  thy  heart  I  send  my  own  revenge, 

[Stabs  him. 
And  Amidea's. 

Pis.  I  am  murdered. 

3Ior.  Help !  murder !  gentlemen !  oh,  my  un- 
happiness ! 

[Lorenzo  and  Guard  come  forward. 

Pis.  Bloody  Sciarrha ! 

[Dies.     They  offer  to  seize  Sciae. 

Lor.  Hold! 

Sci.  Come  all  at  once  ; 
Yet  let  me  tell  you,  my  revenge  is  perfect, 
And  I  would  spare  your  blood,  if  you  despise 

[not] 
My  charity — 

Lor.  No  man  attempt  his  death ; 
I'll  give  you  reasons :  this  fell  deed  deserves 
An  exemplary  justice 


JAMES  SHIRLEY 


5:^3 


Sci.  I  am  above 
Your  politic  reach,  and  glory  in  the  wound 
That  punish'd  our  dishonour.     Is  he  dead  ? 
I  would  not  be  so  miserable,  not  to  have  sped 

him, 
For  the  empii'e. 

Enter  Cosmo. 

Cos.  Oh,  my  friend!  poor  Oriana! 

Lor.  \to  the  Guard.'] — Disarm  him : 

Eeturn  and  comfort  one  another ;  some 

Eemove  Pisano's  body,  while  I  make  it 

My  care  Sciarrha  'scape  not. 

\_Exeunt,  learing  the  hody  o/Pisano,  all  hut 
Lorenzo,  Sciarrha,  and  Guard. 
Sci.  None  of  all 
Give  me  a  scratch  ? 
Lor.  [to  Guard.l — You  have  forced  him  with 

discretion. 
Sci.  Now  what  must  I  expect  ? 
Lor.  You  are  my  prisoner. 
Scii  I  am  so. 

Lor.  And  be  confident  to  find 
That  favour — 
Sci.  Favour! 

Lor.  Be  at  distance,  more. — [The  Guard  retire. 
My  lord,  I  am  sorry  for  your  great  misfortune, 
And  if  you  can  but  study  how  I  may 
Assist  you,  you  shall  soon  discern  my  love, 
My  readiness  to  serve  you. 
Sci.  Ha  !  this  honest  ? 
Lor.  I  would  deserve  your  faith, 
A  friend  but  in  aifliction  justifies 
His  heart  and  honour,  I  durst  run  some  hazard, 
Might  I  secure  your  fate ;  name  something  to  me 
That  may  declare  my  friendship. 

Sci.  Be  still  safe, 
And  teach  the  world  repentance  for  mistaking 

thee; 
I  pity  not  myself,  but  envy  thy 
Heroic  honours. 

Lor.  I  will  impose  no  more 
Kestraint,  than  your  own  house ;  you're  honour- 
able : 
You  have  many  severe  enemies  ;  the  duke 
Look'd  graciously  upon  Pisano,  but — 

Sci.  You  shall  not  lose  the  smallest  beam  of 
favour, 
To  buy  a  man  so  desperate.     I  never 
Thought  death  the  monster  that  weak  men  have 

fancied. 
As  foil  to  make  us  more  in  love  with  life. 
The  devil's  picture  may  affright  poor  souls 
Into  their  bjclies'  paleness,  but  the  substance 
To  resolute  man's  a  shadow; '  and  cold  sweat 
Dare  not  approach  his  forehead.     I  am  arm'd 
To  die,  and  give  example  of  that  fortitude 
Shall  shame  the  law's  severity :  my  sister 
May  now  give  back  Pisano  his  false  vows. 
To  line  his  coffin ;  one  tear  shed  on  me  is 
Enough,  the  justice  I  have  done  shall  make 
My  memory  belov'd. 

Lor.  I  have  thought  a  way 
To  recover  you,  if  you  incline  to  it ; 
Dare  you  consent  ? 

Sci.  To  anything  that's  noble  ; 
Although  I  never  fear'd  to  suffer,  I 
Am  not  so  foolish  to  despise  a  life. 

Lor.  There  is  no  diificulty  attends  it;  listen. 
The  time  will  not  permit  much  circumstance  : 
The  duke,  you  know,  did  love  your  sister. 
Sci.  Viciously. 


»  To  rtsolute  man's  a  shadoiv.    The  old  copy  rends — 
'  but  the  substance 
Too  resolute:  man's  a  shadow.' — Gifford. 


Lor.  Her  virtue    did   but    cool    him   for  the 
present. 
As  sprinklings  on  a  flame ;  he's  now  more  pas- 
sionate 
To  enjoy  her. 
Sci.  Ha! 

Lor.  If  she  consent  to  meet 
His  soft  embrace,  with  his  first  kiss  he  seals 
Y^our  pardon ;  then  the  act  upon  Pisano 
Appears  a  true  revenge,  when  none  dares  ques- 
tion it. 
Beside  addition  of  state  and  fortune. 
To  you  and  Amidea,  weigh  your  danger, 
And  what  a  trifle  she  gives  up  to  save 
Y'our  life,  that  never  can  be  valued, 
Less  recompens'd  ;  the  duke  maj'  be  so  taken 
With  her  return  to  his  delight,  who  knows 
But  he  may  marry  her,  and  discharge  his  duchess 
With  a  quaint  salad' — you  do  apprehend  me? 
Sci.  And  repent  more  I  had  one  good  thought 
of  thee, 
Than  I  had  kill'd  a  thousand  : — save  my  life. 
And  prostitute  my  sister !     Though  I  have 
No  weapon,  I  will  look  thee  dead,  or  breathe 
A  damp  shall  stifle  thee :  that  I  could  vomit 
Consuming  flames,  or  stones,  like  iEtna !  make 
The  earth  with  motion  of  my  feet  shrink  lower, 
And  take  thee  in  alive  !     Oh  that  my  voice 
Could  call  a  serpent  from  corrupted  Nile, 
To  make  thee  part  of  her  accursed  bowels! 
Is  this  [your]  noble  friendship  .■'     Readiness 
To  save  my  life  ?     Let  malice  read  all  stories 
Famous  for  cruelty,  awake  dead  tyrants. 
Or  be  instructed  by  their  ghosts  with  tortures. 
Such  as  will  make  a  damned  Fury  weep 
Only  to  see  inflicted,  I  would  bear  them. 
And  weary  my  tormentors,  ere  consent 
In  thought  to  thy  temptation. 

Lor.  I  have  done. 
And  praise  your  heathen  resolution 
Of  death ;  go  practise  immortality, 
And  tell  us,  when  you  can  get  leave  to  visit 
This  world  again,  what  fine  things  you  enjoy 
In  hell,  for  thither  these  rash  passions  drive  thee  : 
And  ere  thy  body  hath  three  days  inhabited 
A  melancholy  chamber  in  the  earth. 
Hung  round  about  with  skulls  and  dead  men's 

bones, 
Ere  Amidea  have  told  all  her  tears 
Upon  thy  marble,  or  the  epitaph 
Belie  thy  soul,  by  saying  it  is  fled 
To  heaven,  this  sister  shall  be  ravished, 
Maugre  thy  dust  and  heraldry. 

Sci.  Ha!  ravish'd 
When  I  am  dead?     Was't  not  so?     Oh  my 

soul ! 
I  feel  it  weep  within  me,  and  the  tears 
Soften  my  flesh.    Lorenzo,  I  repent 
My  fury. 

Lor.  I  advis'd  you  the  best  way 
My  wisdom  could  direct. 
Sci.  I  thank  you  for't. 
You  Have  awak'd  my  reason,  I  am  asham'd 
I  was  no  sooner  sensible ;  does  the  duke 
Affect  my  sister  still,  say  you  ? 
Lor.  Most  passionately. 
Sci.  She  shall  obey  him  then,  upon  my  life ; 
That's  it,  my  life.     I  know  she  loves  me  dearly. 
I  shall  have  much  ado  to  win  her  to't. 
But  she  shall  come  ;  I'll  send  her. 
Lor.  Perform  this. 

Sci.  I  will  not  only  send  her,  but  prepar'd 
Not  to  be  disobedient  to  his  highness ; 
He  shall  command  her  anything. 


1  salad.    Salads  were  dressed  with  poisonous  oils. 


524 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Lor.  Do  this, 
And  be  for  ever  happy.    "When  these  have 
Only  for  form  but  waited  on  you  home, 
This  disengages  them. 

Sci.  Mj'  humblest  service 
To  the  duke  I  pray,  and  tell  him,  Amidea 
This  night  shall  be  at  his  dispose,  by  this.i 

Lor.  I'm  confident ;  farewell ! — Attend  Sciarrha. 

[Exit. 

Sci.  Pity  the  seaman,  that  to  avoid  a  shelf. 
Must  strike  upon  a  rock  to  save  himself. 

[Exit,  with  Guard. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

A  Eoom  in  Sciaerha's  Home. 

Enter  Sciaruha  and  Amidea. 

Sci.  The  doors  are  fast ; 
Enough  is  wept  already  for  Pisano  : 
There's  something  else  that  must  be  thought  on, 

and 
Of  greater  consequence  :  I  am  yet  unsafe, 
That,  for  thy  sake,  am  guilty  of  his  blood. 

Ami.  Though  all  my  stock  of  tears  were  spent 
already 
Upon  Pisauo's  loss,  and  that  my  brain 
Were  bankrupt  of  moisture,  and  denied 
To  lend  my  grief  one  drop  more  for  his  funeral ; 
Yet  the  remembrance  that  you  have  made 
A  forfeit  of  your  dear  life 
Is  able  to  create  a  weeping  spring 
Within  my  barren  head  :  oh,  my  lost  brother, 
Thou  hast  a  cruel  destiny  !  my  eyes. 
In  pity  of  thy  fate,  desire  to  drown  thee. 
The  law  will  only  seek  thee  upon  land  ; 
Hid  in  my  tears,  thou  shalt  prevent  the  stroke 
Kills  both  our  name  and  thee. 

Sci.  I  know  thou  lov'st  me, 
Poor  girl.     I  shall  desire  to  chei'ish  life. 
If  thou  lament  me  thus  :  so  rich  a  comfort 
Will  tempt  me  wish  I  might  delay  my  journey 
To  heaven. 

Ami.  Good  heaven,  that  we  might  go  together ! 

Sci.  That  must  not  be. 

Ami.  Then  let  me  go  before. 

Sci.  How.' 

Ami.  Make  my  suit  unto  the  prince,  my  blood 
May  be  your  ransom  ;  let  me  die,  Sciarrha, 
My  life  is  fruitless  unto  all  the  world ; 
The  duke  in  justice  will  not  deny  this  : 
And  though  I  weep  in  telling  thee,  I  shall 
Smile  on  the  scaffold. 

Sci.  How  my  honour  blushes 
To  hear  thee,  Amidea  !  in  this  love 
Thou  woundst  me  more,  than  thou  desir'st  to 

save. 
Suffer  for  me  ?     Why,  thou  art  innocent : 
I  have  provok'd  the  punishment,  and  dare 
Obey  it  manly  ;  if  thou  couldst  redeem  me 
With  anything  but  death,  I  think  I  should 
Consent  to  live,  but  I'd  not  have  thee  venture 
All  at  one  chance. 

Ami.  Nothing  can  be  too  precious 
To  save  a  brother,  such  a  loving  brother 
As  you  have  been. 

Sci.  Death's  a  devouring  gamester, 
And  sweeps  up  all.     What  thinkst  thou  of  an 

ej'e .' 
Couldst  thou  spare  one,  and  think  the  blemish 
recompens'd, 


1  this — that  is,  as  I  conceivq,  by  some  token,  prolDably 
a  ring,  or  signet,  which  he  puts  into  Lorenzo's  hand. 


To  see  me  safe  with  t'other  ?     Or  a  hand  .' 

This  white  hand,  [Amidea,]  that  hath  so  often, 

With  admiration,  trembled  on  the  lute. 

Till  we  have  pray'd  thee  leave  the  strings  awhile, 

And  laid  our  ears  close  to  thy  ivory  fingers. 

Suspecting  all  the  hai-mony  proceeded 

From  their  own  motion,  without  the  need 

Of  any  dull  or  passive  instrument. 

No,  Amidea.,  thou  shalt  not  bear  one  scar 

To  buy  my  life  ;  the  sickle  shall  not  touch 

A  flower  that  grows  so  fair  upon  his  stalk 

Thy  t'other  hand  will  miss  a  white  companion, 

And  wither  on  thy  arm.     What  then  can  I 

Expect  from  thee  to  save  me  ?     I  would  live. 

And  owe  my  life  to  thee,  so  'twere  not  bought 

Too  dear. 

Ami.  Do  you  believe  I  should  not  find 
The  way  to  heaven  ?  were  both  mine  eyes  thy 

ransom, 
I  shall  climb  up  those  high  and  rugged  cliffs 
Without  a  hand. 

Sci.  One  way  there  is,  if  thou 
Dost  love  [me]  with  that  tenderness. 

Ami.  Pronounce  it. 
And  let  no  danger  that  attends,  incline  you 
To  make  a  pause. 

Sci.  The  duke,  thou  knowst,  did  love  thee. 

Ami.  Ha ! 

Sci.  Nay,  do  not  start  already,  nor  mistake  me ; 
I  do  not,  as  before,  make  trial  of  thee. 
Whether  thou  canst,  laying  aside  thy  honour, 
Meet  his  lascivious  arms  ;  but,  by  this  virtue, 
I  must  beseech  thee  to  forego  it  all, 
And  turn  a  sinful  v/oman. 

Ami.  Bless  me ! 

Sci.  I  know  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  contain 
not 
Kiches  enough  to  tempt  thee  to  a  fall 
That  will  so  much  vmdo  thee ;  but  I  am 
Thy  brother,  dying  brother:  if  thou  lov'st 
Him,  therefore,  that  for  thee  hath  done  so  much, 
Dy'd  his  pale  hands  in  blood  to  revenge  thee. 
And  in  that  murder  wounded  his  own  soul 
Almost  to  death,  consent  to  lose  thy  innocence  ; 
I  know  it  makes  thee  grieve,  but  I  shall  live 
To  love  thee  better  for  it :  we'll  repent 
Together  for  our  sins,  and  pray  and  weep 
Till  Heaven  hath  pardon'd  all. 

Ami.  Oh,  never,  never. 

Sci.  Do  but  repeat  thy  words,  to  save  my  life. 
And  that  will  teach  compassion,  my  life  ; 
Our  shame,  the  stain  of  all  our  family. 
Which  will  succeed  in  my  ignoble  death, 
Thou  washest  off. 

Ami.  But  stain  myself  for  ever. 

Sci.  Where  ?     In  thy  face,  who  shall  behold 
one  blemish, 
Or  one  spot  more  in  thy  whole  fi-ame  ?     Thy 

beauty 
Will  be  the  very  same,  thy  speech,  thy  person 
Wear  no  deformity. 

Avii.  Oh,  do  not  speak 
So  like  a  rebel  to  all  modesty. 
To  all  religion  ;  if  these  arguments 
Spring  from  your  jealousy  that  I  am  fallen, 
After  a  proof  you  did  so  late  applaud— 

Sci.  I  had  not  kill'd  Pisano  then  ;  I  am  now 
More  spotted  than  the  marble.     Then  my  head 
Did  owe  no  forfeiture  to  law. 
It  does  ache  now  ;  then  I  but  tried  thy  virtue, 
Now  my  condition  calls  for  mercy  to  thee, 
Though  to  thyself  thou  appear  cruel  for't : 
Come,  we  may  live  both,  if  you  please. 

Ami.  I  must  never 
Buy  my  poor  breath  at  such  a  rate.     Who  has 
Made  you  afraid  to  die  ?     I  pity  you, 
And  wish  myself  in  any  noble  cause 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


5^5 


Your  leader.     Wlien  our  souls  shall  leave  this 

dwelling, 
The  glory  of  one  fair  and  virtuous  action 
Is  above  all  the  scutcheons  on  our  tomb, 
Or  silken  banners  over  us. 

Set.  So  valiant ! 
I  -will  not  interpose  another  syllable 
To  entreat  your  pity ;   say  your  prayers,   and 

then 
Thou'rt  ripe  to  be  translated  from  the  earth, 
To  make  a  cherubin. 

Ami.  What  means  my  brother  ? 
Sci.  To  kill  you. 

Ami.  Do  not  fright  me,  good  Sciarrha. 
Sci.  And  I  allow  three  minutes  for  devotion. 
Ami.  Will  you  murder  me  ? 
Sci.  Do  you  tremble  ? 
Ami.  Not  at  the  terror  of  j'our  sword. 
But  at  the  horror  will  affright  thy  soul 
For  this  black  deed.     I  see  Pisano's  blood 
Is  texted '  in  thy  forehead,  and  thy  hands 
Eetain  too  many  crimson  spots  already ; 
Make  not  thyself,  by  murthering  of  thy  sister, 
All  a  red  letter. 

Sci.  You  shall  be  the  martyr.* 
Ami.  Yet  stay ;  is  there  no  remedy  but  death, 
And  from  your  hand  ?     Then  keep  your  word, 

and  let  me 
Use  one  short  prayer.  \Kncth. 

Sci.  I  shall  relent.  [Aside. 

Ami.  Forgive  me.  Heaven,  and  witness  I  have 
still 
My  virgin  thoughts  ;  'tis  not  to  save  my  life. 
But  his  eternal  one. — 
Sciarrha,  give  me  leave  to  veil  my  face, 

[^Rises. 
I  dare  not  look  upon  you,  and  pronounce 
1  am  too  much  a  sister;  live  ;  hereafter, 
I  know,  you  will  condemn  my  frailty  for  it. 
1  will  obey  the  duke. 

Sci.  Darest  thou  consent  ?  [Stabs  her. 

Ami.  [unveiling.] — Oh,  let  me  see  the  wound ; 
'Tis  well,  if  any  other  hand  had  done  it : 
Some  angel  tell  my  brother  now,  I  did 
But  seem  consenting. 
Sci.  Ha  !  but  seem  ? 
Ami.  You  may  believe  my  last  breath. 
Sci.  Why  didst  say  so  ? 

Ami.  To  gain  some  time,  in  hope  you  might 
call  in 
Your  bloody  purpose,  and  prevent  the  guilt 
Of  being  my  mm-derer  ;  but  Heaven  forgive  thee. 
,  .Set.  Again,  again,  forgive  me,  Amidea, 
And  pray  for  me  ;  live  but  a  little  longer, 
To  hear  me  speak  ;  my  passion  hath  betray'd 
Thee  to    this  wound,    for  which  I   know  not 

whether 
I  should  rejoice  or  weep,  since  thou  art  virtuous. 
The  duke,  whose  soul  is  black  again,  expects 

thee 
To  be    his   whore : — Good  Death,    be    not    so 

hasty. — 
The  agent  for  his  lust,  Lorenzo,  has 
My  oath  to  send  thee  to  his  bed :  for  otherwise, 
In  my  denial,  hell  and  they  decree. 
When  I  am  dead,  to  ravish  thee — mark  that, 
To  ravish  thee  ! — and  I  confess,  in  tears 
As  full  of  sorrow,  as  thy  soul  of  innocence, 
In  my  religious  care  to  have  thee  spotless. 


1  texted — written. 

*  Make  not  thyself,  by  murthering  of  thy  sister, 
All  a  red  letter. 

Sci.  You  shall  be  the  martyr. 

The  allusions  here  are  to  the  custom,  still  obser\'ed,  of 
printing  the  names  of  the  martyrs  in  the  Roman  Calendar 
in  red  letters. — GiFf  oed. 


I  did  resolve,  when  I  had  found  thee  ripe. 
And  nearest  heaven,  with  all  thy  best  desires, 
To  send  thee  to  thy  peace :  thy  feign'd  consent 
Hath  brought  thy  happiness  more  early  to  thee. 
And  saved  some  guilt ;  forgive  me  altogether. 
Ami.  With  the  same  heart  I  beg  Heaven  for 
myself ; 
Farewell.  [SicooJis. 

Sci.  Thou  shalt  not  die  yet.    Amidea !  sister! — • 
[Knocking  within. 
I  cannot  come : — 
But  one  word  more.    Oh,  which  way  went  thy 

soul .' 
Or  is  it  gone  so  far  it  cannot  hear  me  ? — 

Flokio  hrealcs  open  the  door  and  enters. 

Look,  hei-e's  our  sister !  so,  so  ;  chafe  her  : 
She  may  return ;  there  is  some  motion. 
Flo.  Sister! 

Sci.  Speak  aloud,  Florio  ;  if  her  spirit  bo  not 
Departed,  I  will  seal  this  passage  up ; 
I  feel  her  breath  again. — Here's  Florio  would 
Fain  take  his  leave. — So,  so,  she  comes ! 

Flo.  Amidea, 
How  came  this  wound  ? 

A7ni.  1  drew  the  weapon  to  it : 
Heaven  knows,  my  brother  lov'd  me.     Now,  I 

hope, 
The  duke  will  not  pursue  me  with  new  flames. 
Sciarrha,  tell  the  rest.     Love  one  another 
The  time  you  live  together;  I'll  pray  for  you 
In  heaven.     Farewell !  kiss  me  when  I  am  dead, 
You  else  will  stay  my  journey.  [Dies. 

Sci.  Didst  not  hear 
An  angel  call  her  ?     Florio,  I  have  much 
To  tell  thee.     Take  her  up  ;  stay,  I  will  talk 
A  little  more  with  her ;  she  is  not  dead, 
Let  her  alone  ; — nay  then,  she's  gone  indeed. 
iJut  hereabouts  her  soul  must  hover  still. 
Let's  speak  to  that.     Fair  spirit — 
Flo.  You  talk  idly. 

Sci.  Do  you  talk  wisely  then.     An  excellent 
pattern. 
As  she  now  stands,  for  her  own  alabaster  ; ' 
Or  may  she  not  be  kept  from  putrefaction. 
And  be  the  very  figure  on.  her  tomb  ? 
Cannot  thy  tears  and  mine  preserve  her,  Florio  ? 
If  we  want  brine,  a  thousand  virgins  shall 
Weep  every  day  upon  her,  and  themselves. 
In  winter,  leaning  round  about  her  monument. 
Being  moist  creatures,  stiffen  with  the  cold. 
And  freeze  into  so  many  white  supporters. 
But  we  lose  time.— I  charge  thee,  by  thy  love 
To  this  iDale  relic,  be  instructed  by  me. 
Not  to  thy  danger  ;  some  revenge  must  be,  ■ 
And  I  am  lost  already  ;  if  thou  fall. 
Who  shall  survive,  to  give  us  funeral  ? 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  v.— SCENE  IL 

A  Room  in  Lorenzo's  House. 

Enter  Lorenzo  and  Fetkuchio. 

Lor.  Petruchio. 

Pet.  My  lord. 

Lor.  Thou  art  now  my  servant. 

Pet.  I  ever  was  in  heart  your  humblest  vassal. 

Lor.  Thou  art  faithful,    1  must  cherish  thy 
desert ; 
I  shortly  shall  reward  it,  very  shortly: 
Next  morning  must  salute  me  duke ;  the  sun 
And  I  must  rise  together. 

1  own  alabaster — i.e.  as  he  explains  himself,  for  her 
own  statue,  sculptured,  as  was  the  custom,  in  white 
marble,  and  placed  recumbent  on  tlie  tomb. — Giffokd. 


526 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Pet.  I  shall  pray 
Tour  glory  may  outshine  hira  in  your  Florence, 
And  when  he  sets,  we  may  enjoy  your  sunbeam. 

Lor.  'Tis  handsome  flattery,   and  becomes  a 
courtier. 

Fet.  I  flatter  not,  my  lord. 

Lor.  Then,  thou  art  a  fool : 
No  music  to  a  great  man  chimes  so  sweetly, 
And  men  must  thrive ;  come  hither, 
How  many  hast  thou  kill'd  ? 

Pet.  But  one,  my  lord. 

Lor.  But  one ! 

Pet.  And  I  must  owe 
My  life  to  your  lordship,   I  had  been  hang'd 
else. 

Lor.  But  one  ?    Wait  at  the  door.    \_Exit  Pet.] 
— He  is 
Not  fit  to  kill  a  duke,  whose  hand  is  guilty 
But  of  a  single  murder ;  or  at  least 
Not  fit  alone  to  act  it.     I  have  been 
Practis'd  already,  and  though  no  man  see  it. 
Nor  scarce  the  eye  of  Heaven,  yet  every  day 
I  kill  a  prince. — Appear,  thou  tragic  witness, 

{Brings  forth  the  duke^s  picture,  a  poniard 
sticking  in  it. 
Which,   though  it  bleed  not,   I    may  boast    a 

murder. 
Here  first  the  duke  was  painted  to  the  life, 
But  with  this  pencil,  to  the  death :  I  love 
My  brain  for  the  invention,  and  thus 
Confirm'd,  dare  trust  my  resolution. 
I  did  suspect  his  youth  and  beauty  might 
Win  some  compassion  when  I  came  to  kill  him ; 
Or  the  remembrance  that  he  is  my  kinsman. 
Might  thrill  my  blood ;  or  something  in  his  title 
Might  give  my  hand  repulse,  and  startle  nature  : 
But  thus  I  have  arm'd  myself  against  all  pitj-, 
That  when  I  come  to  sti-ike,  my  poniard  may 
Through  all  his  charms  as  confidently  wound 

him. 
As  thus  I  stab  his  picture,  and  stare  on  it. 

[_Stabs  the  incture. 
Methinks  the  duke  should  feel  me  now :  is  not 
His  soul  acquainted  ?  can  he  less  than  tremble, 
When  I  lift  up  my  arm  to  wound  his  counter- 
feit ?  1 
Witches  can  persecute  the  lives  of  whom 
They  hate,  when   they  torment  their  sensele'ss 

figures, 
And  stick  the  waxen  model  full  of  pins. 
Can  any  stroke  of  mine  carry  less  spell 
To  wound  his  heart,  sent  with  as  great  a  malice  ? 
He  smiles,  he  smiles  upon  me  !  I  will  dig 
Thy  wanton  eyes  out,  and  supply  the  dark 
And  hollow  cells  with  two  pitch-burning  tapers ; 
Then  place  thee  porter  in  some  charnel-house, 
To  light  the  coffins  in. — 

Re-enter  Petruchio. 
Pet.  My  lord. 

Lor.  The  duke's  not  come  already? 
Pet.  Signior  Florio 
Desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Lor.  This  must  retire 
Again  into  my  closet.     [Puts  lack  the  picture.']— 
Admit  him. 

Enter  Florio. 

Welcome!  how  does  Sciarrha ? 

Flo.  He  commends 
His  service  to  your  lordship,  and  hath  sent— 

Lor.  His  sister  ? 

Flo.  Much  ado  he  had  to  effect  it : 
He  hopes  his  grace  will  quickly  sign  his  pardon. 


1  counterfiit— portrait. 


Lor.  It  shall  be  done. 

Flo.  I  have  a  suit,  my  lord. 

Lor.  To  me  ? 

Flo.  My  sister  would  entreat  your  honour, 
She  may  be  admitted  privately,  and  that 
I  may  have  privilege  to  prepare  her  chamber: 
She  does  retain  some  modesty,  and  would  not 
Trust  every  servant  with  her  shame ;  their  eyes 
Are  apt  to  instruct  their  tongues. 

Lor.  I  will  not  see  her  myself. 
Command  what  you  desire. 

Flo.  You  are  gracious. 

Lor.  I'll  give  directions  instantly :  poor  lady. 
This  is  the  duke's  hot  blood ;  but  Heaven  convert 

him! 
Follow  me,  good  Florio. 

Flo.  I  attend,  my  lord. 

Lor.  Things  shall  be  carried  honourably. 

Flo.  We  are  all  bound  to  you.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III. 
Another  Room  in  the  Same. 

Recorders.     The  Body  of  Amide  A  discovered  on  a 
bed,  prepared  by  two  Gentlewomen. 

1  Gent.  This  is  a  sad  employment. 

2  Gent.  The  last  we  e'er  shall  do  my  lady. 

Enter  Floki6. 

Flo.  So  ;  now  you  may  return  :  it  will  become 
Your  modest  duties  not  to  enquire  the  reason 
Of  this  strange  service,  nor  to  publish  what 
You  have  been  commanded. 

[Exeunt  Gentlewomen. 

— Let  me  look  upon 
My  sister  now ;  still  she  retains  her  beauty. 
Death    has    been    kind    to    leave  her  all  this 

sweetness. 
Thus  in  a  morning  have  I  oft  saluted 
My  sister  in  her  chamber,  sate  upon 
Her  bed,  and  talk'd  of  many  harmless  passages ; 
But  now,  'tis  night,  and  a  long  night  with  her, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  these  curtains  drawn  again, 
Until  we  meet  in  heaven. — The  duke  already  ! 

Enter  Duke  and  Lorenzo. 

Duke.  May  I  believe  ? 

Lor.  Trust  me,  my  lord,  hereafter. 

Duke.  Call   me   no  more  thy  lord,    but  thy 
companion  ; 
I  will  not  wear  that  honour  in  my  title. 
Shall  not  be  thine. — Who's  that  ? 

Lor.  Her  brother  Florio. 

Duke.  She  is  abed. 

Flo.  This  shall  declare  thee  to  posterity 
The  best  of  sisters. — What  of  that  ?  and  is  not 
A  brother's  life  more  precious  than  a  trifle  ? 
I  pi-'ythee  do  not  sigh :  how  many  ladies 
Would  be  ambitious  of  thy  place  to-night. 
And  thank  his  highness  ?  yes,  and  virgins  too. 

Duke.  He  pleads  for  me. 

Lor.   He  will  deserve  some  office  'bout  your 
person. 

Duke.  With  what  words 
Shall  I  express  my  joy  ? 

Lor.  I  leave  you,  sir,  to  action  ;  Florio 
Is  soon  dismiss'd.  [Exit. 

Flo.  He's  come :  good  night — 

Duke.  Florio! 

Flo.  [Coming  foi-ward.'] — Your  slave. 

Duke.  My  friend! 
Thou  shalt  be  near  our  bosom. 

Flo.  Pleasures  crown 
Your  expectation !  [Exit. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


527 


Diike.    All  perfect;  till  this  minute,  I  could 

never 
Boast  I  was  happy :  all  this  -world  has  not 
A  blessing  to  exchange :  this  world  !  'tis  heaven  ; 
And  thus  I  take  possession  of  my  saint : 

\Goes  up  to  the  bed. 
Asleep  already  ?  'twere  great  pity  to 
Disturb  her  dream ;  yet  if  her  soul  be  not 
Tired  with  the  body's  weight,  it  must  convey 
Into  her  slumbers  I  wait  here,  and  thus 
Seal    my    devotion.      ^Kisses.']  —  What  winter 

dwells 
Upon  this  lip !  'twas  no  warm  kiss  ;  I'll  try 
Again.    [A'tsses.] — The  snow  is  not  so  cold ;   I 

have 
Drunk  ice,  and  feel  a  numbness  spread  through 

[all] 
My  blood  at  once. — Ha !   let  me  examine 
A  little   better:    Amidea!    she   is   dead,   she  is 

dead! 
What  horror  doth  invade  me  ? — Help,  Lorenzo ! 
Murder !  where  is  Lorenzo .' 

Re-enter  Lorenzo  with  Petruchio. 

Lor.  Here,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Some  traitor's  hid  within  the  chamber ; 
see. 
My  Amidea's  dead ! 

Lor.  Dead !  'tis  impossible ; 

[Goes  up  to  the  bed. 
Yet,  she  has  a  wound  upon  her  breast. 
Duke.  1  pr'ythee  kill  me : — 

[Thetf  stab  him. 
Ha !  wilt  thou  murder  me,  Lorenzo  ? — Villain ! — 

[To  Pet. 
Oh,  spare  me  to  consider ;  I  would  live 
A  little  longer :  treason  ! 

Lor.  A  little  longer,  say  you  ? 
It  was  my  duty  to  obey  you,  sir. 
Pet.  Let's  make  him  sure,  my  lord. 
Lor.   What  would  you  say? — No  ears  but 
ours 
Can  reach  his  voice ; — but  be  not  tedious. 
Duke.  Oh,  spare  me ;  I  may  live,  and  pardon 
thee : 
Thy  prince  begs  mercy  from  thee,  that  did  never 
Deny  thee  anything ;  pity  my  poor  soul ; 
I  have  not  pray'd. 

Lor.  1  could  have  wish'd  you  better 
Prepar'd,  but  let  your  soul  e'en  take  his  chance. 
\_Stabs  him  again. 
Duke.  No  tears  prevail !  oh,  whither  must  [I] 
wander  ? 
Thus  Cffisar  fell  by  Brutus.     I  shall  tell 
News  to  the  world  I  go  to,  will  not  be 
Believ'd,  Lorenzo  killed  me. 

L01:  Will  it  not  ? 
I'n  presently  put  in  security. 

[Stabs  him  again. 
Duke.  I  am  coming,  Amidea,  I  am  coming. — ■ 
For  thee,  inhuman  murderer,  expect 
My  blood  shall  fly  to  heaven,  and  there  inflam'd, 
Hang  a  prodigious  meteor  all  thy  life. 
And  when  by  some  as  bloody  hand  as  thine 
Thy  soul  is  ebbing  forth,  it  shall  descend 
In  flaming  di'ops  upon  thee ;  oh,  I  faint ! — 
Thou    flattering    world,    farewell!     let  princes 

gather 
My  dust  into  a  glass,  and  learn  to  spend 
Their  hour  of  state,  that's  all  they  have;   for 

when 
That's  out.  Time  never  turns  the  glass  again. 

[Dies. 
Lor.  So! 
Lay  him  beside  his  mistress  ;  hide  their  faces. 
The  duke  dismiss'd  the  train  came  with  him  ? 
Pet.  He  did,  my  lord. 


Lor.    Eun  to   Sciarrha,   pray  him  come  and 
speak  with  me ; 
Secure  his  passage  to  this  chamber:  haste  ! — 

[Exit  Pet. 
He's  dead;   I'll  trust  Mm  now,  and  his  ghost 

too; 
Fools  start  at  shadows,  I'm  in  love  with  night 
And  her  complexion. 

Re-enter  Petruchio. 

Pet.    My  lord,  he's  come  without  your  sum- 
mons. 
Lor.  Already  ?  leave  us.  [Exit  Pet. 

Enter  Sciarrha  and  Florio. 

Welcome,  let  embraces 

Chain  us  together. — Noble  Florio,  welcome : — 

But  I  must  honour  thy  great  soul. 

Sci.  Where's  the  duke .' 

Lor.  They  are  abed  together. 

Sci.  Ha! 

Lor.  He's  not  stirring  yet : 
Thou  kill'dst  thy  sister,  didst  not? 

Sci.  I  preserv'd  her. 

Lor.  So  !  it  was  bravely  done. 

Sci.  But  Where's  the  wanton  duke  ? 

Lor.  Asleep,  I  tell  you. 

Sci.  And  he  shall  sleep  eternally. 

Lor.  You  cannot  wake  him ;  look  you. 

[Leads  Sciar.  up  to  the  bed. 

Sci.  Is  he  dead  ? 

Lor.  And  in  his  death  we  two  begin  our  life 
Of  greatness,  and  of  empire ;  nay,  he's  dead. 

Sci.  That  labour's  saved. 

Lor.  Now  I  pronounce,  Sciarrha, 
Thy  pardon,  and  to  recompense  thy  loss. 
The  share  of  Florence ;  I'll  but  wear  the  title. 
The  power  we'll  divide. 

Sci.  I  hke  this  well : 
You  told  a  tale  once  of  a  commonwealth. 
And  liberty. 

Lor.  It  was  to  gain  a  faction 
With  discontented  persons,  a  fine  trick 
To  make  a  buz  of  reformation, 
ily  ends  are  compass'd ;  hang  the  ribble  rabble ! 

Sci.  Shall  we  sweat  for  the  people?  lose  our 
To  get  their  fame  ?  [breath 

Lor.  I'll  have  it  given  out 
The  duke  did  kill  thy  sister — 

Sci.  Excellent! 

Loi\    Having  first  ravish'd    her:    he   cannot 
be 
Too  hateful ;  it  will  dull  the  examination 
Of  his  own  death;    or,  if  that  come  to  ques- 
tion— 

Sci.  What  if  I  say,  I  kill'd  him  in  revenge 
Of  Amidea  ?  they  wiU  pity  me  ; 
Beside,  it  will  be  in  your  power  to  pardon 
Me  altogether. 

Lor.  Most  discreetly  thought  on. 

Sci.  The  devil  will  not  leave  us  o'  the  sudden. 

Loi:  Kare  wit!  — 
How  hastily  he  climbs  the  precipice, 
From  which  one  fillip  topples  him  to  ruin. 

[Aside. 
We  two  shall  live  like  brothers. 

Sci.  Stay;  we  two? — 
Now  I  consider  better,  I  have  no  mind 
To  live  at  all— and  you  shall  not — • 
I'll  give  you  proof ;  if  you  but  make  a  noise. 
You  gallop  to  the  devil. 

Lor.  I'm  betray 'd. 

Sci.  To  death  inevitable. — Brother,  be  you 
Spectator  only. 

Lor.  This  is  somewhat  noble. 

Sci.  Thank  me  not,  Lorenzo;  I  will  not  en- 


^28 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


His  innocence  to  blood. — Thy  hands  are  white, 
Preserve  them,  Florio,  and  unless  my  arm 
Grow  feeble,  do  not  interpose  thy  sword, 
I  charge  thee. 
Lor.   None   to   assist  me  ?   help,    Petruchio ! 
help! 

\Tlmj  fight. 

Enter  Petruchio,  and  offers  to  run  at  Sciarrha, 
hut  is  intercepted  bij  Flokio.  He  runs  out, 
crying  Help!    Flokio  makes  fast  the  door. 

Stretcli    thy    jaws    wider,    villain!     cry    out 

Murder ! 
Treason  !  anything ;  hold — oh ! 
Sd.  "Will  you  not  fall,  Colossus  ? 

[LoK.yJi/Zs,  and  dies. 
Flo.  Are  not  you  hurt  ? 

Sci.  I  know  not.    Ha .'  yes,  he  has  prick'd  me 
somewhere, 
But  I'll  make  sure  of  him  [stabs  Mm  again.'] — 

Now  must  I  follow  : 
I'll   fight  with   him  iu   the  t'other  world — thy 

hand, 
Florio ;  farewell.  [Dies. 

Flo.  He's  dead  too  ?  'tis  in  vain  for  me  to  fiy. 
[Within.']  Break  ope  the  doors! 
Flo.  You  shall  not  need.  [Opens  the  door. 

Re-enter  Petruchio,  with  Cosmo,  Ai,onzo, 
Frederico,  and  Guard. 

Alon.  Disarm  him. 
Cos.  Lorenzo  and  Sciarrha  slain  ? 
Alon.  Where  is  the  duke? 
Pet.  Look  here,  my  lords. 


Alon.  What  traitor.' 

Fred.  Sec,  Araidea  murder'd  too. 

Cos.  I  tremble  ;  here  is  a  heap  of  tragedies. 

Alon.  We  must  have  an  account  from  Florio. 

Flo.  He  can  inform  you  best,  that  brought  you 
hither. 

Alon.    Lay    hands    upon    Petruchio !    disarm 
him! 

Cos.  What  blood  is  that  upon  his  sword?  'tis 
fresh. 

Pet.  I'm  caught. 

Cos.  To  tortures  with  him. 

Pet.  Spare  your  fury ;  know 
'Twas  the  best  blood  in  Florence  :  I  must  quit 
Young  Florio;  Lorenzo,  and  myself. 
Are  only  guilty  of  the  prince's  death. 

Alon.  Inhuman  traitors  ! 

Cos.  But  who  kill'd  Amidea? 

Flo.  The  duke's  lust: 
There  was  no  other  way  to  save  her  honour; 
My  brother  has  reveug'd  it  here,  but  fate 
Denied  him  triumph. 

Alon.  I  never  heard 
Such  killing  stories ;  but  'tis  meet  we  first 
Settle  the  state. — Cosmo,  you  are  the  next 
Of  blood  to  challenge  Florence. 

Cos.  Pray  defer 
That  till  the  morning.     Drag  that  murderer 
To  prison. — Florio  you  must  not  expect 
Your  liberty,  till  all  things  be  examin'd. — 
Lorenzo,  now  I  am  above  thy  malice, 
And  will  make  satisfaction  to  Oriana. — 
'Tis  a  sad  night,  my  lords  ;  by  these  you  see 
There  is  no  stay  in  proud  mortality. 

[Exeunt. 


THE    BROTHERS: 

A  COMEDY. 
AS  IT  WAS  ACTED  AT  THE  PRIVATE  HOUSE  IN  BLACKFRIARS. 

BY   JAMES   SHIRLEY. 

London.     1626. 


TO   Ills   TRULY   KOBLE   FRIEXD 


THOMAS    STANLEY,     ESQUIRE. 


Sir, — The  memory  and  contemplation  of  good 
offices  received,  which  by  their  own  nature  and 
impulsion  have  inclined  other  men  to  be  active 
in  their  returns,  have  not  Avrought  me  into  so 
much  boldness ;  for  when  I  considered  my  obliga- 
tion  to  your  favours,  I  was  still  deterred  by  their 
greatness  and  number ;  for  in  my  poverty,  I  had 
thoughts,  not  without  ambition,  to  reach  them  with 
some  merit;  but  when  I  was  studj'ing  to  propor- 
tion my  gratitude,  I  fell  much  lower  than  when 
I  was  the  object  of  your  mercy.  The  way  to  re- 
lieve myself,  is  no  more  to  look  at  what  you 
have  conferred,  but  on  tlie  bestower,  for  I  have 
now  learned  to  separate  you  from  your  benefits, 
and  to  convey  myself  into  your  pardon,  by  the 
exercise  of  your  charity.     Thus,  in  place  of  can- 


celling my  former  debts,  I  put  your  virtue  to  a 
new  disbui'sement.  Witness  this  composition, 
which,  after  its  birth,  had  in  my  thoughts  a 
dedication  to  your  name,  although  it  but  now 
took  the  boldness  to  wear  it  in  the  forehead, 
both  as  an  oi-nameut  and  preserver.  You  were 
pleased  to  grace  it  with  your  fair  opinion,  when 
it  was  represented  ;  and  though  it  appear  not  in 
that  natural  dress  of  the  scene,  nor  so  powerful 
as  when  it  had  the  soul  of  action,  yet  your  smile 
upon  it  now  will  give  it  second  animation,  by 
which  I  shall  derive,  after  so  long  a  silence,  a 
confirmation  of  my  happiness,  in  being  still  re- 
ceived, 

Su-,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

James  Shirley. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


529 


^ramalis  |5^rs0ni5. 


Don  Carlos. 

LuYS.  his  Son. 

Don  Eamvres, 

Fernando,).^  jj 

Francisco,  ( 

Don  Pedro,  a  Nobleman. 

Alberto,  a  Gentleman,  lover  o/'Jacinta. 

Theodoro,  Brother  to  Don  Carlos. 

Physician. 


Notary. 

Confessor. 

Servants. 

Alsimika,  Wife  to  Don  Carlos. 
Jacinta,  Daughter  to  Don  Carlos. 
Felisarda,  Theodoro's  Dauyhter, 
EsTEFANiA,  a  noble  Widow. 


Scene — Madrid. 


PROLOGUE. 


Troth,  gentlemen,  I  know  not  what  to  say, 
Now  I  am  here  ;  but  you  shall  have  a  play : — 
I  hope  there  are  none  met  but  friends  ;  if  you 
Be  pleas'd  to  hear  me  first,  I'll  tell  j'ou  true, 
I  do  not  like  the  Prologue,  'tis  not  smart, 

Not  airy  ;  then  the  play's  not  worth  a 

What  witty  Prologues  have  we  heard !  how  keen 
Upon  the  time,  how  tickling  o'  the  spleen ! 
But  that  wit's  gone,  and  we,  in  these  sad  days. 
In  coarse  dull  phlegm,  must  preface  to  our  plays. 
I'll  show  you  what  our  author  meant  should  be 
His  Prologue, —  '  Gentlemen,' — he  shall  pardon 

me, 
I  dare  not  speak  a  line,  not  that  you  need 
To  fear  a  satire  in't,  or  wit,  indeed. 


He  would  have  you  believe  no  language  good 
And  artful,  but  what's  clearly  understood  ; 
And  then  he  robs  you  of  much  mirth,  that  lies 
r  the  wonder  why  you  laugh  at  comedies. 
j  He  says  the  times  are  dangerous  ;  who  knows, 
I  What  treason  may  be  wrapt  in  giant  prose, 
I  Or  swelling  verse  at  least  to  sense  .'     Nay,  then. 
Have  at  you,  Master  Poet ! — Gentlemen, 
Though  he  pretend  fair,  I  dissemble  not, 
:  You're  all  betray'd  here  to  a  Spanish  plot ; 
i  But  do  not  you  seem  fearful,  as  j'ou  were 
'  Shooting  the  bridge :  let  no  man  shift  or  stir, 

I'll  fetch  you  off,  and  two  hours  hence  you  may 
'  (If  not  before)  laugh  at  the  plot  and  play. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

A  Boom  in  Don  Carlos'  House. 

Enter  Francisco,  Jacinta,  and  Felisarda. 

Fran.  I  take  my  leave,   Jacinta,   and  cannot 
wish  you 
ilore  happiness  than  you  possess. 

Jac.  You  must 
Dissemble,  or  it  is  within  your  wishes 
To  make  yourself,  Francisco,  mine,  which  would 
A  fair  addition  to  me,  in  my  faith  [be 

Of  that  most  noble  love  you  have  profess'd. 

Fran.  When  you  but  dare  to  own  me,  I  am 
past 
The  fear  of  any  destiny  that  can 
Divide  us — but  your  father. — 

Enter  Don  Carlos  a7id  a  Servant. 

Your  own  virtue 
Be  still  your  guard.     I  do  not  like  this  watch 
Upon  our  meeting. — Pretty  Felisarda.     [^Exeunt. 
Car.  Tell  Siguier   Francisco   I   would   speak 
with  him.  \^Exit  Servant. 

I  do  not  like  his  frequent  visits  ;  though 
His  birth  and  generous  parts  deserve  to  march 
With  men  of  honourable  name,  I  am 
Without  ambition  to  sacrifice 
My  daughter  to  his  pension  for  life. 

Re-enter  Francisco. 

Fran.  Your  pleasure,  sir .' 

Car.  Hath  hitherto,  Francisco, 
Been  to  affect  ^  you  in  the  list  of  those 
I  held  my  friends. 


1  o^ec<— suppose. 


Fran.  I  hope  no  forfeit  made 
By  me,  hath  lost  that  good  opinion 
You  placed  upon  me. 

Car.  I  cannot  tell 
How  you  may  be  transported  with  desires 
Above  my  thoughts  t'  allow ;  I  would  not  have 
My  silence,  and  the  free  access  you've  had  to 
My  house  (which  still  is  open  to  wise  guests), 
Betray  me,  or  my  daughter,  to  the  mirth. 
And  talk  of  men  i'  the  pla9a.i     My  estate 
Doth  walk  upon  sound  feet,  and  though  I  make 
No  exception  to  your  blood  or  person,  sir, 
The  portion  I  have  fixed  upon  Jacinta, 
Beside  the  wealth  her  liberal  aunt  bequeath'd  her, 
Is  more  than  your  thin  younger  brother's  fortune 
Should  lay  a  siege,  or  hope  to.     I  am  plain. 
Fran.  And  something  passionate  (if  I  under- 
stand you) 
Without  a  cause.     I  am  a  gentleman. 
With  as  much  sense  of  honour  as  the  proudest 
Don  that  doth  ride  on's  foot-cloth,  and  can  drop 
Gold  to  the  numerous  minutes  of  his  age  ; 
And  let  me  not  be  lost  for  want  of  that 
Deserves  not  to  be  nam'd  to  fill  the  balance 
Against  true  honour : — let  me  tell  you,  sir. 
Virtue   and  blood  are   weigTi'd   against   them- 
selves ; 
You  cannot  know  the  price  of  these,  when  either 
Scale  is   not  pois'd   with  things  of   the    same 
nature. 
Car.   You're  very  right,  and,  therefore,  I  dc 
weigh 
Jly  daughter's  wealth  against  your  fortune,  sir  ; 
I  take  it  they  are  things  in  the  same  species : 


'  pla^a — i.e.  the  square,  the  public  walk. 


2  L 


530 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS, 


And  find  it  easy  to  distinguish ;  yours 
Can  hold  small  competition,  and  by 
A  consequence  that  fathers  use  t'  infer, 
As  little  hope  to  equal  in  affections. 
Sir,  I  must  tell  you,  I  esteem  Jacinta 
Fit  every  way  to  meet  your  elder  brother, 
Whose  birth  will  interest  him  so  much  in  that 
Full  fortune  which  your  father  now  is  lord  of  ; 
Tour  expectations  may  prompt  you  look, 
Without  much  cm-iosity,  for  a  bride. 

Fran.    I  shall  believe  thy  soul    is  made  of 
atoms ; 
That  places  so  much  happiness  in  dust. — 

\Aside,. 
Sir,  I  can  quit"  your  jealousy;  my  thoughts 
Level  beneath  your  daughter,  and  shall  be 
Happy  if  you  consent  I  may  devote 
My  applications  to  Felisarda, 
Your  niece. 

Car.  Is  it  my  niece  ?  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Nay,  then,  be  welcome  ;  and  t'  encourage  you, 
Although  her  father,  a  poor  gentleman. 
My  brother,  by  the  malice  of  the  sea 
And  winds,  have  lost  what  might  have  rankVl 

him  even 
With  some  that  ride  upon  their  reverend  mules, 
I'll  find  a  portion  for  her,  if  you  strike 
Affectionate  hearts,  and  joy  to  call  you  nephew. 
Pray  be  not  angry,  that  I  take  a  care 
To  place  my  own  where  I  may  see  it  answer'd 
With  state,  as  well  as  family. 

Fran.  You  show 
A  provident  father.     I  shall  not  then  be 
Endanger'd  to  your  scruple,  if  I  address 
My  services  to  her,  whose  humble  fortune, 
In  the  relation  to  your  blood  and  nobleness, 
Is  wealth  enough  to  me  ? 

Car.  I  wish  it  prosper. 

Fran.  You  have  much  honour'd  me.         \ExU. 

Car.  That  scruple's  vanish'd. 
These   are    considerings,   with  which    parents 

must 
Timely  prevent  the  folly  and  the  fall 
Of  children,  apt  to  lose  themselves  in  shadows, 
And  gaudy  apparitions. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sei-v.  Your  son 
Is  come  from  Salamanca,  sir. 

Car.  I  hope 
Philosophy  hath  by  this  time  tam'd  his  wildness  ; 
I  have  been  careful  not  to  feed  his  riots. 
He's  welcome ;  my  next  study  is  to  choose 
A  wife  for  him. 

8ei~v.  With  him  a  gentleman, 
That  seems  of  noble  quality. 

Enter  LuYS  and  Albeeto. 

Lays.  Your  blessing. 
Next  which,  'twill  be  a  happiness,  if  you 
Embrace  this  noble  gentleman,  Don  Alberto, 
To  whose  affection  I  have  been  engaged. 

Alh.  Our  studies  grew  together,  and  our  loves. 

Car.  You  do  an  honour  to  us. 

Luys.  If  he  thrive 
Upon  his  fair  intents,  sir,  to  my  sister. 
Whose  character  he  has  took  delight  to  hear 
From  me  sometimes,  it  will  enlarge  our  honoixr. 

Car.  He  has  improved  in  language — [aside.'] — 
His  estate  ? 

Luys.  Six  thousand  ducats,  sir,  per  annum, 
In  his  possession,  beside  [clear 

The  legacy  of  a  grannam  when  she  dies, 
That  has  outliv'd  six  cats  within  their  family. 


1  quit — i.e.  remove 


Car.  This  tastes  again  of  the  old  humoiir ;  he's 
Not  settled  yet !  [Aside. 

Luys.  Your  pardon,  sir ;  I  cannot 
With  any  patience  think  of  an  old  woman. 
They  are  agues  to  my  nature  ;  she  that  Uvea 
To  threescore  is  a  witch,  and  fit  for  fuel. 
By  the  civil  law. — I  hope  my  mother's  well  ? — 
Sir,  I  beseech  you,  be  not  you  mistaken ; 
I  am  not  what  I  was,  I'm  strangely  alter'd 
From  the  wild  garb,  and  can  discourse  most 

gravely 
Of  anything  but  old  and  toothless  women. 
Do  not  you  think  it  fit  she  should  be  burn'd,  sir, 
That  lives  within  an  hospital  till  the  roof 
Consume  to  dust,  and  no  more  left  for  covering 
Than  is  kept  up  in  one  continued  cobweb. 
Through  which  the  birds  may  see  her  when  she 

creeps 
Under  a  spider's  canopy  ?  what  think  you  ? 
Speak  your  own  conscience. 

Car.  A  young  wife  will  cure 
This   angry  heat    of    blood.  —  You    areC   most 
welcome.  [To  Alberto. 

Command  my  house,  and  if  you  can  affect 
My  daughter,  for  whose  love  (as  my  son  here 
Prepares  me)  you  have  ta'en  these  pains,  I  shall 
Make  equal  propositions.     I  knew 
Your  father  well,  Don  Eoderigo,  who 
Gave  up  his  life  with  honour  'gainst  the  Moors. 
Once  more,  you're  welcome — Son  Luys,  show 
The  way  to  your  sister,  and  bid  her  entertain 
Your  friend  with  all  the  love  her  modesty 
And  my  commands  may  prompt  her  to. 

Alb.  You  much  oblige  my  services. 

Luys.  Kemember,  Don, 
Conditions  ;  if  my  sister  and  you  join 
Your  copyholds,  I  have  a  life  must  be 
Maintain'd  till   the    old  man    die.     Hang  Ms 


pension 


'Twill  not  keep  me  in  salads.    I'll  conduct  yoa. 
[Aside  to,  and  exit  with  Alberto. 
Car.    I  like  his  person  well ;    and  his  calm 

gesture 
Speaks  for  his  other  composition. 
The  estate  is  competent,  my  daughter  is 
Obedient,  which  rich  parents  call  a  blessing. 
Whose  wisdom  is  to  advance  their  name  and 

fortunes. 
My  son  is  all  my  study  now. — 

Enter  Don  Eamyres. 

My  noble  Don  Eamyres  !  you  look  cheerful. 

Ram.  'Tis  a  good  omen  :  I  have  business  wi'  ye, 
Such  as  cannot  despair  your  entertainment : 
You  have  a  daughter. 

Car.  I  would  you  had  one ! 
I  should  be  willing  to  translate  a  son, 
And  by  his  marriage  be  most  proud  to  call 
Your  daughter  mine. 

Ram.  You  are  next  a  prophet,  signior. 
And,  but  the  sexes  differ,  speak  my  thoughts; 
'Tis  harmony  on  both  sides  ;  to  be  short, — 
For  let  oiir  gravities  not  waste  time  and  breath 
In  our  afi'airs, — give  the  young  leave  to  court 
And  spin  out  days  in  amorous  circumstance. 
My  son  Fernando,  I  need  not  call  him  heir. 
His  birth  concludes  it,  I  would  commend 
To  fair  Jacinta  :  it  can  be  no  dishonour 
To  your  family  to  mix  with  mine. 

Car.  'Tis  an  addition 
Will  add  a  lustre  rather  to  our  blood. 

Ram.  'Tis   my    affection   to    your    daughter, 
which,  confirmed 
By  observation  of  her  virtue,  makes 
Me  wish  this  tie  between  'em ;  i  may  safely 
Expect  you  will  assure  a  portion  that 
His  fortunes  will  deserve,  who  must  enjoy 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


531 


What  I  possess,  unless  you  disaffeot  * 
His  person,  or  decline  his  education, 
Which  hath  not  spar'd  my  coffers  to  advance 

him 
In  the  best  form  of  gentleman. 

Car.  I  want 
Abilities  of  tongue  to  answer  this 
Tour  freedom  and  the  bounty  of  your  nature 
Towards  my  daughter ;  and  so  far  am  [I]  from 
Exception  to  Fernando,  there's  no  cavalier 
In  Spain  I  wish  to  thrive  so  well  in  her 
Opinion. 

Ram.  'Twill  be  his  encouragement, 
If  he  intrench  upon  no  other's  interest, 
I  mean  not  to  except,  how  well  he  can 
Deserve  her  nobly  from  a  rival,  if 
Her  heart  be  not  contracted;  this  were  to 
Engage  'em  both  to  loss  of  peace  and  honour, 
Perhaps  betray  a  life. 

Car.  You  argue  nobly ; 
She  is  yet  mistress  of  her  thoughts,  and  free, 
While  her  obedience  doth  keep  in  trust 
Her  heart,  till  I  direct  it,  whicli  shall  be 
To  love,  and  choose  your  son  to  live  within  it. — 
Have  I  said  home  ? 

Ram.  You  have.    When  they  have  met. 
We  may  conclude  the  dowry,  and  confirm 
Our  mutual  assurances  ;  till  then 
Farewell.  \_Exit. 

Car.  I  like  this  well ;  Eamyres  has 
A  fortune  for  a  grandee.     Don  Alberto 
Must  now  excuse  me  if  my  vote  prefer 
Fernando,  whom  my  daughter  must  accept, 
Or  forfeit  me.     The  new  guest  is  not  warm 
In  his  access,  and  shall  not  feel  with  what 
Soft  art  and  subtle  ways  I  steer  her  passion ; 
Yet  were  Alberto's  state  ten  maravedis 
Above  Eamyres',  I  should  place  him  first. 
Fame  is  an  empty  noise,  virtue  a  word 
There's  not  a  Jew  will  lend  two  ducats  on. — 
He  is  return'd ;  I  must  prepare  Jaciuta.       [Exit. 

Re-enter  Eamykes  with  Fernando. 

Fer.  I  hope  my  past  life  hath  not,  sir,  so  ill 
Deserv'd,  you  should  be  jealous  of  my  duty 
When  you  command,  although  in  things  of  this 
High  nature,  man  being  nothing  more  concern'd, 
Next  the  divine  considerations. 
Than  in  the  choice  of  her  that  must  divide 
The  joys  and  sufferings  of  his  life,  a  son 
May  modestly  insist  upon  the  privilege 
That  Love  by  his  great  charter  hath  conferr'd 
On  every  heart,  not  to  be'forced,  yet  I 
Freely  resign  my  wiU,  and  what  men  call 
/Affection,  to  that  object  you  present  me. 

Ram.  Apply  yourself,   then,   to   Don    Carlos' 
daughter ; 
She's  young,  fair,  rich,  and  virtuous,  and  I've 

had 
Full  treaty  with  her  father,  who  expects 
Your  visit. 

Fer.  Younj,  fair,  rick,  and  virtuous  ! 
Four  excellencies  seldom  met  in  one  ; 
She  cannot  sure  want  servants,-  that  commands 
Under  so  many  titles.     I  could  wish 
(So  much  I  have  ambition  to  be  thought 
Obedient,  sir)  she  were  but  one  of  those. 

Ram.  She  is  all,  and  one. 

Fer.  My  duty  were  not  less 
If  I  forgave  myself  a  happiness 
To  perfect  your  commands ;  sir,  I  am  ready 
To  try  my  fortune. 

Ram.  There  is  no  fear  of  thy  repulse ;  and  when 


1  disaffect — are  ill-affected  to. 
*  servants — lovers. 


Thou  dost  confirm  her  gain'd  to  thy  affection, 

My  greatest  act  and  care  of  life  is  over. 

Go  on  and  prosper.  [Exit. 

Fer.  He  is  passionate, 
And  like  the  fury  of  the  winds,  more  loud 
By  opposition  ;  such  a  providence 
May  be  mine  one  day  when  I  am  a  father, 
And  he  for  whose  advance  my  cares  are  meant, 
Like  me,  may  with  a  fair  and  formal  show. 
Disguise  his  thoughts  too ;  yet  I  am  to  blame, 
For  my  affection  to  a  dream,  a  thing 
With  which  my  eyes  only  convers'd,  to  hazard 
A  father's  love  and  the  rich  peace  it  brings; 
I'll  uncreate  the  face  I  doat  upon, 
And  be  myself,  or — 

Enter  Fkancisco. 

What!  my  brother? 
Now,  Francisco,  you  met  my  father  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  and  he 
Looks  as  some  news  had  much  exalted  him. 
You  are  not  so  merry  in  the  face  :  what  is't  ? 

Fer.  Nothing. 

Fran.  You  held  no  controversies  with  him  ? 

Fer.  No. 

Fran.  I  cannot  guess  he  was  angry  by  his 
smiles. 
How  did  you  part  ? 

Fer.  Exceeding  Idndly. 

Fran.  What  changes  your  complexion  ? 

Fer.  Thou'rt  deceived. 
Pr'ythee,  how  do  men  look  that  are  in  love  ? 

Fi-an.  Why,  as  they  did  before :  what  alteration 
Have  you  observed  in  me  ? 

Fer.  You  have  then  a  mistress, 
And  thrive  upon  her  favours  ? — but  thou  art 
My  brother,  I'll  deliver  thee  a  secret : 
I  was  at  Saint  Sebastian's  last  Sunday, 
At  vespers — 

Fran.  Is  it  a  secret  that  you  went  to  church  ? 
You  need  not  blush  to  tell't  your  ghostly  father. 

Fer.  I  pr'ythee  leave  thy  impertinence  ;  there 
I  saw 
So  sweet  a  face,  so  harmless,  so  intent 
Upon  her  prayers,  it  frosted  my  devotion 
To  gaze  on  her,  till  by  degrees  I  took 
Her  fair  idea  1  through  my  covetous  eye, 
Into  my  heart,  and  know  not  how  to  ease 
It  since  of  the  impression. 

Fran.  So !  proceed. 

Fer.  Her  eye  did  seem  to  labour  with  a  tear. 
Which  suddenly  took  birth,  but,  overweigh'd 
With  its  own  swelling,  dropp'd  upon  her  bosom. 
Which,  by  reflection  of  her  light,  appear'd 
As  nature  meant  her  sorrow  for  an  ornament ; 
After,  her  looks  grew  cheerful,  and  I  saw 
A  smile  shoot  graceful  upward  from  her  eyes. 
As  if  they  had  gained  a  victory  o'er  grief, 
And  with  it  many  beams  twisted  themselves. 
Upon  whose  golden  threads  the  angels  walk 
To  and  again  from  heaven. 

Fran.  I  do  believe. 
By  all  these  metaphors,  you  are  in  love 
I  see  you  have  a  fancy ;  but  proceed. 
And  be  not  melancholy. 

Fer.  I  have  told  thee  all. 

Fran.  This  is  indeed  a  vision;  you  have 
But  seen  her  all  this  while,  if  I  may  counsel  yoTi, 
You  should  proceed ;  her  face  is  nothing  when 
You  have  perus'd  the  rest. 

Fer.  'Tis  dangerous. 

Fran.  You  must  excuse  me,  brother ; 
There  can  be  no  hurt  in  a  handsome  woman. 


'  idea — image. 


53^ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


For  if  Ler  face  delight  so  much,  what  will 
The  enjoying  of  so  sweet  a  pile  of  beauty  ? 

Fer.  Thou  hast  infus'd  a  confidence  ;  I  will 
Embrace    this    counsel :    you    shall  with    me, 

brother. 
And  see  how  I  behave  myself:  the  lady 
Is  not  far  off. 

Fran.  With  all  my  heart;  I'll  pawn 
My  life  you  shall  enjoy  her ;  what  is  she 
Of  flesh  and  blood  that  will  deny,  when  she 
Is  fairly  courted  ?     May  I  know  the  name 
Of  this  lov'd  mistress?      You  may  clear  your 

thoughts, 
I  dare  have  no  design  to  wrong  your  love. 

Fer.   What  think  you,   brother,    of  the    fair 
Jacinta  ? 

Fran.  Don  Carlos'  daughter  ? 

Fer.  To  that  happy  coast 
I  now  am  sailing ;  we  lose  time  ;  clap  on 
More  wings,  thou  featherd  god :  thou  hast  put 

fire, 
Francisco,  into  my  drooping  thoughts,  and  as 
They  had  already  bargained  with  the  wind. 
They  are  aloft,  and  chide  Love's  lazy  motion. 

Fran.  A  word  before  you  fly :  but  is  Jaciuta 
Tour  mistress,  then  ? 

Fer.  The  beautiful  Jacinta. 
Dost  think  I  shall  not  prosper?     What  is  she 
Ofjiesh  and  blood  that  can  deny,  when  she 
Is  fairly  courted?     Add  to  this,  my  happiness. 
That  she's  the  mistress  whom,  from  all  her  sex, 
My  father  hath  made  choice  of  for  my  courtship. 
He  hath  already  treated  with  Don  Carlos, 
And  'twas  his  last  command  I  should  address 
My  present  visit  to  her. 

Fran.  Very  well : 
If  this  be  truth,  you  need  not  trouble  wings 
To  overtake  this  lady ;  to  my  knowledge 
(I'm  serious  now)  she  has  bestow'd  her  heart 
Upon  a  friend,  who  has  already  fortified 
Himself  against  the  world  that  would  oppose 
His  title  to't. 

Fer.  From  what  intelligence 
Have  you  gain'd  this  ?  her  father  knows  it  not. 
Come,  these  are  but  subtle  pretences  scatter'd 
By  some,  who  cunningly  thus  hope  to  make 
Themselves  a  victory  by  cutting  off 
More  fruitful  expectations  ;  this  must 
Not  disengage  me  ;  pr'ythee,  walk. 

Fran.    I  can  produce  my  author,  here,  Fer- 
nando, 
And  with  my  blood  defend  that  interest 
She  gave  me,  with  intent  I  should  preserve  it. 

Fer.  How  !  is  she  yours,  Francisco  ? 

Fran.  Mine,  if  hearts 
Have  po^ver  to  make  assurance. 

Fer.  'Tis  some  happiness 
I  have  no  stranger  to  oppose,  whose  high 
And  stubborn  soul  would  not  release  this  treasure 
But  make  me  force  it  through  his  blood.     Fran- 
cisco and 
Fernando  are  two  rillets  from  one  spring ; 
I  will  not  doubt  he  will  resign,  to  make 
Me  fortunate  ;  or,  should  his  will  be  cold. 
And  some  close  thoughts   suggest  I    had    no 

privilege. 
By  eldest  birth,  but  came  a  sly  intruder 
Upon  his  right  of  love,  there  is  a  tie 
Of  nature  and  obedience  to  a  father 
Will  make   him  give  this   blessing    from    his 

bosom, 
And  strip  his  amorous  soul  of  all  his  wealth, 
That  may  invest  my  wishes. 

Fran.  I  read  not  this 
In  any  of  the  reverend  casuists ; 
No  inequality  being  in  our  blood, 
The  law  of  nature  meant  we  should  be  equal ; 


It  was  first  tyranny,  then  partial  custom, 
Made  you  more  capable  of  land.     Would  you 
Be  lord  of  us  because  you  are  first-born, 
And  make  our  souls  your  tenants  too?     Wlicii 

I've 
Nam'd  you  my  elder  brother,  I  exclude 
All  servitude  ;  justice,  that  makes  me  love  you. 
Carries  an  equal  law  to  both  ; 
Nay,  I  can  love  you  more,  if  I  consider  you 
(Without  the  chain  of  blood)  a  friend,  than  all 
The  bonds  of  nature  can  enforce  me  to  : 
In  both  relations  give  me  leave  to  love  you 
As  much  as  man.  but  not  resign  my  mistress. 
You  ascend  higher  and  persuade  by  what 
Obedience  is  owing  to  a  father  ; — 
They  give  us  life,  a  good  son  keeps  it  for  them. 
And  every  drop  bled  in  their  cause  is  glory  ; 
I  acknowledge  this,  and  saci-ifice 
Life,  fortunes,  a  poor  recompense  to  lose 
(Were  they  all  multiplied),  to  show  my  duty ; 
But  these  are  things  may  be  resign'd :  a  mistress 
Is  not  a  wealth  in  balance  with  the  world. 
But  much  above  the  poise  of  all  its  happiness, 
And  equal  with  our  honour,  riveted 
Into  our  soul.    It  leaves  her  not,  when  death 
Hath  shook  this  body  off,  but  flies  with  it 
More  swift  to  love  it  in  the  other  world. 

Fer.  You  are  very  passionate. 

Frail.  I  am  very  just. 
And  you  shall  find  it,  brother,  ere  you  twine 
With  my  Jacinta,  viine,  if  vows  may  give 
Possession  of  each  other's  soul. 

Fer.  No  more. 
May  she  be  worthy  of  thy  heart,  till  mine 
Do  entertain  a  treason  to  divide  you ; 
But  I,  to  satisfy  my  father,  must 
Present  myself,  and,  trust  me,  will  so  manage 
My  love  to  her,  as  thou  shalt  have  no  cause 
To  interpret  me  a  rival.     Oh,  Francisco, 
Our  loves  are  of  a  kindred,  for  mine  is 
Devote  to  Felisarda,  to  her  cousin, 
Poor  Felisarda. 

Fran.  Theodore's  daughter? 

Fer.    We   never  yet  changed  language,  nor 
doth  she 
Imagine  with  what  thoughts  I  honour  her ; 
But  here  is  the  distraction  ;   thou  canst  not 
Expect  more  opposition  from  Don  Carlos 
Than  I  must  from  my  father',  if  he  knew 
Where  I  have  placed  my  heart. 

Fran.  Let  us  assist 
Each  other,  then,  till  time,  and  some  kind  stars, 
Mature  our  love. 

Fer.  Let  fathers  look  at  wealth,  'tis  all  their 
saint : 
Hearts  are  free-born,  and  love  knows  no  con- 
straint. \_Exeunt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  L 

A  Room  in  Don  Carlos'  Hottse. 

Enter  Luys  and  Jacinta. 

Luys.  How  do  you  like  Alberto,  sister?  is  he  not 
A  gallant  gentleman  ? 

Jac.  For  what^  good  brother? 
I  cannot  judge  his  intellectuals. 
But  we  have  plenty  of  more  proper  men 
In  Spain. 

Luys.  He  is  an  excellent  scholar ; 
He  was  still  emperor  in  the  schools  ;  and  since 
He  studied  logic  and  philosophy  ; 
He  was  the  flower  of's  time  at  Salamanca. 

Jac.  'Tis  pity  he  should  be  gather'd,  then. 

Luys.  What  be  gather'd  ? 

Jac.  The  flower  you  talk  on. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


533 


Liiys.  If  you  affect  him,  sister,  ho  may  grow, 
And  you  may  keep  him  still  for  seed,  [so]  please 
you. 

Jac.    And   sell   him    out  at   sowing-time    to 
gardeners. 

Luys.  Come,  you  must  love  him. 

Jac.  Has  he  the  black  art  ? 
I  know  not  how  magic  or  philtres  may 
Prevail,  and  yet  he  looks  suspiciously. 

Luys.  You   think  you're  witty.      D'ye  hear, 
you  must 
Affect  him  for  my  sake. 

Jac.  Now  you  speak  reason  ; 
I  may  for  your  sake  dote  upon  him,  brother  ; 
This  is  a  conjuration  may  do  much. 

Luys.  Well  said ; 
Thou  art  my  sister,  this  good  nature  shows  it. 
And  now  I'll  tell  thee,  I  have  promised  him 
As  much  as  marriage  comes  to,  and  I  lose 
My  honour,  if  my  Don  receives  the  canvas.^ 
He  has  a  good  estate,  and  I  have  borrow'd 
Considerable  moneys  of  him,  sister, 
Pieces  of  eight,  and  transitory  ducats. 

Jac.  Which  must  be  paid. 

Luys.  Not  if  you  marry  him  ; 
Conditions  have  been  thought  on. 

Jac.  How  ?  conditions .' 

Luys.  And  some  revenue  was  convenient 
To  do  things  like  a  gentleman.     I  may 
Tell  you,  my  father  is  a  little  costive. 
Purse-bound,  his  pension  cannot  find  me  tooth- 
picks ; 
I  must  live  till  he  die  ;  'tis  fit,  you  know : 
Alberto  has  an  exchequer,  which,  upon 
Thy  smiles,  will  still  be  open. 

Jac.  Very  good ; 
Then  you,  upon  the  matter,  have  sold  me  to  him, 
To  find  you  spending  money  ? 

Litys.  No,  not  sold ; 
We   are   at  no   certain  price :  sums  have  been 

lent 
In  expectation,  or  so,  and  may  again. 

Jac.  You    deserve,    brother,    I    should    hate 
you  now. 

Luys.  It  is  all  one  to  me,  so  you  love  him  : 
For  my  part,  I  desire  but  my  expenses. 

Jac.  What  if  another  man  supply  your  wants 
Upon  the  same  conditions  of  my  love  .' 

Luys.  I  am  indifferent,  so  I  have  my  charges. 
My  necessary  wine  and  women,  paid  for  ; 
Love  where  you  please  yourself ;   I  am  but  one. 
I  would  not  see  him  want,  that's  all,  because 
My  father  is  not  yet  resolv'd  about 
His  going  to  heaven. 

Jac.  Well,  sir,  for  Don  Alberto, 
You  shall  be  his  advocate  no  more,  and  there's 
A  fee  to  bribe  your  silence  in  his  cause. 

[Gices  him  money. 

lAiys.  Why,  thank  you,  sister.     Will  you  die 
a  virgin  .' 

Jac.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Ijuys.  I  would  speak  for  somebody ;   tell  me 
but  whom 
You  have  a  mind  to,  and  I'll  plead  for  him. 
And  if  he  be  a  don,  he  will  consider  it ; 
You  may  give  me  what  you  will  besides. 

Jac.  When  I 
Eesolve,  you  shall  be  acquainted. 

Luys.  But  do  you  hear  ? 


1  receives  the  canvas— i.e.  dismissed.  The  phrase  is 
taken  from  the  practice  of  journeymen  mechauics  who 
travel  in  quest  of  work  with  the  implements  of  their 
profession.  When  they  are  discharged  by  their  masters, 
they  are  said  to  receive  the  canvas  or  the  bag;  because  in 
this  their  tools  and  necessaries  are  packed  up,  prepara- 
tory to  tlieir  removal. — Gifford. 


Until  you  do  resolve,  I  would  lose  no  time ; 
'Tis  good  keeping  a  friend,  and  a  warm  client ; 
You  may  look  lovingly  upon  Alberto, 
And  let  him  hope,  at  all  adventures  ;  in 
Two  months  you  may  be  otherwise  provided, 
And  he  may  hang  himself  ;  i'  the  meantime. 
Some  favours  now  and  then  to  the  poor  gentle- 
man 
Will  do  him  good,  and  me  no  hurt ;  besides 
You'll  please  my  father  in't,  whose  vote  is  for 

him. 
And  that's  a  thing  material.     I  am 
To  meet  with  Don  Alberto  and  some  gentlemen  ; 
I  will  preserve  his  confidence,  and  tell  him 
I  have  talk'd  with  thee.     Have  you  any  more 
Of  this  complexion?  'cause  I  know  not  what 
Occasions  I  may  have  to  keep  my  credit 
With  men  of  mark  and  honour,  where   I   am 

going ; 
You  are  my  father's  darling,  and  command 
His  yellow  ingots  ;  t'  other  dohlon  cForo.^ 

Jac.  So  I  may  bring  a  rentcharge  on  myself. 

Luys.  The  t'other  drop  of  orient  mercy ;  come. 

Jac.  You  care  not  what  accounts  I  give  my 
father. 

Ltiys.  Thou  hast  twenty  ways  to  cozen  him ; 
wedge  it 
Into  the  next  bill ;  he  wears  spectacles, 
And  loves  to  read — Item  for  pious  uses. — 
Can  it  be  less  to  help  a  brother .' — [Jac.  gives 
him  more  money.] — Well  said. 

Jac.  Let  not  this  feed  your  riot. 

Luys.  By  no  means. 
I  am  for  no  Carthusians  to-day. 
Farewell,  dear  sister. — 

Enter  Carlos,  Fernando,  Francisco,  and 
Felisarda. 

Who  is  that  ? 

Jac.  My  father. 

Luys.  I  cannotendure  that  old  man's  companv. 
,  [Ex'it. 

Car.  I   am   past   compliment,  and   must   ac- 
knowledge 
Your  fair  intentions  honour  us ;  she  is  no  goddess 
Of  beauty,  sir,  but  let  me,  without  pride. 
Boast  myself  blest,  Fernando,  in  her  virtues, 
And  that  which  crowns  'em  all,  obedience. — 
Jacinta,  entertain  this  gentleman 
With  all  becoming  thoughts  of  love ;  his  merit 
(Out  of  no  rash,  but  mature  judgment)  hath 
Prevail'd  with  me,  to  name  him  to  the  first 
And  noblest  place  within  your  heart. 

Fer.  Until  this  hour  I  never  had  the  confidence 
More  than  to  think  of  love,  and  hide  a  flame 
That  almost  hath  consumed  me.  You  may  think 
It  worth  a  smile,  and  that  I  only  flourish 
To  show  my  vanity  of  wit  or  language  ; 
But  when  you  understand  that  I  bring  hither 
No  young  affection,  but  a  love  took  in 
Long  since  at  my  ambitious  eye,  it  may 
Beget  your  gentle  thought,  or  will  to  cure  me. 

Jac.  Pardon  me,  if  the  more  you  strive   to 
print 
A  truth  on  this  short  story  of  your  passion, 
The  more  I  find  myself  inclined  to  wonder, 
Since  you  seem  to  infer  you  took  in  the 
Disease  at  sight  of  me,  I  cannot  be 
So  ignorant,  as  not  to  have  receiv'd 
Your  name  and  character,  but  never  knew 
Before,  when  you  did  grace  us  with  a  visit ; 
And  how  then  at  such  distance  you  contracted 
A  danger  so  consuming,  is  above 
My  knowledge,  not  my  pity,  if  you  could 
Direct  me  to  the  cure  with  virgin  honour. 


'  doblon  d'oro — gold  doubloon. 


534 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Car.  So,    so  ;    I   leave  you  to   tlie   amorous 
dialogue ; 
Presume  you  have  my  voice. 

Jac.  Sir,  with  your  pardon, 
You  lead  me  to  a  wilderness,  and  take 
Yourself  away,  that  should  be  guide ;  do  you 
Engage  me  to  affect  this  Don  Fernando 
In  earnest  ? 

Car.  Yes. 
'    Jac.  You  did  direct  my  love 
To  Don  Alberto. 

Car.  I  dispense  with  that 
Command ;    you    may,    by    fair    degrees,    and 

honour, 
Quit  his  addresses,  and  dispose  yourself 
Mistress  and  bride  to  Don  Eamyres'  heir. 

Fel.  [to  Fkancisco.]  It  does  not  thus  become 
you,  sir,  to  mock 
A  virgin  never  iujur'd  you  :  he  is 
Your  elder  brother,  I  am  here  beneath 
The  level  of  his  thoughts,  i'  the  nature  of 
A  servant  to  my  cousin,  and  depend 
Upon  my  uncle's  charity. 

Fran.  May  I  be 
Curst  in  my  own  affections,  if  I 
Delude  thee,  though  to  achieve  our  best  desires 
We  seem  to  dissemble  thus  before  Don  Carlos. 
This  is  a  secret  yet  to  poor  Jacinta. 

Car.  You  have  my  will ;  obey  it. 

Jac.  Hath  Francisco 
Broken  his  faith  already  ?  [Aside. 

Car.    May  you  both    joy,   where    you   have 
placed  your  loves ! 
You  apply  close,  Francisco.  [Exit. 

.     Fran.  With  your  good  favour, 
I  fairly  hope. 

Fer.  Your  father's  gone,  Jacinta. 

Jac.  I  should  be 
Equally  pleas'd  if  you  would  leave  me  too. 

Fel.  This  is  a  change. 

Jac.  Unkind  Francisco,  hear  me. 

Fran.    'Tis    my  meaning. — Brother,    I    have 
prepar'd 
Your  story  there  with  Felisarda ;  lose 
No  time. 

Fer,  Jacinta,  clear  your  thoughts  again, 
And  pardon  that  I  took  a  shape  to  fright  you ; 
I  shall  not  grieve  to  see  Francisco  prosper. 
And  merit  all  your  favours,  since  my  hopes 
Must  thrive,  or  have  their  funeral  here. 

[taking  Felisarda's  hand. 

Jac.  Are  we 
So  blest,  Francisco?     That's  a  noble  brother! 

Fer.  I  may  suppose  my  brother,  Felisarda, 
Hath  made  it  now  no  secret,  that  I  love  you ; 
And  since  our  stars  have  so  contriv'd,  that  we 
Have  means  to  assist  our  mutual  ambitions. 
Do  not  you  make  their  influence  unprofitable ; 
'Tis  the  first  boldness  I  e'er  took  to  visit  you. 
Although  my  eyes  have  often,  with  delight 
And  satisfaction  to  my  heart,  observ'd  you. 

Fel.  You  seem  a  noble  gentleman,  and  can  take 
But  little  glory  to  undo  a  maid. 
Whose  fortunes  cannot  bring  you  any  triumph. 

Fer.  How  mean  you,  fairest  ? 

Fel.  Not  to  be  flatter'd,  sir, 
Into  a  sin,  to  cure  my  poverty ; 
For  men,  whose  expectations  are  like  yours, 
Come  not  with  honour  to  court  such  as  I  am 
(Lost  to  the  world  for  want  of  portion), 
But  with  some  untam'd  heat  of  blood. 

Fer.  I  dare. 
With  conscience  of  my  pure  intent,  try  what 
Eudeness  you  find  upon  my  lip,  'tis  chaste 
As  the  desires  that  breathe  upon  my  language. 
I  began,  Felisarda,  to  affect  thee 
By  seeing  thee  at  prayers ;  thy  virtue  wing'd 


Love's  arrow  first,  and  'twere  a  sacrilege 
To  choose  thee  now  for  sin,  that  hast  a  power 
To  make  this  place  a  temple  by  thy  innocence. 
I  know  thy  poverty,  and  came  not  to 
Bribe  it  against  thy  chastity  ;  if  thou 
Vouchsafe  thy  fair  and  honest  love,  it  shall 
Adorn  my  fortunes,  which  shall  stoop  to  serve  it, 
In  spite  of  friends  or  destiny. 

Fran,  [to  Jacinta.]  My  brother 
Knows  my  whole  interest  in  thee,  to  whom 
My  father's  care  directed  him ;  but  we 
Thus  mutually  i-esolve  to  aid  each  other. 

Jac.  This  must  be  wisely  manag'd  of  all  sides  ; 
Parents  have  narrow  eyes.i 

Fran.  Our  meeting  thus 
Will  happily  secure  us  from  their  jealousy ; 
Our  fatliers  must  not  know  this  countermarch. 

Re-enter  Carlos,  behind. 

Car.  Ha! 
I  like  not  this :  Fernando  at  busy  courtship 
With  Felisarda,  and  Francisco  so 
Close  with  my  daughter ! 

Jac.  Alas  !  we  are  betray'd. 

Fel.  My  uncle. 

Fer.    You  are   her  kinswoman,   and   of    her 
bosom  : 
I  pr'ythee,  in  my  absence,  plead  to  fair 
Jacinta  for  me  ;  as  an  eai-nest  of 
My  gratitude,  accept  this  trifle  from  me. 

Car.  Ha !  'tis  a  jewel. 

Fel.  Without  this  reward 
I  should  solicit,  sir,  your  cause,  and  do 
My  duty  to  Don  Carlos,  who  desires  it. 

Fer.  1  take  my  leave. 

Fran.  Madam,  I  shall  bo  proud 
To  call  you  sister,  but  you  will  prepare 
Another  happiness  if  you  vouchsafe 
To  speak  for  me  to  pretty  Felisarda ; 
She's  bound  to  hear  your  counsel  and  obey  it ; 
If  I  may  owe  this  favour  to  your  charity. 

Jac.  Your  goodness  will  deserve  more. 

Fran.  I  must  follow  him.  [Exit. 

Car.  Do  you  take  notice,  Felisarda,  that 
You  live  hero  on  the  bounty  of  an  uncle  ? 
Your  father  had  but  ill  news  from  the  Indies. 

Fel.  Sir,  as  your  goodness  wants  no  testimony, 
I  shall  attend  it  with  all  humble  services. 

Car.   How  durst  you,  in  the  presence  of  my 
daughter. 
Maintain  such  whispers  with  Fernando,  eh  ? 

Fel.  Sir,  he  was  pleas'd — 

Cai:  No  more ;  I  here  discharge  you. — 
Jacinta,  I'll  provide  one  to  attend  you 
With  less  relation  to  your  blood. — I'll  hear 
Of  no  defence ;  away  !  out  of  my  doors ! 
Go  to  your  father,  Signior  Theodore : 
His   ships  may  rise  again    were   sunk   by  th' 

Hollander, 
And's  fleet  from  St.  Thomas ;  he  may  prefer  you 
To  some  rich  don  ;  or,  who  knows  but  you  may, 
Borne  on  the  plumes  of  his  estate,  be  made 
In  time  a  proud  condessa !  so,  a  Dies, 
Mity  illustre  Senora  Felisarda  !  [Exit. 

Jac.  Thus  have  I  heard  a  tall  ship  has  been 
wreck'd 
By  some  strange  gust  within  the  bay :  his  passion 
Admits  of  no  dispute. — Oh,  my  poor  coz, 
I  fear  my  turn  is  next  to  be  an  exile ; 
Thy  absence  must  deprive  me  of  Francisco, 
Who  can  no  more  glad  his  Jacinta's  eyes, 
With  a  pretence  to  visit  thee. 


'^Parents  have  narrow  eyes — meaning,  perhaps,  tin 4 
they  look  carefully,  or  narrowly,  into  these  affairs. — 

GlFFOKD. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


535 


Fd.  'Tisnot 
My  fear  to  suffer  ■want  so  mucli  afflicts  me, 
As  that  I  must  lose  you. — But  he  returns. 

lie-enter  Carlos  with  a  letter,  and  a  Servant. 

Car.   Don  Pedro   de   Fuente  Calada   comLag 
hither, 
With  Don  Alberto,  and  my  son  ? 

Sei^v.  Yes,  sir ;  the  count  desires  to  see  Jacinta, 
Whom  your  son  has  so  commended,  and  sent  me 
To  give  you  notice.  \_Exit  Servant. 

Car.  Ha !  Jacinta !  retire 
To  your  closet,  and  put  on  your  richest  jewels, 
A  count  is  come  to  visit  you.- — Felisarda, 
There  may  be  some  more  art  us'd  in  her  dress, 
To  take  the  eyes  of  greatness. 

Jac.  Sir,  you  speak 
As  I  were  meant  for  sacrifice,  or  sale ; 
The  Count  Don  Pedro — 

Car.  No  reply  ;  be  careful. 
And  humble  in  your  office,  Felisarda, 
And  you  may  live  and  eat  here,  till  Jacinta 
Provide  another  servant  to  attend  her, 
Which  may  be  three  whole  days ;  my  anger  is 
Not  everlasting. — Bid  my  wife  come  to  me. 

[Exeunt  Jacinta  and  Felisarda. 

Enter  Alsimira. 

I  expect  an  honourable  guest,  the  Count  Don 

Pedro, 
To  see  our  daughter,  whom  I  have  commanded 
To  appear  with  all  her  riches,  to  attract  him. 

Als.  If  his  intents  be  honourable ;  I  have  heard 
Don  Pedro  loves  a  handsome  donna. 

Car.  He  had  better  cool  his  hot  blood  i'  the 

frozen 
Sea,  and  rise  thence  a  rock  of  adamant. 
To  draw  more  wonder  to  the  north,  than  but 
Attempt  to  wrong  her  chastity. — 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Luys,  and  Alberto. 

This  from  Don  Pedro  is  an  honour  binds 
The  service  of  our  lives. 
Fed.  Noble  Don  Carlos. 

Ah.  If  we  had  been  prepar'd,  we  should  have 
met 
This  grace  with  more  becoming  entertainment. 
Fed.  'Tis  fair,  and  equal  to  my  wishes — [he 
kisses  Alsimira.] — She  / 

Does  smell  of  roasted  garlick  —  [aside.']  —  This 
your  sister  ? 

Ee- enter  Jacinta  and  Felisarda. 

Luys.  That  is  my  mother,  sir ;  here  is  Jacinta. 
Fed.  She  has  a  tempting  shape ;  I  now  am 
pleas'd. 
I  use  to  kiss  all. — Hum,  a  pretty  thing ! 

[seeing  Felisarda. 
Car.  I  like  not  his  busy  eyes  on  Felisarda. 

[Aside. 
Alb.  You  will  be  faithful  to  me  ? 
Luys.  Who,  I  faithful  ?  how  shall  I  live  else  ? 
Cai:  Son  Luys.  [TaJces  Luys  aside. 

Alb.  Madam. 
Fed.  Will  you  be  pleas'd  [f]  admit  Don  Pedro, 

by 

The  title  of  your  servant,  to  presume 
Some  time  to  wait  upon  you? 

Jac.  It  were  pride. 
And  saucy  ambition,  sir,  in  me,  to  think 
You  can  descend  so  much  from  your  great  birth. 
To  own  a  name  and  office  so  much  beneath  you. 

Fed.  I,  that  before  thought  women  easy  trifles. 
And  things  which  nature  meant  only  to  quench 
High  flames  in  man,  am  taken  with  this  lady. 

[Aside. 
Luigi,  thou  hast  wrong'd  the  fair  Jacinta; 


Thy  praise  was  thin,  and  cold ;  Spain  is  not  rich 
Enough  to  boast  her  equal ;  and  I  love  her. 

Luys.  Oh,  she  will  be  too  proud  to  know  it,  sir. 

Fed.  Proud  she  must  be,  whose  eyes  have  such 
command. 
She  has  a  pretty  servant  too,  Luigi ; 
I  like  'em  both. 

Lvys.  How !  both  ? 

Fed.  They  will  do  well. 

Luys.  It  will  become  your  high  blood. 

Fed.  Say  I  kiss 
Her  white  hand,   and  present  her  with   these 
pearls  ? 

Luys.  Your  honour  shall  command. 

Fed.  Your  daughter  has  a  most  magnetic  face, 
And  I  pronounce  her  happy  ;  j'our  consent 
Confirms  her  mine. 

Cai:  There's  nothing  in  my  blood  or  fortune, 
but 
Don  Pedro  shall  command. — I  was  prophetical. — 
Come  hither,  Alsimira  ;  wouldst  imagine  ? 
He's  taken  with  Jacinta,  and  hath  pray'd 
Already  my  consent. 

Als.  Believe  not  all 
That  great  men  speak  are  oracles;  our  daughter — 

Car.  If  she  be  stubborn,  uncreates  herself  :j 
Be  you  wise,  and  counsel  her  to  this  ambition, 
Or  thus  I  loose  you  all. — Ha !  turn  away 
That  fairy,  she's  a  witch,  the  Count  talks  with 
her. 

Alb.  I  hope  you  hold  me  not,  sir,  less  deserving 
Than  when  you  gave  me  free  access  to  plead 
My  service  to  your  daughter  ? — If  that  don — 

Car.     Sir,    you    too    much    prejudicate    ^y 
thoughts ; 
I  must  give  due  respects  to  men  of  honour. 
Nor  is  it  fit  I  should  impose  upon 
The  freedom  of  Jacinta's  love. 

Alb.  You  are  noble. 

Car.  My  lord. 

Alb.  I  do  not  like  this  don.  [to  Luys. 

Lziys.  Thou'rt  of  my  mind ;  I  do  not  like  him 
neither ; 
And  yet  the  blackbird's  in  the  bush ; '  see  what 
A  present  he  would  give  my  sister! 

[Shoiolng  him  the  pearls. 

Alb.  Did  she  refuse  it .' 

Luys.  I  never  mean  she  shall ;  what !  wrong 
my  friend  ?  [Embracing  him. 

Yet,  I'll  take  all,  and  let  him  hang  himself. 
If  he  would  send  his  eyes,  I  would  undertake 
To  carry  'em  to  the  jeweller,  they  would  off 
For  pretty  toadstones.    Have  no  feai-,  my  mother 
Is  for  you,  too ;  you  must  fee  both  your  advocates. 

Car.  Jacinta! 

Jac.  Sir. 

Luys.  She  takes  herself  much  honour'd. 

Fed.  You  oblige. 

Luys.  Let  me  alone  to  carry  things. 
Be  confident  to  trust  me  with  your  honour — 
If  it  would  pawn  for  anything.  [Aside. 

Jac.  I'm  not  perfect 
How  to  neglect  Alberto  yet,  and  must  I 
Throw  off  Fernando,  but  new  entertain'd 
By    your   command?    the  world  will   censure 
strangely. 

Car.  The  world  will  praise  thy  wisdom,  and 
my  care ; 
Or,  if  some  giddy  tongues  condemn  what's  good, 
Must  we  be  servile  to  that  fear,  and  lose 
That  which  will  make  us  judges  of  their  folly, 
And  damn  it  with  a  frown  of  state  ?  they're  fools 
That  dote  upon  those  shadows,  idle  talk, 
The  slime  of  earth-worms,  that  doth  shine  to  cozen 

^  And  yet  the  blackbird's  in  thebush—i.e.  limed,  taken.— 

GlFFORD. 


53^ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


Infants!  'tis  fit  we  raise  our  thoughts  to  sub- 
stances. 

Jac.  Let  modesty  and  nature  plead  a  little, 
If  I  appear  not  fond  to  entertain  him. 
I  may  collect  more  strength  by  time  and  counsel, 
And  for  your  satisfaction  dare  profess 
Mj'  lord  hath  too  much  graced  the  low  Jacinta 
With  a  pretence  so  noble  :  but  I  should 
Be  held  not  worth  his  person,  and  too  light, 
At  his  first  breath  of  courtship,  to  fall  from 
My  virgin  strength,  and  give  myself  his  captive. 

Car.  I  shall  allow  that  ceremony;  the  Count 
Makes  an  address. 

\Exeunt  Alsimira  and  Felisakda. 

Fed.  I  must  use  thrift  in  my  delight ;  my  eyes 
Are  proud,  and  must  be  taught  by  absence  how 
To  value  such  a  mistress.     I  do  miss  the  cham- 
bermaid. 

Car.  It  will  become  me  to  attend. 

[Exeunt  Alberto  and  Jacinta. 

Ped.  Tour  pardon. 
I'll  take  it  for  an  honour,  if  your  son 
Be  pleas'd — but  to  my  coach. 

Lni/s.  Oh,  my  good  lord ! 
So  much  I  am  your  creature,  if  you  knew 
But  where  to  match  me,  I  would  be  your  coach- 
horse.  [Exeunt  Pedro  and  Luys. 

Car.  So,  so  ;  Jacinta's  stars  do  smile  upon  her. 
'Twill  be  a  match :  were  but  my  son  as  fair 
In  expectation  of  a  bride,  I'd  write 
Nil  ultra  to  my  cares ;  he  is  too  airy 
And  volatile,  a  wife  would  timely  fix  him, 
And  make  him  fit  to  manage  my  estate. — 

Re-enter  Luys. 

But  he  returns ;  I'll  feel  his  pulse. 

Car.  Thou  seest  how  near  Jacinta  is  to  happi- 
ness. 

TMys.  I  did  some  office  iu't,  shs  may  thank  me  : 
I  first  iuspir'd  his  lordship. 

Car.  Such  a  providence 
To  build  thyself  a  fortune  by  some  brave 
And  noble  marriage,  would  become  thy  study. 
And  make  thy  father  willingly  resign 
His  breath,  with  confidence  to  know  thee  wise 
To  govern  what  my  industry  hath  gather'd. 
What  think'st  thou  of  a  wife  ? 

Luys.  I  think  little,  sir. 
What  should  I  do  with  a  wife  ? 

Car.  Imitate  me,  and  study  fame  and  wealth 
To  thy  posterity.     Have  I  with  care 
Acquir'd  such  an  estate,  that  must  not  last 
Two  generations? 

Luys.  The  way  to  make  it  last, 
Is  not  to  think  of  wiving.     For  my  pai-t 
(Sir,  with  your  pardon,  if  I  may  speak  fi'eely), 
I  had  opinion  once  I  was  your  son, 
But  fearing,  by  your  narrow  exhibition,* 
You  lov'd  me  not,  I  had  a  controversy 
Within  my  thoughts,  whether  I  should  resolve 
To  geld  myself,  or  turn  a  begging  friar. 

Car.  A  begging  friar ! 

Luys.  'Tis  as  I  tell  you,  sir ; 
This  last  I  fix'd  upon,  and  have  been  studying 
Where  I  conveniently  might  raise  a  sum 
To  compass  a  hair  shirt,  sir,  to  make  trial, 
Before  I  thrust  myself  point-blank  into 
The  order. 

Car.  Thus  wild  sons  interpret  still 
A  prudent  father ;  but  you  may  discharge 
Your  jealousies,  unless  it  be  your  own 
Devotion  to  be  chaste,  and  live  a  recluse. 

Luys.  For  that  I  can  be  ruled ;  I  have  not  liv'd 
After  the  rate  of  hating  any  woman  ; 


'  exhibition — i.e.  pension,  allowance. 


But  I  can  hear  of  marriage,  if  it  be 

Your   pleasure:    but  these  wives,  sir,  are  such 

tickle 
Things,  not  one  hardly  staid  amongst  a  thou- 
sand ; — 
Beside,  unless  you  find  one  very  rich, 
A  man  may  cast  away  himself,  and  get 
A  bundle  of  beggaries,  mouths,  that  day  and 

night 
Are  open,  like  hell-gates,  to  feed.     I  would  not 
Hazard  my  freedom,  and  the  blessings  Heaven 
Has  lent  you,  sir,  upon  a  wife  with  nothing. 

Car.  Thy  pension  doubles  for  that  word;  in 
earnest 
How  much  I  like  this  wisdom,  take  this  purse  ; 
I  will  have  no  account ;  and  find  me  out 
A  wealthy  maid  or  widow,  but  not  ugly. 

iMtjs.  No !  not  ill-favour'd,  sir,  if  she  be  rich ; 
A  little  old  or  crippled  ? 

Car.  I  will  not  have  thee 
Marry  a  crooked,  deform'd  thing,  because 
She  may  have  children — 

Luys.  Not  unless  she  have 
An  infinite  wealth  to  make  them  straight,  sir; 
I'll  marry  a  witch,  so  she  have  money,  sir. 

Car.  No,  on  no  terms  a  monster ! 

Ljuys.  Then  I  will  not. 
And  now  it  comes  into  my  mind,  they  talk  of 
A  young  rich  widow.  Donna  Estefania, 
What  do  you  think  of  her  ? 

Car.  Thou  hast  nam'd  one 
To  my  own  desires  ;  she  lives  a  widow  still, 
But  has  refus'd  many  brave  dons. 

Luys.  No  matter ; 
I  like  her,  sir,  the  better. 

Car.  She  gives  good  entertainment. 

Luys.  I  will  have  her, 
If  you  but  say  the  word.     I  wear  a  charm 
To  catch  a  widow ;  but  this  purse  will  hardly 
Last  till  we  finish  ;  I  must  do  things  with  honour. 

Car.    Thou  shalt  be  furnish'd  like  my  son ; 
kneel  down 
And  ask  my  blessing,  I  do  long  to  give  it  thee. 

Jjuys.  I  have  your  blessing  here. 

Car.  I'll  find  thee  out 
Some  jewels  to  present  thy  mistress  too. 

Luys.  'Twill  not   be  much  amiss;    the   gold 
will  go 
The  farther,  sir. —  [Exit  Carlos. 

I  know  not  how  this  came  about. 
Unless  Don  Pedro's  coming  to  my  sister 
Have  made  him  mad,  and  wrought  this  miracle. — 
How  careful  he  was  I  should  not  marry  one  de- 
formed !     I  have  chose  the  handsomest  things 
thus  far ;  an  I  marry  with  a  witch  at  these  year-s, 
let  the  devil  ride  my  wild  mare  to  death!    And, 
now  I  consider  on  it,  I  will  not  have  the  widow, 
for  fear  of  the  worst ;  yet  I'll  to  her,  and  make 
a  business  on  it,  to  keep  the  old  man's  bags  in 
motion.     This,  with  some  good  husbandry,  and 
no  play,  may  last  a  fortnight. 
'Tis  very  gold ;  yes,  it  will  pay  some  scores. 

[Exit. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  I. 

A  Street  before  Kamyres'  House. 

Enter  Eamy'res  and  Fernando. 

Ram.  How !  no  success  ?  where  lies  the  oppo- 
sition ? 
Don  Carlos,  equal  with  myself,  profess' d 
His  free  desires,  and  to  dispose  his  daughter 
To  meet  thee  with  all  loving  entertainments. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


537 


What  can  slio  argue  to  thy  birth  or  person, 
Attended  with  so  plentiful  a  fortune  ? 
I  must  believe  thy  courtship  dull  and  faulty. 
When  I  was  at  thy  years,  and  spring  of  blood, 
I  wound  myself  like  air  among  the  ladies, 
Commanding  every  bosom,  and  could  dwell 
Upon  their  lips  like  their  own  breath  :  their  eyes 
Doubled  their  beams  on  me,  and  she  that  was 
Of  hardest  composition,  whom  no  love 
Could  soften,  when  I  came  with  charm  of  lan- 
guage. 
Her  frost  would  straight  dissolve,  and  from  her 

eyes 
Her  heart  came  weeping  forth  to  woo  me  take  it. 
Fer.  Tet  you,  that  did  with  a  magnetic  chain 
Attract  so  many,  could  possess  but  one. 
I  came  not  to  Don  Carlos'  house  with  cold 
Or  lukewarm  thoughts,  but  arm'd  with  active 

fire. 
That  would  have  melted  any  heart  but  hers, 
Bound  up  with  ribs  of  treble  ice  against  mo  ; 
By  which  I  find  there  is  another  fate 
That  governs  love,  against  whose  secret  doom 
In  vain  is  eloquence  or  force. 
Ram.  So  obstinate  ? 
Fer.  Nothing  that  I  could  say 
In  mj-  own  cause  could  make  her  tongue  or  looks 
Promise  an  expectation  to  thrive 
Dy  any  after  service  ;  this  disdain 
1  did  resent,  as  it  became  my  honour. 
Aud    now  confirm'd    against    her  pride,   have 

thought 
Of  something  that,  with  your  consent,  may  tame 
Her  scorn,  or  punish  it  to  her  repentance. 
Ram.  Name  it. 

Ftr.  She  has  a  kinswoman  lives  with  her, 
Felisarda,  daughter  to  Signior  Theodoro, 
A  trade-fall'u  merchant,  brother  to  Don  Carlos  ; 
This  Felisarda, 

That  now  lives  on  the  charity  of  her  uncle, 
Half  servant,  half  companion  to  Jacinta, 
And  fair,  I  would  pretend  to  love,  observe  me, 

sir. 
And  in  their  presence  court  her  as  my  mistress. 
Methinks  I  see  already  how  Jacinta 
Doth  fret  and  frown. 
Ram,.  I  like  it  well. 

Fer.  To  see  her  cousin  so  preferr'd,  it  is 
The  nature,  sir,  of  women  to  be  vex'd 
When  they  know  any  of  their  servants  court 
Another ;  and  that  love  they  thought  not  worth 
Their  own  reward,  will  sting  them  to  the  soul. 
When  'tis  translated  where  it  meets  with  love  ; 
And  this  will  either  break  her  stubborn  heart 
Or  humble  her. 

Ram.  But  what  if  this  pretence 
Bj'  such  degrees  convey  away  your  heart, 
That,  when  Jacinta  fcomes  to  sense,  you  cannot 
Ketrieve  your  passion  from  the  last  ?     Or  say, 
Felisarda  should  believe  you,  and  give  up 
Her  heart  to  your  possession,  when  you 
Are  by  your  first  desires  invited  back. 
What  cure  for  Felisarda's  wound,  if  you 
Affect  her  not  ?     Although  I  like  that  part 
Of  your  revenge,  1  woxild  not  have  my  sou 
Carry  the  hated  brand  of  cruelty. 
Or  hear  Fernando  broke  a  lady's  heart; 
But  live  upon  his  clear  and  honest  truth, 
And  if  Jacinta  have  not  valued  him. 
Find  his  own  estimation  in  some  other 
By  fair  and  noble  courtship.    Virtue  is 
Above  the  gaudy  shine  of  gold ;  and  if 
My  son  love  where  his  honour  cannot  suffer. 
The  want  of  dower  I  can  forgive. 

Fer.  You  now 
Read  excellent  charity,  and,  like  a  father, 
It  is  the  harmony  I  would  hear ;  I  chide 


My  fears,  that  did  susj)ect  you  would  prefer 

\Vealth  in  a  bride. 

There  is  no  beauty  or  estate  compar'd 

To  that  resulteth  from  the  soul.     I  dare 

Now  ope  this  narrow  closet,  and  present 

The  name  I  love  above  the  world  ;  it  is, 

Sir,  Felisarda,  equal  in  her  blood, 

Within  whose  virtuous  poverty 

More  treasures  are  contain'd,  than  in  those  veins 

Of  earth,  which,  open'd  by  our  slaves,  do  bleed 

Such  floods  of  gold  into  the  lap  of  Spain. 

Pardon  my  long  concealment  of  her  name, 

'Twas  sin  against  your  virtue,  and  once  more 

Speak  in  that  blessed  language,  I  may  hope 

To  call  this  virgin  mine. 

Ram.  How  long  have  you 
Been  taken  with  this  female  holiness  ? 

Fer.  Before  Jacinta  was  propounded,  this 
Took  firm  possession  of  my  faith. 

Ram.  Thou  hast 
Discover'd  thy  destruction,  foolish  boy ! 
Was  this  your  policy  to  be  reveng'd 
Upon  Jacinta,  whom  my  providence 
Elected  to  preserve  our  name  and  family, 
To  dote  upon  a  beggar  !     Thou  hast  flung 
A  fire  into  my  brain  ;  either  resolve 
To  perfect  my  commands,  and,  throwing  off 
That  trifle  thou  hast  prais'd,  prefer  Jacinta 
To  the  best  seat  within  thy  heart,  and  marry  her, 
Or  live  a  stranger  to  me,  and  divested 
Of  all  those  rights  which  nature  and  thy  birth 
Have  flatter'd  thee  with  hope  to  find.    Expect 

not, 
Alive,  the  stipend  of  a  groom  to  feed  thee, 
Nor,  dead,  the  naked  charity  of  a  shroud 
To  hide  thee  from  the  worms. 

Fer.  Oh,  sir,  call  back 
That  murdering  sentence  ;  it  were  sin  to  let 
This  passion  dwell  upon  you,  nor  would  Heaven, 
Whose  [equal]  eyes  survey  our  frailty,  suffer 
So  wild  a  rage  possess  you. 

Ram.  'Tis  within 
Thy  own  obedience  to  divert  it. 

Fer.  When 
You  ha'  heard  what  I  can  say  more,  you  will 
Your  fierce  command.  [chide 

Ram.  What  riddle's  this  ? 
Fer.  Jacinta's 
Already  made  another's,  and  my  force 
Upon  her  vows  can  be  no  less  than  sacrilege. 
Ram.  This  is  some  new  pretence. 
Fer.  Sir,  not  to  waste  your  patience,  she  hath 
Herself  by  holy  contract  to  Francisco.        [given 
Ram.  Thy  younger  brother  ? 
Fer.  This,  I  know,  will  calm 
Your  fury,  and  those  eyes,  that  threaten'd  light- 
ning, 
With  smiles  applaud  Francisco's  fate,  and  pi-aise 
My  disobedience. 

Ram,.  Francisco's  mistress  ? 
Fer.  His  wife,  confirm'd  by  vows  and  change 
of  hearts  ; 
I  had  it  from  themselves,  when  either  strove 
Whose    circumstance  should  credit  most  their 

story — 
Her  tear,  or  his  conclusive  groan,  to  seal 
Their  marriage ;  but  both  were  equal,  sir. 
What  curse  had  I  deserv'd,  should  I  divorce 
This  innocent  pair  of  lovers  ? 

Ram.  All  this  talk. 
Which  foolish  thou  interpret'st  thy  defence, 
Hath  but  enlarg'd  thy  folly ;  and  that  act 
Which  in  Francisco  I  commend,  upbraids 
Thy  own  degenerate  baseness.    Shall  thy  bi'other, 
Who  carries  all  his  portion  in  his  blood. 
Look  high,  and,  careful  of  his  honour,  aim 
At  fortunes,  and  with  confidence  achieve 


538 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


His  glorious  end  ?  and  shall  his  elder  brother, 
Engag'd  by  nearest  tie  to  advance  his  name, 
Lie  beating  in  the  common  track  of  gulls, 
And  sacrifice  his  birth  and  expectations 
To  a  cozening  face  and  poverty  ?     Instead 
Of  adding  monuments,  that  to  the  world 
Should  be  his  living  chronicle,  to  bury 
His  own  and  all  the  antique  honoui-s  he 
Ne'er  sweat  for,  but  were  cast  into  his  blood. 
Within  a  dunghill  ? — Thou  hast  forfeited 
Thy  birthright,  which  Francisco  shall  inherit ; 
Nor  shall  the  loss  of  my  estate  be  all 
Thy  punishment.  Hear,  and  believe  with  horror ; 
If  thou  renounce  not  her  that  hath  bewitch'd 
Thy  heart,  Felisarda,  and,  by  such  a  choice 
I  shall  affect,  redeem  this  scandal  nobly, 
Fernando,  from  this  minute,  I  pronounce 
Heir  to  his  father's  curse.     I5e  wise,  or  perish  ! 

SExit. 
Fer.  "Why  does  not  all  the  stock  of  thunder 
fall? 

Enter  Francisco. 

Or  the  fierce  winds,  from  their  close  caves  let 

loose, 
Now  shake  me  into  atoms  ? 

Fran.  Fie,  noble  brother,  what  can  so  deject 
Your  masculine  thoughts  ?  is  this  done  like  Fer- 
nando, 
Whose  resolute  soul  so  late  was  arm'd  to  fight 
With  all  the  miseries  of  man,  and  triumph 
With  patience  of  a  martyr  ?     I  observ'd 
My  father  late  come  from  you. 

Fei:  Yes,  Francisco, 
He  hath  left  his  curse  upon  me. 

Fran.  How? 

Fer.  His  curse :  dost  comprehend  what  that 
word  carries, 
Shot  from  a  father's  angry  breath  ?    Unless 
I  tear  poor  Felisarda  from  my  heart. 
He  hath  px-onounc'd  me  heir  to  all  his  curses. — 
Does  this  fright  thee,  Francisco  ?  thou  hast  cause 
To  dance  in  soul  for  this,  'tis  only  I 
Must  lose  and  mourn.    Thou  shalt  have  all ;  I  am 
Degraded  from  my  birth,  while  he  affects 
Thy  forward  youth,  and  only  calls  thee  son — 
Son  of  his  active  spirit,  and  applauds 
Thy  progress  with  Jacinta,  in  whose  smiles 
Thou  may'st  see  all  thy  wishes  waiting  for  thee ; 
AVhilst  poor  Fernando,  for  her  sake,  must  stand 
An  excommunicate  from  every  blessing, 
A  thing  that  dare  not  give  myself  a  name, 
But  flung  into  the  world's  necessities. 
Until  in  time,  with  wonder  of  my  wants, 
I  turn  a  ragged  statue,  on  whose  forehead 
Each  clown  may  carve  his  motto. 

Fran.  Will  it  call 
His  blessing  back,  if  you  can  quit  your  love 
To  Felisarda  ?  she  is  now  a  stranger 
To  her  uncle's  house.    I  met  one  of  his  servants 
Who  told  me,  on  some  jealous  apprehension, 
Don  Carlos  had  discharg'd  and  banish'd  her. 

Fer.  He  could  not  be  so  barbarous ! 

Fran.  You  know 
Her  father's  poverty. 

Fer.  And  her  wealth  of  virtue. 

Fran.  It  is  worth  your  counsel 
To  examine  what  you  may  preserve,  if  wisely 
You  could  persuade  your  heart  to  love  some 
other — 

Fer.  What  was't  Francisco  said  ? 

Fran.  Whose  equal  birth 
And  virtues  may  invite  a  noble  change. 

Fer.  Do  not  you  love  Jacinta  ? 

Fran.  Most  religiously. 

Fer.  If  you  can  but  contrive  your  hearts  at 
distance, 


And,  in  contempt  of  honour  and  your  faith, 
Sacred  to  Heaven  and  love,  disclaim  your  mis- 
tress, 
I  may  be  happy  yet ;  what  say  [you]  ?    I  know 
Jacinta's  wise,  and  when  she  understands 
How  much  it  will  advance  her  charity — 
Fran.  Our  case  is  not  the  same  with  yours, 
good  brother ; 
We  have  been  long  acquaintecj,  to  contract 
Affections.     If  I  understand,  your  loves 
Are  young,  and  had  no  time  for  growth. 

Fer.  Do  not  wound  me. 
'Tis  false,  by  love  itself !     Thou  hast  deserv'd 
I  should  forget  thee  now.     Dost  thou  consider 
Love  (that  doth  make  all  harmony  in  our  soul, 
And  seated  in  that  noblest  place  of  life, 
The  heart)  with  things  that  are  the  slaves  of 

time. 
And  that,  like  common  seeds  thrown  into  earth. 
It  must  have  leisure  to  corrupt,  and  after 
Much  expectation,  rise  to  name  and  vigour  ? 
Love  is  not  like  the  child  that  grows,  and  get8 
By  slow  degi-ees  perfection ;  but  created, 
Like  the  first  man,  at  full  strength  the  first 

minute. 
It  makes  a  noble  choice,  and  gains  from  time 
To  be  call'd  only  constant,  not  increas'd. 
Preserve  thy  own  affections,  and  think  mine 
Noble  as  they,  I  shall  suspect  thy  love 
To  me  else  :  pr'ythee  leave  me. 

Fran.  I'll  obey, 
And  study  how  to  serve  you. 

l^Exit.    Fernando  walks  aside. 

Enter  Felisarda. 

Fer.  Ha !  'tis  Felisarda. 

Fel.  Turn'd  out  like  one  that  had  been  false ! 
where  shall 
Poor  Felisarda  wander  ?     Were  it  not 
To  ask  a  father's  blessing,  I  would  visit 
Some  wilderness,  ere  thus  present  myself, 
His  burden  and  his  sorrow. 

Enter  Don  Pedro. 

Fed.  Had  you  no 
Eelation  to  Jacinta,  pretty  one  ? 

Fel.  I  was  her  servant. 

Fed.  Gome,  you  shall  be  my  mistress:  they 
have  us'd 
Thee  scurvily;  I  will  provide  thee  a  lodging. 

Fer.  I  shall  not  use  your  bounty,  sir,  for  that. 

Fed.  Thou  art  a  handsome  donna ;  here's  a 
pistolet ; 
Meet  me  i'  the  evening,  wilt  ? 

Fel.  Where,  and  for  what  ? 

Fed.  The  where,  at  thy  own  choice  ;  the  what, 
thy  honour. 

Fel.  You  are  not  noble. 

Fed.  Don  Pedro  will  embrace  thy  buxom  body. 

Fer.  {coming  forward.l  You  must  unhand  thas 
virgin. 

Fel,  For  goodness,  sir, 
Add  not  your  anger  to  my  sufferings. 
Unhappy  Felisarda !  * 

Fed.  Is  she  a  friend  of  yours,  signior  ? 

Fer.  She  is  not  for  your  sinful   knowledge, 
Don. 

Fed.  Beso  las  manos ;  a  Dios,  senora  !■ — Diablo  ! ' 
My  blood  is  high  and  hot ;  unless  I  marry  timely, 
I  must  seek  out  a  female  julap.  [Exit. 

Fel.  Don  Carlos'  fear  of  you  was  my  first  error ; 
But  I  accept  my  banishment,  and  shall 
Humbla  ciyself  to  my  poor  father's  fortune. — 


1  '  I  kiss  hands ;  adieu,  lady  I — The  devil  i ' 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


539 


You  will  be,  sir,  dishonour'd  to  be  seen 
With  such  a  walking  misery. 

Fer.  Thy  uncle 
Hath  play'd  the  tyrant  with  thee  ;  but  lose  not 
Thy  virtuous  courage  ;  how  our  stories  meet 
And  challenge  kindred  in  affliction  ! 
Oh  !  Felisarda,  I  do  suffer  too, 
And  for  thy  sake :  thou  shalt  know  more.   Till  I 
Salute  thee  at  thy  father's  house,  preserve 
Good  thoughts  of  thy  Fernando,  and  accept 
This  little  gold,  no  bribe  against  thy  honour. 

Fal.  Mj  best  return  must  be  mv  prayers. 

lExit. 

Fer.  Farewell ! — 
'Tis  not  impossible  my  father  may 
Ketract  his  cruelty,  and  by  time,  and  some 
Discreet  ways,  yet  be  wrought  to  like  what  no  w 
His  passion  will  not  let  him  see — her  virtue. 
How  many  seas  are  met  to  wrestle  here !     lExif. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  Do2f  Carlos'  Souse. 

Enter  Jacinta  and  Alberto. 

Jac.  I  love  you,  sir,  so  well,  that  I  could  wish 
You  were  a  witch. 

Alb.  A  witch  !  your  reason,  lady .' 

Jac.  Then  'twere  within  the  circle  of  your  art. 
By  some  device  to  rid  me  of  Don  Pedro  ; 
Or  if  you  could  by  any  spell  but  get 
My  father  disaffect  him. — 

Alb.  A  witch  !  that's  a  way  about ;  I  were  best 
cut  his  throat  a  little. 

Jac.  You're  much  beholding  to  my  brother,  sii'. 
He  still  commends  you ;  such  an  advocate 
Deserves  his  fee. 

Alb.  Unless  my  cause  succeed, 
He  has  been  fee'd  too   much — [Aside.'] — Your 

brother,  lady, 
Preserves  a  noble  friendship.     If  I  were  sure 
You  would  be  mine,  Jacinta,  I  could  tarry 
Till  your  father  die. 

Jac.  But  how  can  you  procure 
Don  Pedro  to  have  patience  so  long. 
Whom  my  father  pleads  for,  and  prefers  ? 

Alb.  There,    there's    the    mischief;     I    must 
poison  him : 
One  fig  1  sends  him  to  Erebus ;  'tis  in 
Your  power  and  wit  to  spin  out  time  ;  I  may 
Invent  a  means  for  his  conveyance. — Ha  ! 

Enter  Don  Carlos,  Estefania,  and  Luys. 

Jac.  The  Lady  Estefania ! 

Car.  Welcome  again ; 
This  is  an  honour  to  us.     Where's  Jacinta  ? 
Salute  this  noble  lady. — Ha,  Luigi, 
Hast  thou  prevail'd  akeady  ? 

Lzii/s.  I  am  i'  the  way,  you  see ; 
She  has  not  been  observ'd,  they  say,  to  walk 
So  freely  with  some  men  that  boast  more  favour. 

Enter  Dox  Pedro. 

Fed,  What  makes  the  Lady  Estefania  here  ? 

[Aside. 
I  like  not  their  converse :  this  day  is  ominous. 

[Exit. 
Car.   Was't  not  the  Count  Don  Pedro  that 
retir'd  ? 
What  object  here  displeas'd  him  ? 
Alb.  Ha,  ha !  didst  see  the  Don  ? 
Car.  Preserve  your  mirth — I  must  be  satisfied. 
[Exit.     Luys  and  Alb.  walk  aside. 

1  One  Jig — i.e.  the  poisoned  fig  of  Portugal,  or  rather 
of  Spain. — Giffokd. 


_  Lui/s.  I'll  lay  a  thousand  ducats  that  my  cos- 
tive don  has  been  tampering  with  my  widow  : 
I  observ'd. 

When  I  by  chance  let  fall  discourse,  how  much 
He  was  an  amorous  servant  to  Jacinta, 
She  chang'd  her  colour,  and  did  make 
Such  business  how  my  sister  did  affect  him, 
That   I   may  guess,  though   I   make  use   on't 

otherwise 
To  the  old  man,  to  keep  the  pulses  of 
His  purse  in  play,  she  came  to  examine  chiefly 
How  matters  here  proceeded.    Well,  if  she  love 
him — 

Alb.  She  is  thy  mistress. 

Lvys.  My  mistress !    Yes,  but  any  man  shall 
marry  her. 

Alb.  How? 

Lv.ys.  She  is  a  widow,  Don,  consider  that ; 
Has  buried  one  was  thought  a  Hercules, 
Two  cubits  taller,  and  a  man  that  cut 
Three  inches  deeper  in  the  say'  than  I ; 
Consider  that  too : 

She  may  be  cock  o'  twenty ;-    nay,  for  aught 
I  know,  she  is  immortal. 

Alb.  What  dost  with  her? 

Lui/s.  Faith,  nothing  yet. 
And  have  but  little  hope  ;  I  think  she's  honest. 

Alb.  Does  she  love  thee  ? 

Lu!/s.  At  her  own  peril ;  we  are  not  come  to 
articles ; 
There  is  no  wit  in  wiving. 

But  that  I  owe  thee  money,  thou  shouldst  never 
Marry  my  sister  either. 

Alb.  Not  Jacinta? 

Luys.  No, 
Nor  any  other  simpering  piece  of  honesty, 
If  I  might  counsel  thee. 

Is't  fit  a  freeborn  gentleman  should  be  chain'd 
Tenant  for  life  to  one  ?  Hang  marriage  shackles  ! 

Jac.  Don  Pedro  was  to  blame ;  and  trust  me, 
madam. 
He  shall  find  nothing  here  t'  advance  his  triumph. 

Estef.  You  are  virtuous,  Jacinta  ;  I  presum'd. 
When   I   should  land   my  sufferings    on   your 

knowledge. 
You  would  excuse  my  unexpected  visit. 

Jac.  My  brother  has  been  just  in  the  relation 
How  he  pursues  my  love  ;  but  I  shall  be 
Happy  to  serve  your  justice,  and  must  tell 
The  noble  Estefania  my  heart. 
By  all  that  love  can  teach  to  bind  a  faith, 
Is  placed  where  it  shall  never  injure  what 
Your  mutual  vows  contracted.     I  smile  not 
With  mine  own  eyes  upon  him  ;  'tis  my  father's 
Severe  command  to  love  him  ;  but  this  story, 
Clear'd  to  my  father,  would  secure  us  both. 

Estef.  If  any  faith  or  service  in  me  can 
Deserve  this  goodness,  cheerfully  employ  it. 

Jac.  I  will  be  confident  to  use  your  virtue. 

Estef.  I  will  refuse  no  office. 

Re-enter  Don  Carlos. 

Jac.  My  father  comes  most  aptly. 

Alb.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  have  pity  on  my  spleen, 
I  shall  crack  a  rib  else ;  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Car.  You  are  very  merry,  Don  Alberto. — Son, 
You  may  be  of  the  counsel  too  ;  this  house 
Is  mine,  I  take  it ;  1  advise  you  would 
Frequent  it  less. 

1  in  the  say — i.e.  in  the  fat.  To  take  the  say,  is  to 
draw  the  knife  along  the  belly  of  the  deer,  near  the 
brisket,  enough  (say  the  old  books  on  venery)  in  length 
and  depth  to  discover  how  fat  he  is.  The  expression 
occurs  perpetually  in  our  old  writers,  in  the  sense  of 
making  a  trial  and  experiment. — Giffokd. 

-  A  cock  o'  twenty  IS,  one  that  has  killed  such  a  number 
of  his  antagonists  in  the  pit. — Giffokd. 


540 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


Alb.  How,  sir  ? 

Car.  I  do  not  like  j'our  visits  ; 
And,  to  remove  the  cause,  my  daiighter  is 
Alread}',  sir,  dispos'd  to  one  above 
Your  birth  and  fortune ;  so,  [sir,]  fare  you  well ! 
You   understand ;   now   laugh    and    pick   your 

teeth. 
Daughter — 

Alb.  Did  you  hear  this,  Luys  ? 

Luys.  Ay,  the  old  man  raves. 

Alb.  Must  not  frequent  his  house ! 

LvifS.  Would  'twere  in  a  flame,  so  his  money 
and  I  were  out  on't. 

Alb.  But  thy  sister — 

Luys.  Would   be  refln'd  i'  the  fire ;    let   her 
burn  too. 

Alb.  My  friend,  if  I  have  not  Jacinta, 
There  are  certain  sums  of  money — 

Luys.  I  am  not 
Of  your  mind,  Don ;  the  sums  are  most  uncer- 
tain. 
Come,  you  did  laugh  too  loud ;  my  father  is 
A  stoic  ;  but  despair  not ;  go  to  your  lodging. 
I'll  see  thee  anon,  and  either  bring  thee  money. 
Or  else  some  reasons  why  I  do  not  bring  it. 
We  will  not  go  to  law ;  I'll  pawn  the  widow 
Kather  than   thou   shalt   want.      Go,   say   thy 

prayers. 
And   show  thy  teeth  no   more,  till  I   come  to 
thee. —  [Exit  Alberto. 

Now,  the  business  here .' 

Car.  We  have  agreed,  Jacinta  ; 
And  he,  to-morrow,  privately. 
Will  at  the  church  expect  thee ;  'tis  an  age 
Till  I  salute  thee  bride  to  this  great  Don, 
Whose  thoughts  are  wing'd  t'  enjoy  thee,  and 

resolve 
No  more  delay  :  prepare  to  meet  this  honour. 

iMys.  To-morrow !  this  must  be  cross'd. 

[Aside. 

Car.  My  next  ambition,  madam,  will  be  perfect. 
To  call  yoii  by  some  nearer  name  ;  my  son — 

Estef.  Is  a  most  noble  gentleman  ;  I  know  not 
Where  lives  so  clear  a  merit. 

Luys.  Oh,  sweet  madam! 

Car.  Jacinta ! 

Luys.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Estef.  Tome? 

Luys.  Only  that  you  would  not  dote  too  much 
upon  me  :  a  gentle,  easy,  sober  pace  in  love  goes 
far,  and  is  much  better  than  a  gallop.  If  you 
please,  we  may  hold  one  another  in  hand,  and 
love  this  seven  years  without  sealing  and  deliver- 
ing. 

Estef.  With  all  my  heart. 

Lmys.  You'll  do  me  a  pleasure,  madam. 

Estef.  You  instruct  well. 

Luys.  This  courtship  is  not  common. 

Estef.  I  confess  it. 

Car.  Son  Luys. 

Luys.  Sir.  [Car.  and  Luys  converse  aside. 

Car.  Let  her  not  cool. 

Luys.  An  she  do, 
I  know  the  way  to  heat  her  again. 

Estef.  I  will  not  yet  reveal  my  abuse,  Jacinta ; 
And  if  you  please  to  favour  a  design, 
I  have  a  plot  may  serve  to  both  our  happiness. 

Jac.  I'll  obey. 
There  is  a  trembling  in  my  heart. 

Car.  You  must  not  leave  us  yet,  madam. 

Estef.  You  may  command  me. 

Luys.  My  Don  so  rampant !  there  something 
in  this  pannier 
Shall  spoil  your  match  to-morrow :  Don  Alberto, 
When  I  disclose,  shall  worship  me,  be  drunk, 
Cancel  arrears,  and  beg  to  lend  more  money. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I. 

A  Room  in  Don  Eamyres'  House. 

Enter  Eamyres  readinfi  a  paper,  Francisco,  and 
a  Notary. 

Earn.  'Tis  most  exactly  done,  and  firm. 

Xota.  I  could, 
Omitting  or  inserting  but  a  word. 
Or  particle,  trouble  the  whole  conveyance. 
And  make  work  for  the  law  till  doomsday ;  but — 

Fran.  Is't  possible  ? 

Nota.  You  do  not  know  the  quirks  of  a  scrivauo. 
A  dash  undoes  a  family, — a  point, 
An  artificial  accent  i'  the  wrong  place. 
Shall  poison  an  estate,  translate  your  land 
In  Spain  now,  into  either  of  both  Indies, 
In  less  time  than  our  galleons  of  plate 
Are  sailing  hither  ;  but  you  are  my  friend 
And  noble  benefactor. 

Ram.  There  is  more 
For  your  reward.  [Gives  him  money. 

Nota.  I  humbly  thank  you,  signior ;  su  criado. 

Fran.  Farewell. 

Nota.  Su  servidor.  [Exit. 

Ram.  This  deed  makes  thee  my  heir,  Fran- 
cisco, and 
Will,  like  a  powerful  spell  upon  Don  Carlos, 
Whose  soul  is  superstitious  about  wealth. 
Win  his  consent  to  make  Jacinta  thine. 

Fran.  Sir, 
I  cannot  say  my  duty  shall  deserve  it. 
Since  nature  and  religion,  without  all 
This  bounty,  challenges  my  best  obedience. 

Enter  Fernando. 

Ram.  Away  !  th}'  sight 
Is  my  disease. 
Ftr.  Your  blessing,  sir,  I  kneel  for. 
Ram.  What  impudence  is  this  ?     Wilt  thou 
subscribe. 
To  take  off  mine,  thy  curse  on  Felisarda  ? 
For  I  do  hate  her  heartily :  disclaim 
All  promise,  contract,  or  converse  for  ever, 
I'm  else  inexorable. 
Fer.  Sir! 

Ram.  His  eyes  shoot  poison  at  me ;  ha !  he  has 
Bewitched  me,  sure.      What  coldness  thus  in- 
vades me  ? 
There's  something  creeping  to  my  heart.     Fran- 
cisco ! 
Possess  this  gift  of  thy  inheritance. 

[Gives  Mm  the  Deed. 
Convey  me  to  my  chamber ;  oh! — Fernando, 
If  thou  dost  hope  I  should  take  off  my  curse. 
Do  not  approach  my  sight,  unless  I  send  for  thee. 
Fran.   Forbear,    good   brother. — Diego  !    Eo- 
derigo  I 

Enter  two  Servants. 

Your  hands  t'  assist  my  father:  one  go  for  his 
physician.        [Exeunt  Francisco,  and  Ser- 
vants, bearing  Eamyres, 
Fer.  This  turn  is  fatal,  and  affrights  me ;  but 
Heaven  has  more  charity  than  to  let  him  die 
With  such  a  hard  heart ;  'twere  a  sin,  next  his 
Want  of  compassion,  to  suspect  he  can 
Take  his  eternal  flight,  and  leave  Fernando 
This  desperate  legacy  :  he  will  [yet]  change 
The  curse  into  some  little  prayer,  I  nope, 
And  then — 

Enter  Servant  with  a  Physician. 

Sei-v.  Make  haste,  I  beseech  you,  doctor. 
Phys.  Noble  Fernando. 

Fer.  As  you  would  have  men  think  your  art 
is  meant 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


541 


Not  to  abuse  mankind,  employ  it  all 
To  cure  mj'  poor  sick  father. 
Phys.  Fear  it  not,  sir. 

\Exeunt  Physician  and  Servant. 
Fer.  But  there  is  more  than  your  thin  sliill 
requir'd 
T'  instate  a  health  ;  your  recipes,  pei-plex'd 
^\'ith  tough  names,  are  but  mockeries  and  noise, 
Without  some  dew  from  heaven,  to  mix  and 
make  them 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Thrive  in  the  application — What  now  ? 

Ser.  Oh,  sir,  I  am  sent  for  the  confessor, 
The  doctor  fears  him  much.     Your  brother  says 
You  must  have  patience,  and  not  enter',  sir : 
Your  father  is  a  going,  good  old  man, 
And,  having  made  him  heir,  is  loath  your  presence 
Should  interrupt  his  journey.  [^Exit. 

Fer.  Francisco  may  be  honest,  yet,  methinks, 
It  would  become  his  love  to  interpose 
For  my  access  at  such  a  needful  hour, 
And  mediate  for  my  blessing,  not  assist 
Unkindly  thus  my  banishment.     I'll  not 
Be  lost  so  tamely.     Shall  my  father  die 
And  not  Fernando  take  his  leave  ? — I  dare  not. — 
If  thou  dost  hope  I  should  take  off  this  curse, 
Do  not  approach  until  I  send — 'twas  so, 
And  'tis  a  law  that  binds  above  my  blood. — 

Re-enter  Servant  with  a  Confessor. 

Make  haste,  good  father,  and  if  Heaven  deny 
Him  life,  let  not  his  charity  die  too. 
One  curse  may  sink  us  both:  say  how  I  kneel 
And  beg  he  would  bequeath  mo  but  his  blessing ; 
Then,  though  Francisco  be  his  heir,  I  shall 
Live  happy,  and  take  comfort  in  my  tears, 
When  I  remember  him,  so  kind  a  lather. 

Conjf.  It  is  my  duty.  \^Exil. 

Fer.  Do  your  holy  office. — 
Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 
Our  human  nature,  and  did  boast  we  had 
Such  a  prerogative  in  our  rational  soul, 
Convers'd  but  little  with  the  world ;  confined 
To  cells  and  unfrequented  woods,  they  knew  not 
The  fierce  vexation  of  community. 
Else  they  had  taught  our  reason  is  our  loss, 
And  but  a  privilege  that  exceedeth  sense, 
By  nearer  apprehension  of  what  wounds, 
To  know  ourselves  most  miserable. — My  heart 

Re-ent£r  Physician  and  Francisco. 

Is  teeming  with  new  fears. — Ha !  is  he  dead .' 

Phys.  M  ot  dead,  but  in  a  desperate  condition  ; 
And  so  that  little  breath  remains  we  have 
Remitted  to  his  confessor,  whose  office 
Is  all  that's  left. 

Fran.  Is  there  no  hope  of  life  left,  then  ? 

Phys.  None. 

Fer.  Is  he  not  merciful  to  Fernando  yet  ? 
No  talk  of  me  ? 

Phys.  I  find  he  takes  no  pleasure 
To  hear  you  nam'd:  Fi-ancisco,  to  us  all. 
He  did  confirm  his  heir,  with  many  blessings. 

Fei:  And  not  one  left  for  me!  Oh,  take  me  in, 
Thou  gentle  earth,  and  let  me  creep  through  all 
Thy  dark  and  hollow  crannies,  till  I  find 
Another  way  to  come  into  the  world, 
For  all  the  air  I  breathe  in  here  is  poison 'd. 

Fran.   We  must  have  patience,   brother;    it 
was  no 
Ambitious  thought  of  mine  to  supplant  you : 
He  may  live  yet,  and  you  be  reconciled. 

Fer.  That  was  some  kindness  yet,  Francisco  : 
but 
1  charge  thee  by  the  nearness  of  our  blood. 
When  I  am  made  this  mockery,  and  wonder, 


And  know  not  M-here  to  find  out  charity. 

If  unawares  a  chance  direct  my  weary 

And  wither'd  feet  to  some  fair  house  of  thine. 

Where  plenty  with  full  blessings  crowns  thy 

table. 
If  my  thin  face  betray  my  want  of  food. 
Do  not  despise  me,  'cause  I  was  thy  brother. — 
Fran.  Leave  these  imagined  horrors:  I  must 

not 
Live  when  my  brother  is  thus  miserable. 

Re-enter  Confessor. 

Fer.    There's  something  in   that  face  looks 
comfortably. 

ConJ".  Your  father,  sir,  is  dead ;    his  will  to 
make 
Francisco  the  sole  master  of  his  fortunes 
Is  now  irrevocable  ;  a  small  pension 
He  hath  given  you  for  life,   which,  with   his 

blessing, 
Is  all  the  benefit  I  bring. 

Fer.  Ha!  blessing! 
Speak  it  again,  good  father. 

Con/.  1  did  apply  some  lenitives  to  soften 
His  anger,  and  prevail'd  ;  your  father  hath 
Kevers'd  that  heavy  censure  of  his  curse, 
And  in  the   place  bequeath'd   his  prayer  and 
blessing. 

Fer.  I  am  new  created  by  his  charity. 

Co/iJ]  Some  ceremonies  are  behind  :  he  did 
Desire  to  be  interr'd  within  our  convent, 
And  left  his  sepulture  to  me ;  I  am  confident 
Vour  pieties  will  give  me  leave — 

Fran.  His  will  in  all  things  I  obey,  and  yours, 
Jlost  reverend  father ;  order,  as  you  please, 
His  body ;  we  may  after  celebrate. 
With  all  due  obsequies,  his  funeral. 

Fer.  Why  you  alone  obey .'  I  am  your  brother. 
My  father's  eldest  son,  though  not  his  heir. 

Fran.  It  pleas'd  my  father,  sir,  to  think  me 
worthy 
Of  such  a  title ;  you  shall  find  me  kind, 
If  you  can  look  on  matters  without  en  vy. 

Fer.  If  I  can  look  on  matters  without  envy ! 

Fran.  You  may  live  here  still. 

Fer.  I  may  live  here,  Francisco ! 

Enter  a  Gentleman  with  a  letter,  and  whispers 
Feancisco. 

Conditions? 

I  would  not  understand  this  dialect. — 

Fran.  With  me  ?  from  Madam  Estefania  ? 

Gent.  If  you  be  Siguier  Francisco. 

Fer.  Slighted! 
I  find  my  father  was  not  dead  till  now. 
Crowd  not,  you  jealous  thoughts. 
So  thick  into  my  brain,  lest  you  do  tempt 
Me  to  an  act  will  forfeit  all  again. 

Fran.  This  is  Jacinta's  character.  —  [Read.^ 
aside.'l — Fail  not  to  meet  [me']  timely,  as  you  luiU 
prevent  the  danger  of  my  rape. — My  soul!  Estefania 
can  instruct  you  all  particulars. — 
My  service  to  your  lady ;  say,  I  shall  obey  her 
commands.  \_Exit.  Gent. 

Fer.  Is  that  an  inventory  you  peruse  ? 

Fran.  Fernando,  you  must  pardon  me  ;  there's 
something 
Of  essence  to  my  life  exacts  my  care 
And  person  ;  I  must  leave  you,  we  may  season- 
ably 
Confer  of  things  at  my  return. — Jacinta !     [Exit. 

Fer.  'Tis  clear  I  am  neglected ;  he  did  name 
Jacinta,  too,  in  triumph,  and  is  gone. 
Big  with  his  glories,  to  divide  them  there. 
And  laugh  at  what  my  constant  love  hath  made 

me. 
My  heart  is  in  a  storm,  and  day  grows  black ; 


542 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


There's  not  a  star  in  heaven  will  lend  a  beam 
To  light  me  to  my  ruin.     Felisarda ! — 
That  name  is  both  my  haven  and  my  ship- 
wreck. \_Exit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  11. 
Don  Alberto's  Lodgings. 
Enter  Alberto  and  Luys. 

Alh.  Excellent! 

Luys.  You'll  give  me  now  a  general  release 
For  all  the  sums  I  owe  you  ? 

Alh.  Thou  hast  bless'd  me. 

Lwys.  I  was  born  to  do  you  good;    about  it 
presently, 
Now  you  know  where  to  ambush.     Away !  I  say, 
And  get  comrades.    Jacinta  and  my  mother 
Is  all  the  carriage  :  you  may  know  the  coach 
By  the  old  woman's  cough,  ere  it  come  near  you. 
She  has  a  desperate  malice  to  one  tooth  left 
Still  in  her  gums  ;  till  she  has  shook  that  out 
You  will  not  need  a  warning-piece.     Farewell. 

Alh.  Farewell  ?  why,  what's  the  matter  ?  You 
shall  not  leave  me ; 
Thy  mother  will  not  know  thee  in  a  vizard. 

Luys.  You  must  excuse  me,  friend:  I  would 
join  wi'  ye 
I'  the  surprise,  but  that — 

Alh.  What,  I  pr'ythee  ? 

Luys.    I    have    extraordinary  business,   that 
concerns  me 
As  near  as  life. 

Alh.  May  not  I  know't  ?  Thou  art  going 
To  the  widow,  now,  thy  mistress. 

Luys.  'Tis  a  business  of  more  consequence. 
Dost  think  I  would  leave  thee  an  there  were  not 
such  a  necessity .' 

Alb.  For  what? 

Luys.  An  thei-e  were  no  more  sisters  in  the 
world. 
You  must  excuse  me. 

Alb.  Nay,  nay;   we  must  not  part,  unless  I 
know 
This  mystery ;  some  reason  why  you  leave  me. 

Luys.  If  you  will  needs  know,  there's  a  wench 
stays  for  me, 
The  toy  I  told  thee  of.    Farewell,  Alberto. 

Alb.  But  will  you  leave  such  business  and  a 
friend  ? 

Luys.  Business!  art  thou  a  gentleman,  and 
wouldst  have  me  leave  a  lady  I  have  not  seen 
this  three  year 

For  business  or  a  friend  ?     I  must  to  her. 
If  I  had  a  heart  [that  weighed]  ten  ton  of  ii'on. 
This  female  adamant  i  would  draw  it  to  her  ; 
I  feel  it  going.     I  do  tell  thee,  Don, 
There  is  no  business  so  material 
In  nature  as  a  wench ;  and  if  thou  art  my  friend. 
Thou  wouldst  leave  my  sister  now  in  such  a  cause. 
And  bear  me  company.     I  must  be  drunk, 
And  she  must  pick  my  pocket  too,  that  is 
Another  secret,  when  we  meet  together, 
That  never  fails ! 

Alb.  Why,  art  thou  desperate? 
Dost  not  thou  fear  thy  body  ? 

Lniys.  A  wench  is  physic 
My  body  has  been  us'd  to.    Leave  thy  prating 
And  let  me  take  my  course. 

Alb.  An  you  be  so  resolute — 

Luys.  I  must  give  you  one  advice  before  you  go. 
When  my  sister's  in  thy  custody,  observe 
The  time  and  place,  and  things  convenient, 
And  stand  not  fooling  about  ceremonies, 
But  put  her  to't. 


*  adamant — magnet. 


Alb.  Was  ever  such  a  mad-cap ! 

Luys.  I'll  not  pray  for  thee. 

Alh.  I  shall  not  prosper  if  thou  dost. 

Luys.  Thy  hand ; 
I'll  drink  thy  health,  and  hang  thyself. 
Farewell.  {Exeunt. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  Don  Carlos'  House. 

Enter  Jacinta  and  Estefania,  hooded  and 
dressed  alike. 

Jac.  You  tell 
Sle  wonders,  madam.    Don  Eamyres  dead, 
His  son  Fernando  disinherited, 
And  young  Francisco  made  his  heir  ! 

Estef.  I  took 
Francisco's  word. 

Jac.  'Tis  strange. 

Estef.  Your  stars  smile  on  you. 

Jac.  Yet  I  much  pity  the  poor  gentleman. 

Estef.   Busy  your  thought  about  your  own; 
Franpisco — 

Jac.  Hath  promis'd  not  to  fail  ? 

Estef.  He  waits  where  he  can  easily  observe 
How  soon  the  coast  is  clear,  to  visit  you. 

Jac.  So,  so  :  thus  hooded. 
The  day  cannot  distinguish  our  two  faces. 
And,  for  your  voice,  you  know  how  to  disguise  it. 
By  imitation  of  my  cold  and  hoarseness ; 
And  when  you  come  to  church — 

Estef.    Let  me  alone;    there  I'll  produce  the 
contract. 
Which  will  surprise  Don  Pedro  and  your  father 
To  see  me  challenge  him.     I  have  prepar'd  the 

priest,  too. 
Whose  holy  eloquence  may  assist;  however, 
This  will  give  you  opportunity  to  perfect 
Your  wishes  with  your  servant;  put  the  rest 
To  fate,  Jacinta. 

Jac.  I  hear  some  approach ; 
Eetire  into  my  closet. —  {Exit  Estefaota. 

Enter  Don  Carlos  and  Don  Pedro. 

Car.  Jacinta! 

Jac.  Sir. 

Car.  Not  thy  voice  recover'd  ? 

Jac.  A  violent  cold — 

Car.  Count  Pedro  must  salute  you  ere  we  go. 

Ped.  Impute  it  to  devotion,  that  I  make 
Such  haste  to  be  within  thy  arms ; 
One  kiss,  and  I  shall  carry  with  me 
Another  soul,  and  count  with  joy  the  minutes 
I  am  to  expect  this  happiness.  {Kisses  her. 

Car.  Jacinta, 
You  follow  with  your  mother  in  the  coach. — 
ily  lord,  I  wait  you. 

Fed.  There's  heaven  upon  her  lip. 

{Exeunt  Carlos  and  Pedro. 

Re-enter  Estefania. 

Jac.  He  has  kiss'd,  and  took  his  leave,  I  hope. 
I  must 
Owe  all  my  happiness  to  you,  sweet  madam; 
I  had  been  lost  without  your  art  to  help  me. 
Estef.  Love  will  not  leave  his  votaries. 

{Coughing  within. 
Jac.    I  hear    my  mother's    cough ;    I    have 
finish'd. 
And  you  must  act  your  part.  {Exit. 

Enter  Alsimira. 
Als.   Come,   are    you   ready,   daughter?    the 
coach  stays. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


54; 


Este^f.  I  attend. 

Ms.  Don  Pedro  will  cure  your  cold  before  the 
morning.  \Exmnt' 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 

A  Street. 

Francisco  and  Jacinta  pass  hastily  over  tKe 
stage. 

ACT  IV.— SCENE  V 

A  Boom  in  Theodoro's  House. 

Enter  Theodoro  and  Eelisarda. 

Tkeo.  What  duty,  Eelisarda,  shall  we  pay 
To  Heaven  for  this  last  care  of  us  ? 
Let  not  thy  eyes, 

Although  ihy  grief  become  them,  be  in  love 
With  tears  :  I  prophesy  a  joy  shall  weigh 
Down  all  our  sufferings;  I  see  comfort  break 
Like  dav,  whose  forehead  cheers  the  world.     If 

Don 
Fei'nando  love  thee,  he  is  a  gentleman, 
Confirm'd  in  all  that's  honourable,  and  cannot 
Forget  whom  his  own  virtue  hath  made  choice 
To  shine  upon. 

Fel.  Unless  my  innocence, 
Apt  to  believe  a  flattering  tongue,  see  not 
The  serpent  couch,  and  hide  his  speckled  breast 
Among  the  flowers :  but  it  were  sin  to  think 
He  can  dissemble,  father ;  and  I  know  not, 
Since  I  was  first  the  object  of  his  charity, 
I  find  a  pious  gratitude  disperse 
Within  my  soul,  and  every  thought  of  him 
Engenders  a  warm  sigh  within  me,  which, 
Like  curls  of  holy  incense,  overtake 
Each  other  in  my  bosom,  and  enlarge 
With  their  embrace  his  sweet  remembrance. 

Theo.  Cherish 
Those  thoughts ;  and  where  such  noble  worth 
Be  bold  to  call  it  love.  [invites, 

Fel.  It  is  too  much 
Ambition  to  hope  he  should  be  just 
To  me,  or  keep  his  honour,  when  I  look  on 
The  pale  complexion  of  my  wants  ;  and  yet, 
Unless  he  love  me  dearly,  I  am  lost. 
And,  if  he  have  but  mook'd  me  into  faith, 
He  might  as  well  have  murder'd  me,  for  I 
Shall  have  no  heart  to  live,  if  his  neglect 
Deface  what  my  affection  printed  there. 

Theo,  There  is  no  fear  of  his  revolt :  lose  not 
His  character.     I  must  attend  some  business ; 
If  Don  Fernando  visit  thee,  preserve 
His  fair  opinion,  and  thou  raay'st  live 
Above  thy  uncle's  pity. 

Fel.  Will  you  leave  me  ? 

Theo.  My  stay  shall  not  be  long.  The  garden  will 
With  smiling  flowers  encourage  thee  to  walk, 
And  raise  thy  drooping  eyes  with  hope  to  see 
A  spring  like  theirs  upon  thee.  [Exit. 

Fel.  Whj  should  I 
Give  any  entertainment  to  my  fears  ? 
Suspicions  are  but  like  the  shape  of  clouds, 
And  idle  forms  i'  the  air,  we  make  to  fright  us. 
I  will  admit  no  jealous  thought  to  wound 
Fernando's  truth,  but  with  that  cheerfulness. 
My  own  first  clear  intents  to  honour  him 
Can  arm  me  with,  expect  to  meet  his  faith 
As  noble  as  he  promis'd. — Ha !  'tis  he. 

Enter  Fernando. 

My  poor  heart  trembles  like  a  timorous  leaf, 
Which  the  wind  shakes  upon  his  sickly  stalk, 
And  frights  into  a  palsy. 


Fer.  Eelisarda ! 

Fel.    Shall   I  want  fortitude  to  bid  him  wel- 
come ? —  \_Aside. 
Sir,  if  you  think  there  is  a  heart  alive 
That  can  be  grateful,  and  with  humble  thought 
And  prayers  reward  your  piety,  despise  not 
The  offer  of  it  here  ;  you  have  not  cast 
Your  bounty  on  a  rock  :  while  the  seeds  thrive 
Where  you  did  place  your  charity,  my  joy 
May  seem  ill-dress'd  to  come  like  sorrow  thus ; 
But  you  may  see  through  every  tear,  and  find 
My  eyes  meant  innocence,  and  your  hearty  wel- 
come. 

Fer.  Who  did  prepare  thee,  Felisarda,  thus 
To  entertain  me  weeping .'     Sure  our  souls 
Meet  and  converse,  and  we  not  know't ;  there  is 
Such  beauty  in  that  watery  circle,  I 
Am  fearful  to  come  near,  and  breathe  a  kiss 
Upon  thy  cheek,  lest  I  pollute  that  crystal ; 
And  yet  I  must  salute  thee,  and  I  dare. 
With   one   warm  sigh,    meet  ^nd   dry  up  this 
sorrow. 

Fel.  1  shall  forget  all  misery  ;  for  when 
I  look  upon  the  world,  and  race  of  men, 
I  find  them  proud,  and  all  so  unacquainted 
With  pity  to  such  miserable  things 
As  poverty  hath  made  us,  that  I  must 
Conclude  you  sent  from  heaven. 

Fer.  Oh,  do  not  flatter 
Thyself,  poor  Felisarda ;  I  am  mortal; 
The  life  I  bear  about  me  is  not  mine, 
But  borrow'd  to  come  to  thee  once  again, 
And,  ere  I  go,  to  clear  how  much  I  love  thee. — 
But  first,  I  have  a  story  to  deliver, 
A  tale  will  make  thee  sad  ;  but  I  must  teU  it : — 
There  is  one  dead  that  lov'd  thee  not. 

Fel.  One  dead 
That  lov'd  me  not  ?     This  carries,  sir,  in  nature 
No  killing  sound :  I  shall  be  sad  to  know 
I  did  deserve  an  enemy,  or  he  want 
A  charity  at  death. 

Fer.  Thy  cruel  enemy, 
And  my  best  friend,  hath  took  eternal  leave, 
And's  gone — to  heaven,  I  hope.  Excuse  my  tears: 
It  is  a  tribute  I  must  pay  his  memory, 
For  I  did  Ipve  my  father. 

Fel.  Ha  !  your  father  ? 

Fer.  Yes,  Felisarda,  he  is  gone,  that  in 
The  morning  promis'd  many  years ;  but  death 
Hath  in  few  hours  made  him  as  stiff,  as  all 
The  winds  of  winter  had  thrown  cold  upon  him, 
And  whisper'd  him  to  marble. 

Fel.  Now  trust  me, 
My  heart  weeps  for  him ;  but  I  understand 
Not  how  I  was  coucern'd  in  his  displeasure, 
And  in  such  height  as  you  profess. 

Fer.  He  did 
Command  me,  on  his  blessing,  to  forsake  thee. 
Was't  not  a  cruel  precept,  to  enforce 
The  soul,  and  curse  his  son  for  honest  love? 

Fel.  This  is  a  wound  indeed. 

Fer.  But  not  so  mortal ; 
For  his  last  breath  was  balsam  pour'd  upon  it, 
By  which  he  did  reverse  his  malediction ; 
And  I,  that  groan'd  beneath  the  weight  of  that 
Anathema,  sunk  almost  to  despair. 
Where   night  and  heavy  shades  hung  round 

about  me. 
Found  myself  rising  like  the  morning  star 
To  view  the  world. 

Fel.  Never,  I  hope,  to  be 
Eclips'd  again. 

Fer.  This  was  a  welcome  blessing. 

Fel.  Heaven  had  a  care  of  both :  iny  joys  are 
mighty. 
Vouchsafe  me,  sir,  your  pardon,  if  I  blush, 
And  say  I  love,  but  rather  than  the  peace 


544 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA  TISTS. 


That  should  preserve  your  bosom  suffer  for 
My  sake,  'twere  better  I  were  dead. 

Fer.  No,  live, 
And  live  for  ever  happy :  thou  deservedst  it. 
It  is  Fernando  doth  make  haste  to  sleep 
In  his  forgotten  dust. 

Fel.  Those  accents  did 
Not  sound  so  cheerfully, 

Fer.  Dost  love  me  ? 

Fd.  Sir.' 

Fer.  Do  not,  I  pr'ythee,  do  not ;  I  am  lost, 
Alas  !  I  am  no  more  Fernando,  there 
Is  nothing  but  the  empty  name  of  him 
That  did  betray  thee  ;  place  a  guard  about 
Thy  heart  betime;  I  am  not  worth  this  sweetness. 

Fel.  Did  not  Fernando  speak  all  this  ?  Alas, 
He  knew  that  I  was  poor  before,  and  needed  not 
Despise  me  now  for  that. 

Fer.  Desert  me  goodness, 
"When  I  upbraid  tliy  wants.     'Tis  I  am  poor, 
For  I  have  not  a  stock  in  all  the  world 
Of  so  much  dust  as  would  contrive  one  narrow 
Cabin  to  shroud  a  worm  :  my  dying  father 
Hath  given  away  my  birthright  to  Francisco ; 
I'm  disinherited,  thrown  out  of  all, 
But  the  small  earth  I  borrow,  thus  to  walk  on ; 
And  having  nothing  left,  I  come  to  kiss  thee. 
And  take  my  everlasting  leave  of  thee  too. 
Farewell !  this  will  persuade  thee  to  consent 
To  my  eternal  absence. 

Fel.  I  must  beseech  you  stay  a  little,  sir. 
And  clear  my  faith.    Hath  your  displeased  father 
Depriv'd  you  then  of  all,  and  made  Francisco 
The  lord  of  your  inheritance,  without  hope 
To  be  repair'd  in  fortune  ? 

Fer.  'Tis  sad  truth.' 

Fel.  This  is  a  happiness  I  did  not  look  for. 

Fer.  A  happiness ! 

Fel.  Yes,  sir,  a  happiness. 

Fer.  Can  Felisarda  take  delight  to  hear 
What  hath  undone  her  servant  ? 

Fel.  Heaven  avert  it. 
But  'tis  not  worth  my  grief  to  be  assured 
That  this  will  bring  me  nearer  now  to  him 
Whom  I  most  honour  of  the  world ;  and  'tis 
My  pride,  if  you  exceed  me  not  in  fortune. 
That  I  can  boast  my  heart,  as  high  and  rich, 
With  noble  flame,  and  every  way  your  equal. 
And  if  you  be  as  poor  as  I,  Fernando, 
I  can  deserve  you  now,  and  love  you  more 
Than  when  your  expectation  carried  all 
The  pride  and  blossoms  of  the  spring  upon  it. 

Fer.  Those  shadows  wUl  not  feed  more  than 
your  fancies ; 
Two  poverties  will  keep  but  a  thin  table  ; 
And  while  we  dream  of  this  high  nourishment, 
We  do  but  starve  more  gloriously. 

Fel.  'Tis  ease 
And  wealth  first  taught  us  art  to  surfeit  by : 
Nature  is  wise,  not  costly,  and  will  spread 
A  table  for  us  in  the  wilderness ; 
And  the  kind  earth  keep  us  alive  and  healthful. 
With  what  her  bosom  doth  invite  us  to  ; 
The  brooks,  not  there  suspected,  as  the  wine 
That  sometime  princes  quaff,  are  all  transparent, 
And  with  their  pretty  murmurs  call  to  taste  them. 
In  every  tree  a  chorister  to  sing 
Health  to  our  loves ;  our  lives  shall  there  be  free 
As  the  first  knowledge  was  from  sin,  and  all 
Our  dreams  as  innocent. 

Fer.  Oh,  Felisarda! 
If  thou  didst  own  less  virtue  I  might  prove 
Unkind,  and  marry  thee :  but  being  so  rich 


In  goodness,  it  becomes  me  not  to  bring 
One  that  is  poor  in  every  worth,  to  waste 
So  excellent  a  dower:  be  free,  and  meet 
One  that  hath  wealth  to  cherish  it;  I  shall 
Undo  thee  quite  ;  but  pray  for  me,  as  I, 
That  thou  mayst  change  for  a  more  happy  bride- 
groom ; 
1  dare  as  soon  be  guilty  of  my  death. 
As  make  thee  miserable  by  expecting  me. 
Farewell !  and  do  not  wrong  my  soul,  to  think 
That  any  storm  could  separate  us  two, 
But  that  1  have  no  fortune  now  to  serve  thee. 
Fel.  This  will  be  no  exception,  sir,  I  hope, 
When  we  are  both  dead,  yet  our  bodies  may 
Be  cold,  and  strangers  in  the  winding-sheet, ' 
We  shall  be  married  when  our  spirits  meet. 

\Exeunt. 


1 '  Tii  tad  truth.    Had  Fernando  forgotten  that  a  pen- 
sion was  left  him  by  his  father  ?— See  p.  541. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

An  open  Space  before  a  Church. 

Enter  Don  Carlos  and  Don  Pedro. 

Fed.  Your  daughter  does  not  use  me  well,  Don 

Carlos. 
Car.  I  know  not  what  to  think,  some  groat 
misfortune 
Must  be  the  cause. 

Fed.  Not  yet  appear .'  they  might. 
An  they  had  crept  like  tortoises,  arrived 
Before  this  time. 

Car.  There  is  some  strange  disaster. 
Fed.  The  coach  o'erthrown,  and  both  their  lives 
endanger'd, 
Can  but  excuse  them. 

Enter  Alsisura  hastily. 

Ah.  Oh,  my  lord  Don  Carlos! 

Fed.  The  tragic  voice  of  women  strikes  mine 
ear. 

Caj:  Alsimira! 

Fed.  Madam. — 

Car.  Where  is  our  daughter  ? 

Als.  My  fear  almost  distracts  me ;  she  is  gone. 
Stolen,  ravish'd  from  me. 

Fed.  Ha! 

Als.  An  armed  troop. 
In  vizards,   forced  her    from  my  coach;    and 

Heaven  knows 
Where  they  have  hurried  the  poor  Jacinta. 

Car.  A  troop  of  armed  devils ! 

Fed.  Let  them  be 
A  legion,  they  are  all  damn'd. 

Als.  Nay,  they  were  men  and  mortal  sure. 

Fed.  I  will  not  leave  one  soul  amongst  them 
all. 

Car.  Mine  is  in  torment, 
r  the  hope  and  height  of  my  ambition 
To  be  thus  crossed !     How  'scap'd  j-ou  ? 

Als.  Alas,  I  was  not  young  enough ;  I  offered 
Myself  to  bear  her  company,  and  suffer 
As  much  as  she  did,  but  one  boisterous  fellow. 
With  a  starch'd  voice,  and  a  worse  vizard,  took 

me 
Just  hei-e  above  my  sciatica,  and  quoited  me 
Into  the  coach  again  upon  my  head 
I  had  a  larum  in't  for  half  an  hour, 
And  so  I  'scap'd  with  life. 

Fed.  Did  they  use  her 
With  any  rigour  ? 

Als.  To  say  truth,  they  were 
Gentle  enough  to  her. 

Fed.  That  mollifies,  and  they  may  live. 

Car.  Hell  overtake  them !  Let's  return. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


545 


Pcd.    They  had    better  ravish'd    Proserpine 
before 
Dou  Lucifer's  own  face.     I  am  all  fury. 

\Exe,unt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II. 

A  Street. 

Enter  Alberto,  and  EstefaniA  disguised  and 
veiled  as  before. 

Alb.  Pardon,  my  dear  Jacinta;  it  was  love 
That  threw  me  on  this  act ;  I  had  no  patience 
To  see  thee  forced  into  a  marriage 
By  a  Govetous  father,  whose  devotion 
Is  only  wealth  and  title.     I  esteem 
No  danger,  if  at  last  the  fair  Jacinta 
Smile  and  allow  this  duty;  let  not  silence 
Deprive  me  longer  of  thy  voice,  whose  every 
Accent  will    please,   though  it  pronounce   my 

sentence : 
There's  death  in  this  eclipse  too ;  sweet,  dismiss 
Thy  ungentle  veil,  and  let  thy  eyes  make  bright 
This  melancholy  air,  that  droops  and  dies 
For  want  of  thy  restoring  beams. 

Estef.  Now,  sir,  \Talces  off  her  veil. 

What  think  you  of  your  mistress  ? 

Alb.  You  are  the  lady  Estefania,  I  take  it. 

Estef.  Yes,  you  did  take  me  from  the  coach, 
Alberto, 
But  by  a  consequence  I  find  you  thought 
Jacinta  in  your  power ;  I  could  have  told  you. 
Had  you  discover'd  sooner  what  you  were, 
Where  to  have  found  your  mistress,  but  she's 

now 
Above  your  hope,  and  by  the  priest,  ere  this, 
Made  wife  to  Don  Francisco. 

Alb.  To  Don  Pedro. 

Estef  It  was  not,  sir,  impossible  that  I, 
Had  not  your  violence  prevented  me 
(By  a  plot  between  Jacinta  and  myself. 
To  take  her  place  and  person  in  the  coach), 
Had  by  this  time  been  married  to  Count  Pedro, 
Whom  I  have  power  and  justice,  sir,  to  challenge, 
If  contracts  carry  weight. 

Alb.  Have  I  so  long 
Lain  beating  at  the  bush,  and  is  the  bird 
Fled  to  Francisco .' 

Estef.  I  should  show  I  had 
A  passion,  sir,  and  sense  of  this  captivity, 
But  that  I  find  'twas  error,  and  not  will, 
Led  you  to  this  ;  and  your  own  loss,  now  made 
Irreparable,  helps  to  tie  up  my  anger. 

Alb.  Madam,  I  must  confess  a  wrong,  and  dare 
Submit  to  let  your  anger  punish  me, 
For  I  despise  myself,  now  I  have  lost 
My  expectation ;  and  if  you  please 
To  think  I  had  no  malice  in  this  act 
To  you,  you  can  propose  no  satisfaction 
I  shall  esteem  a  penance  to  repair  you. 
As  far  as  my  poor  life,  if  you'll  direct  it. 

Estef.  'Tis  nobly  promis'd,  sir.     You  shall  re- 
deem 
In  my  thoughts  what  is  past,  if  you  be  pleas'd 
To  make~my  stay  no  longer  here ;  I  have 
No  desperate  aim  to  make  Don  Pedro  yet 
Know  how  to  right  [me],  or  make  public  what 
Should  bind  his  honour  to  perform. 

Alb.  Was  not  Luys,  madam,  entertain'd  your 
servant  ? 

Estef.  I  shall  make  known  the  story,  if  you 
walk 
But  to  Don  Carlos'  house. 

Alb.  You  shall  command  me.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IIL 

A  Room  in  Don  Carlos'  House. 

Enter  Carlos,  Alsimira,  and  Servant. 

Car.  No  news  yet  of  Jacinta ? 

Als.  None. 

Car.  He  must 
Not  live  in  Spain,  nor  in  the  world,  if  my 
Eevenge  can  overtake  him,  that  has  stolen 
My  daughter ;  could  you  not  by  voice  or  habit 
Guess  at  the  ravisher  ?  ye  are  traitors  all. 

Als.  Now  I  consider  better,  I  suspect 
Alberto  one  of  the  conspiracy ; 
Some  voice  did  sound  like  his.     You  know  he 
lov'd  her. 

Car.  Ha!  Alberto? 

Als.  And  how  he  might  engage  some  rufiians 
To  cross  Don  Pedro. 

Car.  It  was  he ;  where's  Luys  ? 
I  do  not  like  his  absence,  they're  both  guilty : 
My  own  blood  turn'd  a  rebel!     Send  for  the 

alcaides. 
They  shall  both  trot  like  thieves  to  the  con-e- 

gidor. — 
Where  is  Count  Pedro  ? 

Als.  Gone  in  search 
Of  his  lost  mistress. 

Car.  When  all  things  were  ripe, 
The  very  priest  prepar'd  to  seal  our  joys, 
A  work  my  brain  did  labour  for,  and  sweat 
With  hope  to  see  accomplish'd,  undermin'd, 
And  in  a  minute  all  blown  up! 

Als.  Have  patience. 
She  may  be  found  again. 

Car.  But  how  my  lord 
May  be  inclin'd  to  accept  her,  foil'd,  or  wounded 

Enter  Luys  drunh. 

In  fame. — 

Als.  Luys  is  here. 

Car.  Borachio  !  here's  a  spectacle !  more  afflic- 
tion! 
Where  is  your  sister  ?  what's  become  of  Jacinta  ? 

Luys.  My  sister  and  Jacinta  ai'e  gone  together  ; 
I  know  all  the  business. 

Als.  Where  is  she  ? 

Lnys.  She  is  very  well ;   I  know  not  where 
she  is. 
But  Don  Alberto  is  an  honest  gentleman, 
And  has  by  this  time  done  the  feat. 

Car.  Confusion  ! 

Luys.  You  think  you  had  all  the  wit,  it  was 
my  plot. 
You  may  thank  Heaven  that  you  are  old  and 
ugly,  \to  Alsimira. 

You  had  been  no  mother  of  this  world. — But,  sir, 
I  have  some  news  would  be  deliver'd  privately. — 
Mother  of  mine,  avaunt ! 

Car.  Thou'rt  not  my  son. 
Was  ever  man  so  miserable  ? — Away 
Thou  sponge! — Get  him  to  sleep. 

Als.  I  dare  not  meddle  with  him.  \_Exit. 

Luys.  In  sobriety 
A  word. 

Car.  Where  is  Alberto  ? 

Luys.  Where  every  honest  man  should  be. 
Old  man,  I  have  consider'd  o'  the  former  matter 
we  talked  on,  and  would  do  things  like  a  dutiful 
son,  but  I  find  that  a  wife  is  not  altogether  so 
convenient  for  me  as  a — 

Car.  Will  none  deliver  me  ? 

Luys.  They  are  somewhat  slug.' — Now  I  have 
found  out  an  excellent  tumbler,  that  can  do  the 


1  slug — sluggish,  slow. 


2  M 


546 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


somerset ;  please  you  to  be  acquainted  with  lier 
and  give  me  your  opinion :  she  is  but  seven- 
teen :  there's  a  periwinkle !  I  had  a  gemini  before 
I  went  to  travel,  and  I  am  bound  in  conscience, 
if  you  think  fit,  to  see  her  well  provided  for — 

Car.  With  whips, — I'll  have  her  skin  flay'd  off. 

Luys.  Her  skin  flay'd  off!  dost  thou  know, 
mortal  man,  what  thou  hast  said?  I  tell  thee, 
Don,  nothing  can  come  near  her  in  the  shape  of 
an  officer;  she  is  a  very  basilisk,  and  will  kill 
them  with  her  eyes  threescore  yards  point- 
blank  :  but  you  may  talk,  and  do  your  pleasure 
with  her,  for  I  came  o'  purpose  to  bring  her  to 
your  lodging ;  if  you  love  me,  do  but  see  her ;  it 
shall  cost  you  nothing,  you  shall  be  my  friend ; 
hang  money ! 

Car.  Thus  will  my  state  consume ;  vexation! 
What  shall  I  do  ?  when  you  have  slept,  Luys, 
I'll  tell  you  more. — Attend  him  to  his  chamber. 
And  make  his  door  fast. 

Imys.  You  will  consider  on't  ? 
Upon  those  terms  I  will  go  sleep  a  twinkling. 

\_Exeunt  Servant  and  Luys. 

Car.   And  will  not  all  this  take  away  my 
senses  ? 
My  son  is  lost  too  !  this  is  all  a  curse 
For  my  ambition  and  my  avarice. 

Re-enter  Alsimira,  and  a  Servant  witJi  a  letter'. 

Als.  News,  Don  Carlos,  from  our  daughter. 

Car.  Ha !  a  letter !  'tis  Jacinta's  hand. 

D'eads. 

Als.  Know'st  thou  where  she  is'? 

Ser.  Yes,  madam,  and  her  resolution  to  attend 
her  father,  with  my  master,  Don  Francisco,  if 
Don  Carlos  please  to  admit  them ;  the  matter's 

Als.  What  matter  ?  [done. 

Ser.  They  are  as  fast  as  any  priest  can  make 
them. 

Ca7'.  Wife  to  Francisco,  now  his  father's  heir ! 
That's  some  allay,  if  it  be  true  ;  she  -writes — 

Don  Pedro  was  contracted  to  Estefania,  who 
supplied  her  person  in  the  coach — 'twas  not 
Jacinta  was  ravish'd.  Then  Don  Pedro  was  not 
noble,  after  he  had  made  faith,  to  intangle  my 
Jacinta. — Hum  !  say  they  shall  be  welcome. 

Ser.  They  are  present,  sir.  l_Ezit. 

Enter  Fkancisco  and  Jacinta. 

Car.  I  am  not  yet  collected,  but  if  this 
Paper  be  justified,*  I  receive  you  both. — 
Peruse  those  wonders,  Alsimira. 

Jac.  Sir, 
Though  by  the  tie  of  nature  you  may  challenge 
All  duty,  this  is  done  so  like  a  father, 
It  exceeds  all  your  care. 

Fran.  Let  this  confirm ; 
I  bring  a  fortune  not  to  be  despis'd. 
But  were  I  master  of  the  world,  I  should 
At  price  of  all  my  wealth,  think  this  a  treasure 
Purchas'd  too  cheap. 

Car.  My  blessing  and  my  prayers ;  I'm  new 
created, 
And  bow  to  that  great  Providence  :  all  joy 
Spread  through  your  souls!  this  is  not  much 
amiss. 

Fran.  But  what's  become  of  Madam  Estefania, 
That  took  Jacinta's  place  ? 

Als.  Forced  from  the  coach 
By  Don  Alberto,  thinking  her  my  daughter. 

Jac.   That  part  of  our  plot  fail'd;  but  my 
intents 
Were  fair,  and  to  assist  this  injur'd  lady. 


1  justified— \evi&Qi,  proved  true. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Ser.  Don  Pedro,  sir. 

Car.  You  shall  for  some  few  minutes 
Withdraw  into  that  chamber,  in  his  passion 
He  may  be  violent ;  leave  me  to  moderate  [him]. 

Fran.  I  shall  obey  you,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Francisco  and  Jacinta. 

Enter  Don  Pedro. 

Fed.  Was  ever  man  of  my  great  birth  and 
fortune 
Affronted  thus  ?  I  am  become  the  talk 
Of  every  picaro  and  ladron  ; '  I  challenge 
A  reparation  of  my  honour ;  where's 
Jacinta  ?  'Tis  a  plot,  a  base  contrivement 
To  make  my  name  ridiculous,  the  subject 
Of  every  scurril  language. 

Car.  My  lord,  with  pardon 
Of  your  altesa,2  you're  not  injur'd  here, 
Unless  I  have  been  faulty  in  too  much 
Observance,  and  desires  to  serve  your  person 
With  th'  almost  sacrifice  of  my  daughter. 

Fed.  Ha! 
Too  much  to  me  ? 

Car.  I  would  you  had  remember'd 
How  much  your  honour  was  engag'd  before, 
By  contract,  to  another,  when  you  mock'd 
The  innocent  Jacinta,  now  not  mine. 

Fed.  Who  hath  traduc'd  my  fame,  or  mention'd 
me 
With  that  dishonour  ?  I  disclaim  all  contracts  ; 
The  unconfined  air's  not  more  free  than  I 
To  aU  the  world,  except  your  beauteous  daughter. 

Car.  Do  you  know  the  Lady  Estefania? 

Fed.  Dares  she  make  saucy  claim  ?  My  breath 
dissolves  it. 
If  every  lady  whom  we  grace  with  our  converse 
Should  challenge  men  of  my  nobility — 

Car.  I  wish,  my  lord,  you  could  evade  it,  for 
The  honour  of  my  family ;  if  your  conscience 
Or  art  can  nullify  that  lady's  interest, 
I  am  resolv'd — my  son  Luigi  shall     ^ 
Then  many  with  that  widow — \Aside.'] — I  have 

no  other 
Ambition. 

Fed.  You  are  wise,  and  I 
Am  fortified  to  clear  myself  thought-free 
From  any  promise  to  that  sullen  madam. — 

Enter  Alberto,  and  Estefania  disguised  as 
lefore,  with  a  paper  in  her  hand. 

Ha  I  'tis  Jacinta,  and  she  wears  the  jewel 

I  did  present,  conspicuously. — I  ask 

No  reason  for  thy  absence,  let  me  chain 

My  darling  in  this  amorous  curl ;  'tis  happiness 

Enough  to  repossess  thee  :  not  the  policy 

And  power  of  heU  shall  separate  us  again. 

Estef.  It  is  but  justice,  sir ! 

[JJncovenng  her  face. 

Fed.  Ha!  Estefania! 

Alb.  Do  you  know  her,  sir  ? 

Estef.  Do  you  know  this  character? 

[Showing  him  the  paper. 

Fed.  Conspiracy ! 

Estef.  When  this  is  read,  Don  Carlos, 
You  will  imagine  he  has  wrong'd  your  daughter. 

Car.  Is  this  your  hand.  Count  Pedro  ? 

Fed.  Mine  ?  'tis  counterfeit. 
Upon  my  honoui" ;  and  I  thus  dissolve 
Thy  insolent  claim.       [Tears  the  paper , in  pieces. 


1  Of  every  picaro  and  ladron — every  rogue  and  thief. 
*  altesa — highness. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


547 


Estef.  Nothing  can  bind,  I  see, 
A  false  heart. 

Car.  This  must  give  you  freedom,  madam, 
If  you  release  his  hasty  vow. 

Estef.  Faith  cannot 
Be  compell'd,  sir. 

Fed.  These  are  all  impostures  : 
I  take  myself  into  myself. 

All.  What  shall 
Become  of  her,  my  noble  Count  ? 

Fed.  I  pity  her, 
But  cannot  cure  her  wound  ;  and  if  you  be 
Her  friend,  advise  her  to  contain  her  passions, 
And  wisely  love  one  that  can  entertain  it. 

Alb.  You  hear  this,  madam? 

Estef.  And  can  smile  upon 
His  violated  faith.  , 

Car.  Now  for  Luigi, 
To  strike  in  with  the  widow 

8erv.  He's  asleep. 

Car.  I'll  wake  and  quicken  him.  [Exit. 

Estef.    Hadst    thou   been  worth    my  love,   I 
should  have  held 
Thee  worth  my  anger,  shadow  of  a  lord ! 
Thy  greatness  I  despise,  and  think  thee  now 
Too  poor  for  my  revenge,  and  freely  give 
Thee  back  thy  barren  promises  ;  and  when 
I  read  in  story  one  that  has  been  perjur'd, 
I'll  write  Don  Pedro  in  the  place  of  him 
That  broke  his  faith,  and  thank  my  fate  to  have 
miss'd  thee. 

Alb.  If  you  please,  madam,  while  he's  i'  the 
humour 
Of  being  base,  I'll  make  him  gather  up 
These  paper  relics,  which  he  shall  make  himself 
Tip  into  rolls,  and  having  swallow'd  them 
For  pills,  thank  you  his  physic  was  so  gentle. 

Estef.    It  will  be  too  much  time  and  breath 
lost  on  him. 

Alb.  It  will  become  me,  madam,  to  attend  you. 
\_Exeunt  Estefania  and  Alberto. 

Fed.  So,  she  is  taken  off,  and  my  path  free 
To  Carlos'  daughter. 

Re-enter  Don  Carlos  and  Lurs. 

Luys.  Contracted  to  Don  Pedro,  say  [you]  ? 

Car.  She  was. — Where  is  Estefania .' 

Fed.  Gone  with  Alberto,  proud  to  wait  upon 
The  lady  I  neglected. 

Car.  FoUow  them,  Luys. 
I  do  not  like  he  should  insinuate. 
Now  she  is  free,  and  his  hopes  desperate  in 
Jacinta's  love. 

Luys.  How  long  have  I  slept,  sir  ? 

Car.    Thou  dost    dream  still.      Pursue    the 
widow  now. 
Or  never  look  at  such  a  fortune  [more]. 

Luys.  Is  she  gone  with  Alberto  ?    What  if  I 
say 
I  have  lain  with  her,  and  that  she's  with  child 
by  me  ? 

,Car.  That  would  stain  both  your  fames.  Away, 
and  welcome 
When  thou  return'st,  and  she  confirm'd. 

Liiys.  I'll  confirm  her,  or  confound  somebody  : 
No  more ;  I  am  awake.     This  is  Don  Pedro, 
I'll  talk  with  him  fii'st. — ^Will  you  justify' 
The  widow  is  a  widow  still,  and  sweet. 
For  all  your  contract  ?  that  you  have  not  been 
My  rival,  as  they  say,  after  the  flesh. 
And  that  you  did  not  know  I  had  a  mind. 
Or  not  a  mind,  to  do  the  deed  of  matrimony  ? 

Fed.  Not  I,  upon  my  honour. 


justify — prove. 


Luys.  You  are  witness. — 
Now  to  Alberto. 

Car.  Manage  the  business  temperately. 

Luys.  Let  me  alone  to  bo  temperate ;  if  I  do 
not  cozen  somebody,  let  me  never  drink  sack 
again.  \Exit. 

Car.  What  think   you  of  Jacinta  now,   my 
lord? 

Fed.  As  of  the  saint  I  pay  my  chief  devotions 
to. 

Enter  Fernando  with  his  sword  drawn. 

Fer.    I  come  to  seek  one  that  I  late  call'd 
brothei-. 
But  he  hath  forfeited  that  name,  and  Justice, 
Weary  of  such  a  prodigy  in.  nature. 
Hath  arm'd  me  thus  in  her  revenge. — Don  Carlos, 
Obscure  him  not,  no  darkness  can  protect  him ; 
My  sword  shall  forage  every  room  like  lightning, 
No  cave  but  it  shall  visit,  and  through  ribs 
Of  steel  compel  my  passage  to  his  heart. 
Although  I  meet  him  in  his  mistress'  arms. 
The  lover's  sanctuary,  I  dare  force  Francisco, 
And  with  my  sword  cut  the  embrace  that  chains 

him, 
Kather  than,  he  shall  glory  in  my  ruins. 
And  revel  out  those  honours  with  her  ho 
Took  from  my  blood. 

Re-enter  Feascisco  with  a  parchment  in  his  hand. 

Fran.  It  shall  not  need,  Fernando. 

Fed.   Hum!    here    is    like    to    be    a    bloody 
business ; 
I'll  not  disturb  them.  [_Exit. 

Car.  As  you  are  brothers,  by  your  father's  dust 
That  should  sleep  quiet  in  his  urn,  by  her 
Dear  name  that  gave  you  life,  that  now  prays 

for  you. 
Chide  this  unnatural  fury. 

Fran.  What  demands 
Fernando  ? 

Fer.  My  inheritance,  wrought  from  me 
By  thy  sly  creeping  to  supplant  my  birth,  _ 
And  cheat  our  father's  easy  soul,  unworthily 
Betraying  to  his  anger,  for  thy  lust 
Of  wealth,  the  love  and  promise  of  two  hearts ; 
Poor  Felisardo  and  Fernando  now 
Wither  at  soul,  and,  robb'd  by  thee  of  that 
Should  cherish  virtue,  like  to  rifled  pilgrims 
Met  on  the  way,  and  having  told  their  storj'. 
And  dropp'd  their  even  tears  for  both  their  loss, 
Wander  from  one  another. 

Fran.  'Tis  not,  sure, 
Fernando,  but  his  passion,  that  obeys  not 
The  counsel  of  his  reason,  would  accuse  me  ; 
And  if  my  father  now  (since  spirits  lose  not 
Intelligence,  but  more  active  when  they  have 
Shook  off  their  chains  of  flesh)  would  leave  his 

dwelling, 
And  visit  this  coarse  orb  again,  my  innocence 
Should  dare  the  appeal,  and  make  Fernando  see 
His  empty  accusations. 

Fer.  He  that  thrives 
By  wicked  art,  has  confidence  to  dress 
His  action  with  simplicity,  and  shapes 
To  cheat  our  credulous  natures  ;  'tis  my  wonder 
Thou  durst  do  so  much  injury,  Francisco, 
As  must  provoke  my  justice  to  revenge. 
Yet  wear  no  sword. 

Fran.  I  need  no  guard  ;  I  know 
Thou  darest  not  kill  me. 
Fer.  Dare  I  not  ? 
Fran.  And  name 
Thy  cause  ;  'tis  thy  suspicion,  not  Francisco, 
Hath  wrought  thee  high  and  passionate.     To 
assure  it, 


548 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 


]f  you  dare  violate,  I  dare  possess  you 
With  all  my  title  to  your  land. 

Car.  How  is  that  ? 
Will  you  resign  the  interest  to  such 
A  fair  estate,  and  wrong  my  daughter,  sir  ? 
Fran.  Let  him  receive  it  at  his  peril. 

{Gives  the  parchment  to  Fernando,  who 
reads  it. 
Fer.  Ha! 

Fran.  It  was  my  father's  act,  not  mine ;    ho 
trembled 
To  hear  his  curse  alive,  what  horror  will 
His  conscience  feel  when  he  shall  spurn  his  dust 
And  call  the  reverend  shade  from  his  bless'd  seat. 
To  this  bad  world  again,  to  walk  and  fright  him  ? 
Car.  I  am  abused.* 
Fer.  Can  this  be  more  than  dream  ? 
Fran.  Sir,  you  may  cancel  it,  but  think  withal 
How  you  can  answer  him  that's  dead,  when  he 
Shall  charge  your  timorous  soul  for  this  con- 
tempt 
To  nature  and  religion,  to  break 
His  last  bequest  and  breath,  that  seal'd   your 
blessings ! 
Car.  These  are  fine  fancies. 
Fer.  Here,  and  may  it  prosper, 

{Gives  bach  the  parchment  to  Francisco. 
Where  my  good  father  meant  it ;  I'm  o'ercome. 
Forgive  me,  and  enjoy  it ;  I  may  find 
Some  earth  that  is  not  thine,  where  I  may  die, 
And  take  up  a  dark  chamber :  love  Jaciuta, 
And,  while  I  seek  out  where  to  be  forgotten. 
Live  happy,  and  divide  the  spring  between  you. 

{Going. 

Enter  Ramyres,  Felisarda,  and  Tjieodoro 
behind. 

Fran.  So,  so  ;  all's  well  again. 

Ham.    {coming  Jorward  with  the  rest.^ — Fer- 
nando, stay  ! 

Fer.  Ha !  my  father  and  Felisarda  ? 

Car.  Don  Eamyres  and  my  niece .' 

Fer.  Are  they  both  dead  ?  [Fernando  kneels. 
I  dare  kneel  too  ;  they  do  converse. — Don  Carlos, 
Do  not  you  know  that  shape  ?  'tis  wondi'ous  like 
Your  niece. 

Car.  And  that  your  father  ;  ha  ? 

Fer.  How  long  hath  Felisarda  been  a  sad 
Companion  to  the  shades .'     I  did  not  think 
To  find  thee  in  this  pale  society 
Of  ghosts  so  soon. 

F'el.  I  am  alive,  Fernando, 
And  Don  Eamyres  still  thy  living  father. 

Fran.    You  may  believe  it,  sir.     I  was  o'  the 
counsel.  {Exit. 

Fer.  It  is  a  joy  will  tempt  me  wish  to  live 
Here,  without  more  ambition  to  change 
For  blessings  of  the  other  world;  and  is 
My  father  willing  that  we  both  should  live  ? 

Car.  Men  thcnight  you  dead. 

Ham.  It  lay  within 
The  knowledge  of  Francisco,  and  some  few, 
By  this  device  to  advance  my  younger  son. 
To  a  marriage  with  Jacinta,  sir,  and  try 
Fernando's  piety  and  his  mistress'  virtue  ; 
Which  I  have  found  worth  him,  and  my  accept- 
ance.— 
With  her  I  give  thee  what  thy  birth  did  chal- 
Eeceive  thy  Felisarda.  [lenge : 

Fer.  'Tis  a  joy 
So  flowing,  it  drowns  all  my  faculties  ; 
My  soul  will  not  contain,  I  fear,  but  lose, 
And  leave  me  in  this  ecstasy. 
Car.  I  am  cheated. 

Jiam.  Not  so ;    what  dower  you  add  above 
that  fortune 


Descends  upon  her  by  your  sister's  legacy, 
Francisco  shall  deserve,  with  a  proportion 

Re-enter  Francisco  and  Jacinta. 

Out  of  my  state  ;  live  and  be  happy  both, 
You  shall  not  want  a  father  in  my  care. 
Our  children  thus  increased,  Don  Carlos,  'tis 
Our  shame  if  we  neglect  them. — Theodoro, 
You  now  may  call  me  brother. 

Theo.  1  am  honour'd. 

Car.  Well,  take  my  blessing  too.    Love  her, 
Francisco. 
My  bounty  is  to  come,  and  if  my  son 
But  finish  with  his  mistress — he's  return'd ; — 

He-enter  Luys. 
Where  is  the  widow  ?  [Aside  to  Luys. 

Lvys.  Sure  enough. 
Car.  And  Don  Alberto  ? 
Luys.    I   have  made   him  sure   too ;   I   have 

pepper'd  him. 
Car.  How  ? 
Luys.  In  your  ear,  I  have  cut  his  throat.     Do 

none  pursue  me .' 
Car.  I  hope  thou  hast  not  killed  him?  ha  ? 
Luys.  You  hope  too  late ;  I  could  not  help  it ; 
You  said  he  was  my  rival. 
Cai:  Not  too  loud. 

Luys.   Where,    where   shall    I    obscure   me  ? 
"The  alcaides 
Will  be  hero  presently,  and  search  for  me. 
I  left  him  giving  up  the  ghost,  at  a  cranny 
I  made  into  his  side,  through  which  a  man 
Might  see  into  his  midrifif. 
Ca}\  Art  thou  desperate? 
Luys.  Beside  one  window,  that  did  look  into 
his  lungs,  from  whence  his  wind   came  strong 
enough  in  six  hours'  sail  to  despatch  a  carrack  to 
the  straits. 

Car.  I'm  mad. 

Luys.    I  should  neglect  my  life,  but  'twould 
not  sound  well 
With  your  honour  that  Don   Carlos'  son  was 

hang'd. 
Or  put  into  the  galleys.     Are  they  not  come  yet  ? 

Car.  I  am  undone ;  there  is  no  safety  here  ; 
Make  fast  those  doors,  and  by  the  postern  gate 
Thou  mayst  escape.      Take  the    best    horse : 
away! 
Liiys.  I  shall  want  money,  sir. 
Car.  Come,  follow  me. 
This  accident,  I  fear,  will  quite  distract  me. 
Luys.   You  must  despatch  me   quickly,    sir; 
there  is 
No  staying  to  tell  the  money,  give't  me  in  lump : 
I'll  count  it  afterwards.     Good  sir,  make  haste. 
[Exeunt  JjVYs  and  Carlos. 
Ram.  Something  hath  happen'd  that  doth  fresh 

perplex  him. 
Fra7i.  Where  is  Don  Pedro  ? 
Fer.  He's  here. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

Fed.  The  storm  is  over,  sure ;  I  hear  no  noise. 
Toledos  1  are  asleep. — Jacinta  !  have 
I  found  my  love  [here]  ? 

Fran.  Here  'twas  lost  indeed : 
I  must  allow  no  such  familiarity 
With  my  wife. 

Ped.  How  !  married  ? 

Jac.  'Tis  most  true,  my  lord. 

Ped.  You  have  not  used  me  thus  ? 

Fran.  It  had  been  impious  to  divorce  your 
heart 


'  Toledos — sivords.     From  Toledo  in   Spain,  where 
swords  of  the  finest  temper  were  manufactured. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


549 


From  Estefania ;  my  good  lord,  we  know 
Your  lordship  is  religious  in  your  promises. 
Fed.  I  defy  all  Estefanias  ;  lady,  you  are  civil. 
\_To  Felisakda. 
Fer.  It  will  become  my  care  so  to  preserve  her, 
My  honourable  Count. 

Fed.  Honourable.? 
It  appears  not  by  these  contempts. 
Ram.    Your  lordship  cannot  want  a  female 

furniture. 
Fed.  I  must  have  somebody  ;  now  I'm   pre- 
par'd,  my  blood 
Will  Uke  it  ill ;  would  I  had  Estefania  !— 

Fe-enier  Alberto  and  Estefania. 

She's  here. — Madam,  I  hope  you  have  a  better 
faith  than  to  believe  I  was  in  earnest.  Don 
Pedro  is  only  at  your  service. 

Estef.   'Tis  too  late,   sir;    this   gentleman  is 
witness 
Of  your  surrender,  and  is  now  possess'd 
Of  all  that's  mine. 

Alb.  It  was  your  noble  bounty, 
For  which  I  cannot  study  a  return 
More  apt  than  to  resign  to  your  good  lordship 
My  interest  in  Jacinta:  give  you  joy,  Count ; 
Such  a  rich  widow  serves  my  turn. 

Fed.  So,  so ; 
If  I  consider  well,  this  is  but  justice. 

Re-enter  Don  Carlos. 
Car.  Ha! 
Are  not  you  Don  Alberto  ? — Fetch  back  Luys. 
Alb.  The  very  same,  sir,  and  this  lady  is  my 
wife ; 
Please  you,  salute  her. 

Re-enter  Luys. 
Luys.  Sir,  for  the  credit  of  your  wisdom,  talk 
not; 
The  man,  you  see,  's  alive,  and  married  too. 
With  my  consent.     Alas,  I  ow'd  him  money  ; 
That  widow  has  paid  all ;  I  must  be  honest, 
I  had  no  heart  to  leave  you  so  unsatisfied, 
These  sums  must  go  for  other  debts. — 
My  debts  do  clog  my  conscience,  and  are  better 
When  they  are  timely  paid,  sir,  than  let  run 
With  their  long  teeth  to  bite  your  state  here- 
after ; 
And  if,  when  I  am  free,  you  dare  but  trust  me — 
Car.  Was  ever  father   cheated   thus?     Come 
hither ; 
How  dar'st  thou  be  so  impudent  ? 

Luys.  I  cannot  help  it,  sir ;  unless  you  die 
Or  give  me  better  means,  I  shall  make  bold 
With  these  devices  ;  you  are  my  father,  sir, 
And  I  am  bound — 
Car.  To  cozen  me  ? 
Luys.  All  must  be  mine,  and  if 
I  pay  myself  a  little  before  the  day, 


You  shall  be  no  loser  when  you  come  to  reckon  ; 
This  shall  not  make  a  breach  'twist  you  and  I, 
They  are  honest  men  I  owe  this  money  to. 
When  I  am  clear,  prescribe  me  any  method, 
And  rank  me  like  your  son,  I  will  deserve 
You  shall  forget  my  wildness,  and  acknowledge 

me 
A  convert  without  blemish  to  your  family. 

Ram.  I  must  be  intercessor. 

Jac.  And  we  all. 

Car.  I'll  think  upon't. 

Fed.  Since  I  cannot  have  Jacinta,  I  desire 
I  may  have  her  brother. 

Luys.  Not  in  marriage  ! 

Fed.  I  like  his  wit,  his  spirit,  and  his  humour. — 
Thou  shalt  never  want. 
We'll  live  together. 
And,  if  thy  father  be  not  bountiful, 
Thou  shalt  command  mj'  fortune. 

Luys.  You  speak  nobly. 

Fed.  Ladies,  I  ask  your  pardon  ; 
Unless  you  hold  me  desperate,  disdain  not 
That  I  may  this  day  wait  upon  your  triumph. 
And  to  each  bride  offer  some  gift  to  expiate 
My  folly  and  offence. 

Ram.  You  are  too  botmtiful. 

Car.  You're  all  my  guests  to-day. 

Ram.  I  beg  }'our  next 
Eemove  may  place  the  scene  of  joy  with  me  ; 
My  house  shall  be  much  honour'd.     Lead  the 

way, 
With  verse  and  wine  let  poets  crown  this  day. 

[Exeiint. 


EPILOGUE. 

Spoken  by  Don  Pedro. 

So,  so  ;  your  danger's  over,'  and  the  state 
Secure,  as  when  our  fleet  in  eighty-eight 
Was  fir'd  and  scatter'd.     To  confirm  it  true. 
Here  is  Don  Pedro,  taken  prisoner  too  ; 
I'm  at  your  mercy,  gentlemen,  and  I 
Confess,  without  a  rack,  conspiracy. 
So  far  as  my  poor  part  i'  the  play  comes  to; 
But  I  am  innocent  from  hurt  to  you, 
And  I  dare  quit  the  rest  from  any  plot 
Meant  but  to  please ;  if  you  believe  it  not, 
I  dare  make  oath ;  your  hands  can  do  no  less 
Than  certify  your  fi-iends  what  I  confess. 


'  The  danger  of  the  '  Spanish  plot.'  See  the  Prologue. 
The  next  line  contains  an  allusion  to  the  defeat  and  de- 
struction of  the  Spanish  Armada  in  15S8. — Gifford. 


THE  END. 


MURRAY  AND  GIBB,  EDINBURGH, 
PKIXTEKS  TO  HER  MAJESTY'S  STATIONERY  OFFICE. 


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3.  Goldsmith's  Miscellaneous  Works. 

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II. 

Norrie    Seton ;    or,    Driven   to    Sea.    By 

Mrs.  George  Cupples,  Author  of  *  Unexpected  Pleasures,'  etc. 
III. 

The  Circle  of  the  Year ;   or,  Studies  of 

Nature  and  Pictures  of  the  Seasons.     By  W.  H.  Davenport  Adams. 

IV. 

The  Wealth  of  Nature :  Our  Food  Supplies 

from  the  Vegetable  Kingdom.     By  the  Rev.  John  Montgomery,  A.M. 

V. 

Stories   of   School    Life.     By  Ascott   R. 

Hope. 


NEW    VOLUME. 


VI. 

Stories  of  French  School  Life.    By  Ascott 

R.  Hope. 

'  We  were  among  the  many  who  greatly  admired  Mr.  Hope's  "  Stories  of 
School  Life"  and  "  Stories  about  Boys,"  and  when  we  found  that  he  had  under- 
taken to  illustrate  French  school  life,  we  gladly  opened  the  volume.  The  stories 
are  interesting  in  the  highest  degi-ee ;  they  appeal  to  the  best  sympathies  of  the 
lads  for  whom  they  are  written.  They  set  forth  the  right  and  the  true  against  the 
false,  and  they  are  full  of  good,  hearty  humour. ' — Ptiblic  Opinio7t. 

'  The  stories  are  excellently  told,  and  must  interest  all  youngsters.  The  book 
is  handsomely  got  up.' — The  Scotsman. 

'  We  are  glad  to  be  able  to  recommend  this  new  work  to  all  who  feel  an  interest 
in  what  their  children  should  read.' — Quarterly  Journal  of  Education. 


BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY   WILLIAM    P.    NIMMO. 


NIMMO'S    UNIVERSAL    GIFT  BOOKS. 

A  Series  of  excellent  Works,  profusely  Illustrated  with  original  Engravings  by  the 
first  Artists,  choicely  printed  on  sicperfne  paper,  and  elegaittly  lotmd  in  cloth 
and  gold,  and  gilt  edges,  crown  2>vo,  price  '^s,  6d.  each. 

I. 

Rupert  Rochester,  the  Banker's  Son«    A 

Tale.     By  Winifred  Taylor,  Author  of  '  Story  of  Two  Lives,'  etc. 

II. 

The  Story  of  Two  Lives;  or,  The  Trials 

of  Wealth   and   Poverty.       By  Winifred  Taylor,    Author  of  '  Rupert 
Rochester,'  etc. 

III. 

The  Lost  Father;  or,  Cecilia's  Triumph. 

A  Story  of  our  own  Day.     By  Daryl  Holme. 

IV. 

Christian    Osborne's    Friends.      By    Mrs. 

Harriet  Miller  Davidson,  Author  of   '  Isobel  Jardine's  History,'  and 
Daughter  of  the  late  Hugh  Miller. 

V. 

Tales  of  Old  English  Life  ;  or,  Pictures  of 

the  Periods.     By  William  Francis  Collier,  LL.D.,  Author  of  'Histoiy 
of  Enghsh  Literature,'  etc. 

VI. 

The    Young    Mountaineer ;     or,    Frank 

Miller's  Lot  in  Life.     The  Story  of  a  Swiss  Boy.     By  Daryl  Holme. 

VII. 

Mungo  Park's  Life  and  Travels.    With  a 

Supplementary  Chapter,  detailing  the  results  of  recent  Discovery  in  Africa. 

VIII. 

The  Spanish  Inquisition :  Its  Heroes  and 

Martyrs.      By  Janet  Gordon,   Author  of  '  Champions  of  the  Reforma- 
tion,' etc. 

IX. 

Wisdom,  Wit,  and  Allegory.     Selected  from 

'  The  Spectator.' 

X. 

Benjamin  Franklin :  A  Biography. 

XI. 

Wallace,  the  Hero  of  Scotland:  A  Bio- 
graphy.   By  James  Paterson. 

XII. 

Epoch  Men,  and  the  Results  of  their  Lives. 

By  Samuel  Neil. 

\Continiied  oji  page  14. 


lO  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  T.  NIMMO. 


NIMMO'S   UNIVERSAL   GIFT   BOOKS-continued, 


xiir. 

The  Mirror  of  Character.     Selected  from  the 

Writings  of  OvEREURY,  Earle,  and  Butler. 

XIV. 

Men  of  History.     By  Eminent  Writers. 

XV. 

Old- World  Worthies;   or,  Classical  Bio- 
graphy.   Selected  from  Plutarch's  Lives. 

XVI. 

Women  of  History.     By  Eminent  Writers. 

XVII. 

The  Improvement  of  the  Mind.    By  Isaac 

Watts. 

XVIII. 

The  Man  of  Business  considered  in  Six 

Aspects.     A  Book  for  Young  Men. 

XIX. 

Stories   about  Boys.     By  Ascott  R.   Hope, 

Author  of  'Stories  of  School  Life,'  'My  Schoolboy  Friends,'  etc.  etc. 

XX. 

Violet  Rivers ;  or,  Loyal  to  Duty.    A  Tale 

for  Girls.     By  Winifred  Taylor,  Author  of  '  Story  of  Two  Lives,'  etc. 

*»*  This  elegant  and  useful  Series  of  Books  has  been  specially  prepared  for  School  and  College 
Prizes  :  they  are,  however,  equally  suitable  for  General  Presentation.  In  selecting  the  works  for 
this  Series,  the  aim  of  the  publisher  has  been  to  produce  books  of  a  permanent  value,  interesting 
in  manner  and  instructive  in  matter — books  that  youth  will  read  eagerly  and  with  profit,  and 
which  will  be  found  equally  attractive  in  after  life. 


Third  Edition,  crown  8vo,  cloth  extra,  price  3s.  6d., 

FAMILY    PRAYERS 

FOR 

FIVE      WEEKS, 

With  Prayers  for  Special  Occasions,  and  a  Table  for  Reading  the 
Holy  Scriptures  throughout  the  Year. 

By  WILLIAM   WILSON,   Minister  of  Kippen. 

'  This  is  an  excellent  compendium  of  family  prayers.  It  will  be  found  invalu- 
able to  parents  and  heads  of  families.  The  prayers  are  short,  well  expressed,  and 
the  book,  as  a  whole,  does  the  author  great  credit.' — Perth  Advertiser. 


CATALOGUE 


OF 


\a]^nhx  rnxH  Stantrartr  ^aahn 

Choicely  Printed  and  Illustrated,  and  Elegantly- 
Bound  in  Entirely  lew  Styles, 


SUITABLE  FOR  THE  LIBRARY.  PRESENTATION,  AND 
SCHOOL  PRIZES,  ETC. 


PUBLISHED  BY 


WILLIAM     P.     NIMMO, 

EDINBURGH. 


'Mr.  Nimmd's  Books  are  well  hi  own  as  marvels  of  cheapness,  elegance, 
and  sterling  worth.'' — Observer. 


SOLD    BY    ALL    BOOKSELLERS. 

1872. 


*,*  In  ordering  by  Number,  please  state  date  of  Catalogue. 
MAY  '72. 


CONTENTS. 


Hugh  Miller's  Works, 
AscoTT  R.  Hope's     „ 
NiMMo's  Standard  Library, 

,,        Popular  Edition  of  the  Poets, 

,,        Quarto  Gift  Books, 

,,        Select  Library,    . 

,,        Five  Shilling  Gift  Books, 

,,        Universal  Gift  Books, 

,,        Half-Crown  Rewards, 

„        Two  Shilling       ,, 

,,        Eighteenpenny    „ 
Sunday  School     ,, 

,,        One  Shilling  Juveniles, 

,,        Ninepenny  ,, 

Sixpenny 

'  Heaven  our  Home,'  and  other  Works  by  Same 
NiMMo's  Popular  Religious  Gift  Books,    . 

,,        Popular  Religious  Works, 

,,        Handy  Books  of  Useful  Knowledge, 

,,        Royal  Illuminated  Legends, 
Miscellaneous  Works, 
NiMMo's  Pocket  Treasuries, 


Author, 
1/6 
2/6 


3-5 
6-7 
8-9 

lO-I  I 

12-13 
14 
15 

16-17 
18 

19 
20 
21 
22—23 
24 

25 
26 
27 
28 
28 
29 
30-32 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


HUaH   MILLER'S   WORKS. 

NEW   CHEAP    RE-ISSUE. 


IN  announcing  a  New  Cheap  Edition  of  the  Works  of  Hugh  Miller, 
the  Publisher  does  not  consider  it  necessary  to  add  anything  by  way  of  com- 
mendation. The  fame  of  Hugh  Miller  is  securely  established  throughout  the 
world,  and  his  works,  by  universal  consent,  take  rank  among  the  highest  in 
English  Literature. 

To  the  higher  and  more  cultivated  classes  of  society  he  appeals  by  the  purity 
and  elegance  of  his  style,  as  well  as  by  his  remarkable  powers  of  description,  and 
his  profound  knowledge  of  the  marvels  of  nature.  To  the  humbler  classes  and 
the  working  man,  the  story  of  his  life — himself  originally  a  working  man  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  word,  pushing  his  way  upward  to  the  distinguished  position 
which  he  attained — must  possess  a  peculiar  charm,  and  to  them  his  writings 
cannot  fail  to  prove  of  special  value. 

At  the  present  time,  the  works  of  Hugh  Miller,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  our 
self-taught  and  self-made  men,  are  peculiarly  suited  to  exercise  a  most  powerful 
influence  in  promoting  the  great  cause  of  the  progress  of  Education ;  and  this 
new  Edition,  while  elegant  enough  to  command  a  place  in  the  libraries  of  the 
rich,  is  cheap  enough  to  be  within  the  reach  of  the  student  and  the  working  man. 

Although  many  of  his  books  have  already  attained  an  immense  sale  notwith- 
standing their  high  price,  the  Publisher  feels  assured  that  they  only  require  to  be 
offered  to  the  general  public  at  a  moderate  rate,  to  ensure  for  them  a  very  widely 
increased  circulation. 


OPINIONS    OF   THE   PRESS. 

'  This  effort  to  bring  the  works  of  so  distinguished  an  author  within  the  reach  of  all  classes 
cannot  fail  to  be  universally  appreciated.' — lilonting  Star. 

'Hugh  Miller's  writings  have  long  passed  the  period  of  criticism,  and  taken  rank  among 
standard  works.  From  the  times  of  the  British  Essayists  and  Oliver  Goldsmith,  no  literary  man 
has  shown  a  greater  mastery  of  the  English  language  than  the  author  of  The  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone. The  size  of  the  page  and  the  letterpress  are  suitable  for  the  library,  while  the  price  is  a 
third  less  than  the  original  edition.' — Daily  Review. 

'  The  moderate  price  at  which  the  series  is  now  offered,  however,  will  enable  thousands  of 
readers  to  acquire  for  themselves  those  volumes  which  they  have  hitherto  only  found  accessible 
by  means  of  the  circulating  library.  From  the  pure,  manly,  and  instructive  character  of  his 
writings — whether  social,  moral,  or  scientific — and  from  the  fascinating  attractions  of  his  style, 
we  do  not  know  any  works  better  deserving  of  a  v.^st  circulation  than  those  of  Hugh  Miller. 
The  edition  is  clearly  printed,  and  altogether  well  got  up.' — Glasgow  Herald. 

'  This  cheap  re-issue  by  Mr.  Nimmo  will  enable  tens  of  thousands  who  have  yet  only  heard  of 
Hugh  Miller  soon  to  learn  to  appreciate  and  admire  him.' — Bell's  Messenger, 

'This  cheap  edition  of  Hugh  Miller's  works  deserves,  and  will  doubtless  secure,  a  very  ex- 
tended public  support.  No  one  knew  better  than  Hugh  Miller  how  to  combine  amusement  with 
instruction  ;  and  all  his  works  exhibit  this  most  important  combination.' — Public  Opinion. 

The  works  of  Hugh  Miller  cannot  be  too  widely  known  or  studied ;  and  the  publisher 
deserves  our  thanks  for  his  cheap  re-issue  of  them.' — T/ie  Standard. 

'A  new  cheap  issue  of  Hugh  Miller's  admirable  works  will  be  hailed  with  pleasure  by  all  who 
desire  to  possess  a  really  valuable  collection  of  books.' — The  Observer. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


HUGH    MILLEE'S    WORKS. 

CHEAP    POPULAR    EDITIONS, 

In  crown  8vo,  cloth  extra,  price  5s.  each. 
Eighteenth  Edition, 

1.  My  Schools  and  Schoolmasters ;  or,  The 

Story  of  my  Education. 

'  A  story  which  we  have  read  with  pleasure,  and  shall  treasure  up  in  memory  for  the  sake  of 
the  manly  career  narrated,  and  the  glances  at  old-world  manners  and  distant  scenes  afforded  us 
by  the  way.' — AtlunceMH. 

Thirty-ninth  Thousand, 

2.  The  Testimony  of  the  Rocks ;  or,  Geology 

in  its  Bearings  on  the  Two  Theologies,  Natural  and  Revealed.  Fro/nsdy 
Illustrated. 

'  The  most  remarkable  work  of  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  man  of  the  age.  ...  A  magni 
cent  epic,  and  the  Principia  of  Geologj'.' — British  and  Foreign  Evatigelical  Review. 

Ninth  Edition, 

3.  The  Cruise  of  the  Betsey ;  or,  a  Summer 

Ramble  among  the  Fossiliferous  Deposits  of  the  Hebrides.  With  Rambles 
of  a  Geologist ;  or.  Ten  Thousand  Miles  over  the  Fossiliferous  Deposits  of 
Scotland. 

Fourth  Edition, 

4.  Sketch-Book  of  Popular  Geology. 

Eleventh  Edition, 

5.  First  Impressions  of  England  and  its 

PEOPLE. 

'This  is  precisely  the  kind  of  book  we  should  have  looked  for  from  the  author  of  the  "Old 
Red  Sandstone."  Straightforward  and  earnest  in  style,  rich  and  varied  in  matter,  these  "  First 
Impressions"  will  add  another  laurel  to  the  wreath  which  Mr.  Miller  has  already  won  for  hini- 
sel,t. ' —  Westminster  Reviezv. 

Ninth  Edition, 

6.  Scenes  and  Legends  of  the  North  of 

SCOTLAND;   or,  The  Traditional  History  of  Cromarty.  , 

'A  very  pleasing  and  interesting  book.  The  style  has  a  purity  and  elegance  which  remind 
one  of  Irving,  or  of  Irving's  master,  Goldsmith.' — Spectator. 

[Continued  on  next  page. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


HUGH    MILLER'S    WORKS. 

CHEAP    POPULAR    EDITIONS, 

In  crown  8vo,  cloth  extra,  price  5s.  each. 
Fourteenth  Edition, 

7.  The  Old  Red  Sandstone ;  or,  New  Walks 

in  an  Old  Field.     Profusely  lilnstrated. 

'  In  Mr.  Miller's  charming  little  work  will  be  found  a  very  graphic  description  of  the  Old  Red 
Fishes.  I  know  not  a  more  fascinating  volume  on  any  branch  of  British  Geology.' — MauieWs 
3Iedals  of  Creation, 

Fifth  Edition, 

8.  The  Headship  of  Christ  and  the  Rights  of 

the  Christian  People.     With  Preface  by  Peter  Bayne,  A.M. 
Thirteenth  Edition, 

9.  Footprints  of  the  Creator;  or,  The  Aste- 

rolepis  of  Stromness.  With  Preface  and  Notes  by  Mrs.  Miller,  and 
a  Biographical  Sketch  by  Professor  Agassiz.     Profusely  Illustrated. 

Fifth  Edition, 

10.  Tales  and  Sketches.     Edited,  with  a  Preface, 

by  Mrs.  Miller. 

Fourth  Edition, 

11.  Essays r    Historical  and    Biographical,    Political 

and  Social,  Literary  and  Scientific. 

Fourth  Edition, 

12.  Edinburgh   and    its    Neighbourhood, 

Geological  and  Historical.     With  the  Geology  of  the  Bass  Rock. 
Third  Edition, 

13.  Leading  Articles  on  Various  Subjects. 

Edited  by  his  Son-in-law,  the  Rev.  John  Davidson.  With  a  Charac- 
teristic Portrait  of  the  Author,  fac-simile  from  a  Photograph,  by  D.  O. 
Hill,  R.S.A. 


*^*  Hugh  Miller's  Works  may  also  be  had  in  complete  sets  of  it, 
Volumes,  elegantly  bound  in  roxburgh  style,  gilt  top, price  f[,-i„  iSj-.,  or 
in  cloth  extra,  gold,  atid  black  printing,  ne^a  style,  gilt  top,  price  jQ'^,  ^s. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


POPULAR  WORKS  BY  ASCOTT  R.  HOPE. 

Third  Edition,  just  published,  post  Zvo,  cloth  extra,  profusely  illustrated, 
gilt  edges,  price  ^s., 

MY    SCHOOLBOY    FRIENDS: 

/I    SJOR'i    OF    WHITMINSTER    GRAMMAR    SCHOOL 

By  the  Author  of 
'A  Book  about  Dominies,'  '  Stories  of  School  Life,'  etc. 

'  Its  fidelity  to  truth  is  the  charm  of  the  book  ;  but  the  individuals  introduced  are  so  admirably 
described,  that  an  excellent  moral  may  be  deduced  from  the  attributes  of  the  well-disposed  and 
the  vicious.  The  volume  will  be  read  with  interest  by  those  who  have  arrived  at  full  age,  and 
with  much  mental  profit  by  those  who  are  in  their  nonage.' — The  Lincoln  Jlfercury. 

'Mr.  Hope  has  already  written  several  excellent  stories  of  schoolboy  life;  but  this  story  of 
"  Whitminster  Grammar  School"  excels  anything  he  has  yet  done.' — The  North  British  Mail. 

'  We  are  glad  to  welcome  Mr.  Hope's  return  to  a  province  of  literature  where  he  reigns  alone, 
and  where  almost  none  dare  or  do  tread  but  he.  .  .  .  The  present  tale  has  many  merits,  and  it 
has  nothing  else  that  we  can  see.  It  is  very  commonplace,  and  therefore  very  natural ;  it  places 
no  single  aspect  of  schoolboy  life  in  undue  relief,  it  does  not  glorify  unmanliness  or  vice,  and  it  is 
thoroughly  healthy.  We  should  imagine  that  it  will  be  profoundly  interesting  to  the  readers  for 
whom  it  is  meant.' — The  Edinburgh  Conrant. 


Fourth  Edition,  croivn  Svo,  cloth  extra,  3^.  dd., 

A    BOOK    ABOUT    DOMINIES: 

BEING  THE  REFLECTIONS  AND  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A 
MEMBER  OF  THE  PROFESSION. 

'This  is  a  manly,  earnest  book.  The  author  describes  in  a  series  of  essays  the  life  and  work 
of  a  schoolmaster  ;  and  as  he  has  lived  that  life  and  done  that  work  from  deliberate  choice,  his 
story  is  worth  hearing.' — The  Spectator. 


Eourt/i  Edition,  crown  Sz'o,  cloth  exti-a,  price  3^.  6</. , 

A     BOOK     ABOUT      BOYS. 

By  ASCOTT  R.  HOPE, 
Author  of  *  A  Book  about  Dominies,'  etc. 

'  This  volume  is  full  of  knowledge,  both  useful  and  entertaining,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  words, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  put  it  down  without  a  feeling  of  personal  kindliness  towards  the  author. 
If  our  readers  think  we  have  praised  too  much  and  criticised  too  little,  we  can  only  say  there  is 
something  about  the  book  which  disarms  one's  critical  faculty,  and  appeals  to  them  to  judge  for 
themselves.  We  should  like  to  see  it  in  the  hands  of  every  parent  and  schoolmaster  in  England.' 
•^Saturday  Review. 

'  This  is  really  a  delightful  work,  and  one  which  we  hope  will  find  its  way  into  the  hands  of 
every  parent  and  every  boy  in  the  kingdom.' — The  Globe. 

'  We  should  like  to  see  this  book,  together  with  a  new  one  which  we  are  promised,  and  which 
will  be  sure  to  be  worth  reading,  not  only  in  the  hands  of  every  teacher,  but  on  the  shelves  of 
every  school  library.' — Editcatiotial  Times. 


Fourth  Edition,  Just  published,  in  cro7vn  %vo,  elegantly  bound  and  illustrated, 
gilt  edges,  5^., 

STORIES    OF    SCHOOL    LIFE. 

By    ASCOTT    R.    HOPE, 
Author  of  '  A  Book  about  Boys,'  '  A  Book  about  Dominies,'  etc.  etc. 

'  Every  one  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  read  those  delightful  books  of  Mr.  Hope's,  "  A  Book 
about  Dominies"  and  "A  Book  about  Boys,"  must  have  registered  a  hope  that  he  would  some 
day  give  us  a  collection  of  stories  about  school  life  ;  and  here  is  the  identical  book.  The  stories 
are  genial  and  refreshing,  rich  with  the  highest  moral  sentiments,  never  maudlin,  and  thoroughly 
natural.  We  trust  to  meet  Mr.  Hope  again  and  again  in  similar  works,  for  we  can  assure  him 
that  no  sensational  story  that  has  ever  been  written  ever  possessed  half  the  interest  or  enjoyment 
which  these  stories  possess.' — Public  Opinion. 

'  A  book  more  thoroughly  adapted  to  boys  cannot  be  found.' — The  Globe. 

[Continued  on  next  page. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


POPULAE  WORKS  BY  ASOOTT  K.  EO?I,~confi,wed. 

Second  Edition,  cro7vn  %vo,  doth  extra,  price  3J.  dd. , 

TEXTS    FROM    THE    TIMES. 

By  ASCOTT  R.  HOPE,  Author  of  'A  Book  about  Dominies,'  '  A  Book  about 

Boys,'  etc.  etc. 

'  Mr.  Hope  is  a  very  sensible  man,  and  speaks  what  is  well  worth  listening  to  for  its  good 
practical  common-sense.  We  wish  that  some  of  our  novelists  would  especially  study  his  essay 
upon  the  "Novels  of  the  Period."     His  criticism  on  the  literature  of  the  subject  is  full  of  home 

truths Let  us  give,  too,  a  word  of  praise  to  his  essay  "  On  going  to  the  Theatre."     In 

the  main,  we  thoroughly  agree  with  him.  We,  at  all  events,  shall  not  be  suspected  of  any 
design  of  forbidding  cakes  and  ale  ;  but  we  fully  go  with  him  in  his  criticism  upon  the  utter 
stupidity  and  folly  of  our  modern  plays,  and  the  wretched  bad  acting  and  the  vulgarity  of  most 
of  our  actors  and  actresses.  Mr.  Hope's  book  deserves  a  place  in  every  lending  library  both 
in  town  and  country.  It  is  especially  distinguished  by  its  healthy  tone,  and  should  be  put  into 
the  hands  of  all  young  people.' — Westniitistcr  Review. 


THIRD  EDITION. 

Crown  %z'0,  elegantly  bound,  and  profusely  Illustrated  by  Qyik%.  Gkeen,  pricey.  6d., 

STORIES    ABOUT    BOYS. 

By  ASCOTT  R.  HOPE,  Author  of  '  Stories  of  School  Life,'   'My  Schoolboy 
Friends,'  etc.  etc. . 

'A  book  for  boys  by  Mr.  Hope  stands  in  no  need  of  recommendation.  His  previous  tales 
have  proved  such  favourites,  that  the  simple  announcement  of  his  name  is  sufficient  to  ensure  for 
his  new  volume  a  wide  circulation  among  the  host  of  youths  who  are  let  loose  from  school  about 
Christmas-time.  These  stories  are  admirably  suited,  in  their  subject  and  style,  to  e.vcite  and 
attract  all  juvenile  readers.  They  have  the  rare  advantage  of  really  good  illustrations,  and  the 
style  of  binding  is  the  prettiest  and  most  artistic  we  have  yet  come  across.' — T/te  North  British 
Mail. 

'  Boys  will  find  he  has  prepared  a  tempting  dish,  into  which  they  may  dip  again  and  again 
with  interest  and  with  profit.     The  volume  is  handsomely  got  up.' — The  Scotsman. 


Just  published,  crown  Zvo,  cloth  gilt,  with  numerous  Illustrations,  price  ^s., 

STORIES    OF 
FRENCH      SCHOOL     LIFE. 

By  ASCOTT  R.  HOPE,  Author  of  '  A  Book  about  Dominies,'  '  Stories  about 
Boys,'  '  My  Schoolboy  Friends,'  etc. 

'  It  is  refreshing  to  meet  with  the  productions  of  men  whose  sole  aim  is  to  supply  interesting 
books  characterized  by  extreme  healthiness  of  tone,  and  tending  to  raise,  rather  than  depress, 
the  natural  spirit  of  emulation.  Such  are  the  books  of  our  author  ;  and  we  are  glad  to  be  able 
to  recommend  this  new  work  to  all  who  feel  an  interest  in  what  their  children  should  read.  .  .  . 
We  cannot  leave  this  work  without  expressing  an  earnest  wish,  that  the  efforts  of  the  author  to 
raise  the  tone  of  boyish  literature  may  not  be  without  fruit,  and  that  his  efforts  will  be  seconded 
by  the  efforts  of  all  right-minded  men  who  have  the  welfare  of  their  own  and  others'  children  at 
heart." — Qimrterly  journal  of  Educaiioti. 

yust  ready,  croiun  8vo,  cloth  extra,  price  6^. , 

MASTER    JOHN    BULL: 
A  HOLIDAY  BOOK  FOR  PARENTS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS. 

By  ASCOTT  R.  HOPE,  Author  of  '  A  Book  about  Dominies,'  etc.  etc. 

'It  is  a  book  well  worth  reading  by  all  who  have  the  care  and  control  of  boys ;  for  though 
they  may  not,  perhaps,  correct  their  mistakes,  still  some  gleam  of  light  and  feeling  of  sympathy 
must  follow  from  reading  it.  Mr.  Hope  knows  boy-nature,  and  he  also  knows  and  sees  the  errors 
and  mismanagement  which  lie  at  the  root  of  the  scholastic  training  which  boys  of  the  middle- 
class  for  the  most  part  receive.  Amongst  many  serious  and  valuable  suggestions  there  are  some 
capital  caricature  sketches,  and  specimens  of  boyish  composition.' — The  Athcncrum. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


''A  marvel  of  cheapness  and  excellence,  even  in  this  age  of  cheap 
literature' — Observer. 


N  I  M  M  O'S 

lihraYy  Edition  of  Standard  Works. 

In  large  demy  Svo,  with  Steel  Portrait  arid  Vignette^  handsomely 
hound,  roxburgh  style,  gilt  top,  price  5  s.  each. 


1.  Shakespeare's  Complete  Works.   With 

a  Biographical  Sketch  by  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  a  Copious  Glossary, 
and  numerous  Illustrations. 

*»*  This  Edition  is  based  on  the  Text  of  Johnson,  Steevens,  and  Reed,  which 
is  allowed  to  be  one  of  the  most  accurate ;  and,  so  far  as  regards  mechanical  cor- 
rectness, it  will  contrast  favourably  with  many  high-priced  and  ambitious  editions. 

2.  Burns's  Complete  Works.    Containing 

also  his  Remarks  on  Scottish  Song,  General  Correspondence,  Letters  to 
Clarinda,  and  Correspondence  with  George  Thomson.  With  Life  and 
Variorum  Notes,  and  full-page  Illustrations  by  eminent  Artists. 

3.  Goldsmith's  Miscellaneous  Works.   In- 

cluding 'The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  'Citizen  of  the  World,'  'Polite 
Learning,'  Poems,  Plays,  Essays,  etc.  etc. 

4.  Lord  Byron's   Poetical  Works.     With 

Life.     Illustrated  with  full-page  Engravings  on  Wood  by  eminent  Artists. 

5.  Josephus:  The  Whole  Works  of  Fla- 

VIUS  JOSEPHUS,  the  Jewish  Historian.  Translated  by  William 
Whiston,  A.m.     With  Life,  Portrait,  Notes,  and  Index,  etc. 

6.  The  Arabian   Nights'  Entertainments. 

Translated  from  the  Arabic.  An  entirely  New  and  Complete  Edition. 
With  upwards  of  a  Hundred  Illustrations  on  Wood,  drawn  by  S.  J. 
Groves. 

7.  The  Works   of  Jonathan   Swift,  D.D. 

Carefully  selected.  Including  '  A  Tale  of  a  Tub, '  '  Gulliver's  Travels, ' 
'Journal  to  Stella,'  '  Captain  Creichton,'  'Directions  to  Servants,'  Essays, 
Poems,  etc.  etc.  With  a  Biography  of  the  Author,  and  Original  and 
Authentic  Notes. 

\Coiitiiiiied  on  next  page. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


We  congratulate  the  lovers  of  good  literature  on  having  their  tastes 
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N  I  M  M  O'S 

Library  Edition  of  Standard  Worlds, 

CONTINUED. 

In  large  demy  2>vo,  7inth  Steel  Portrait  and  Vignette,  handsomely 
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8.  The  Works  of  Daniel  Defoe.  Carefully 

selected  from  the  most  authentic  sources.  Including  '  Robinson  Crusoe,' 
'Colonel  Jack,'  'Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,'  'Journal  of  the  Plague  in 
London,'  'Duncan  Campbell,'  'Complete  English  Tradesman, '  etc.  etc. 
With  Life  of  the  Author. 

9.  The  Works  of  Tobias  Smollett.    Care- 

fully  selected  from  the  most  authentic  sources.  Including  '  Roderick 
Random,'  Peregrine  Pickle,'  'Humphry  Clinker,'  Plays,  Poems.  With 
Life,  etc, 

10.  The    Canterbury    Tales    and    Faerie 

QUEEN  :  With  other  Poems  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser.  Edited  for 
Popular  Perusal,  with  current  Illustrative  and  Explanatory  Notes.  With 
Lives  of  the  Authors. 

11.  The  Works  of  the  British  Dramatists. 

Carefully  selected  from  the  Original  Editions.  Including  the  best 
Plays  of  Ben  Jonson,  Christopher  Marlowe,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Philip  Massinger,  etc.  etc.  With  copious  Notes,  Bio- 
graphies, and  a  Historical  Introduction. 

12.  The  Scottish  Minstrel :  The  Songs  and 

Song  Writers  of  Scotland  subsequent  to  Bums.  With  Biographies,  etc. 
etc.     By  the  Rev.  Charles  Rogers,  LL.D. 

13.  Moore :  The  Poetical  Works  of  Thomas 

MOORE.  New  Edition,  carefully  Revised.  With  Life.  Illustrated 
with  full-page  Engravings  on  Wood,  by  eminent  Artists. 

14.  Fielding :    The    Writings    of    Henry 

FIELDING.  Comprising  his  Celebrated  Works  of  Fiction.  With 
Life,  etc. 

*.j*  This  Series  is  also  kept  bound  in  doth  extra,  /till  gilt  side,  back,  and  edges, 
price  6s.  6d.  each  ;  and  in  quarter  green  calf,  polished  back,  red  cloth  sides, 
price  7^.  6d.  each. 


lO  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


yust  ready, 

ENTIRELY  NEW  CLOTH  BINDING, 
IN  VARIOUS  EMBLEMATIC  DESIGNS  "WORKED  IN  GOLD  AND  BLACK. 

ENTIRELY  NEW  MOROCCO  BINDINGS, 

IN  ANTIQUE  RAISED,  AT  6s.   6d.,  AND  IN  EXTRA  RAISED,  "WITH  HIGH-CLASS 

MEDALLION  PORTRAITS  ON  SIDE,  AT  7s.  6d. 

N  I  M  M  O'S 

POPULAR    EDITION    OF   THE   WORKS 
OF    THE    POETS. 

In  f cap.  Zvo,  printed  oil  toned  paper,  elegantly  bound  in  cloth  extra,  with 
various  emblematic  designs  worked  in  gold  and  black,  price  y.  6d. 
each;  or  in  morocco  antique, pi'ice  ds.  6d.  each;  or  morocco  extra, 
raised  and  with  high-class  medallion  portraits  on  side,  entirely  new 
design,  p7'ice  'js.  6d.  each.  Each  Volume  contai?is  a  Memoir,  and 
is  illustrated  with  a  Portrait  of  the  Author  engraved  on  Steel, 
and  numerous  full -page  Illustrations  on  Wood.,  from  designs  by 
eminent  Artists ;  also  beautiful  Illuminated  Title-page. 


1.  Longfello^s  Poetical  Works. 

2.  Scott's  Poetical  Works. 

3.  Byron's  Poetical  Works. 

4.  Moore's  Poetical  Works. 

5.  Wordsw^orth's  Poetical  Works. 

6.  Cowper's  Poetical  Works. 

7.  Milton's  Poetical  Works. 

8.  Thomson's  Poetical  ^Works. 

9.  Goldsmith's  Choice  Works. 

10.  Pope's  Poetical  Works. 

11.  Burns's  Poetical  Works. 

\Continued on  next pa^^e. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  V.  NIMMO.  I  I 

N  I  MMO'S 

POPULAR   EDITION    OF    THE    WORKS 
OF   THE    POETS, 

C0A^TIAn7£D. 

12.  The  Casquet  of  Gems.    Choice  Selec- 

tions from  the  Poets. 

13.  The  Book  of  Humorous  Poetry. 

14.  Ballads:  Scottish  and  English. 

15.  The  Complete  Works  of  Shakespeare. 

Tw^o  vols. 

16.  The  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments. 

Two  vols. 

1 7.  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Holy 

18.  Lives  of  the  British  Poets. 

19.  The  Prose  Works  of  Robert  Burns. 


%*  This  Series  of  Books,  from  the  very  superior  manner  in  which  it  is  pro- 
duced, is  at  once  the  cheapest  and  handsomest  edition  of  the  Poets  in  the  market. 
The  volumes  form  elegant  and  appropriate  Presents  as  School  Prizes  and  Gift- 
Books,  either  in  cloth  or  morocco. 

'  They  are  a  marvel  of  cheapness,  some  of  the  volumes  extending  to  as  many  as  700,  and  even 
900,  pages,  printed  on  toned  paper  in  a  beautifully  clear  type.  Add  to  this,  that  they  are  pro- 
fusely illustrated  with  wood  engravings,  are  elegantly  and  tastefully  bound,  and  that  they  are 
published  at  3s.  6d.  each,  and  our  recommendation  of  them  is  complete.' — Scotsman. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED   BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


NEW    AND    CHEAPER    EDITIONS. 


NiMMo's  Quarto  Gift  Books. 

Small  ^(0,  beaittifully  pritited  on  superior  paper,  handsomely  bound  in  cloth  extra, 
bevelled  boards,  gilt  edges,  price  6s.  each. 


ROSES    AND     HOLLY: 

a  ®ift=a8ooh  for  all  tijc  gear.    SJKitfj  ©rtstnal  Cllustrations 
6g  eminent  'Slrtists. 

'  This  is  really  a  collection  of  art  and  literary  gems— the  prettiest  book,  take  it  all  in  all,  that 
we  have  seen  this  season.' — Illustrated  Times. 


PEN  AND  PENCIL  PICTURES  FROM 
THE    POETS. 

BHttfj  CTfjotcc  illustrations  bg  tfje  most  eminent  Artists. 
.III. 

GEMS    OF    LITERATURE: 

lElepnt,  Karc,  anU  .S'uggestibe.    EllustrateK  bg  fiistinsuisf)elr  Artists. 

'  For  really  luxuridus  books,  Nimmo's  "  Pen  and  Pencil  Pictures  from  the  Poets  "  and  "  Gems 
of  Literature "  may  be  well  recommended.  They  are  lu.xurious  in  the  binding,  in  the  print,  in 
the  engravings,  and  in  the  paper.' — Morning  Post. 


THE    BOOK    OF    ELEGANT 
EXTRACTS. 

iProfuselg  CllustrateiJ  fig  tlje  most  eminent  'Artists. 

'  This  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  and  beautiful  books  which  we  have  seen  for  some  time,  and 
is  really  worthy  of  a  place  on  any  drawing-room  table.' — Herald. 

[Continued  on  next  page. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO.  I  3 


NiMMo's  Quarto  Gift  Books, 

CONTINUED. 


V. 

THE    GOLDEN    GIFT: 

^rofusclg  BllustratclJ  fcttfj  ©viginal  Sngrabings  on  212Saoti  bg 
tmtncnt  'Artists. 

'  It  consists  of  a  beautifully  illustrated  selection  from  a  wide  field  of  author- 
ship.'— Daily  Telegraph. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  EDGAR 
ALLAN    POE. 

SHitlj  Stfoitttg-^ig^t  ©rijinal  lIlHStrations  bn  tmiiunt  girtists, 
anb  a  ^ito  ^tmoir. 


THE    LITERARY    BOUQUET: 

GATHERED  FROM  FAVOURITE  AUTHORS. 

^rDfuscli;  IKuslrattb  irg  eminent  Jirtists. 

'  Taking  the  book  as  a  whole,  it  bears  evidence  of  great  good  taste  in  the 
selection,  and  equally  'good  taste  in  the  arrangement.  Several  of  the  engravings 
rise  to  a  high  pitch  of  excellence,  and  altogether  the  volume  is  elegant  in  form.' 
—  The  Scotsman. 

'"The  Literary  Bouquet "  will  meet  with  a  hearty  welcome  wherever  pure 
artistic  and  literaiy  taste  exists,' — BdVs  Alessenger. 

'"The  Literary  Bouquet"  has  been  gathered  from  various  poets  and  prose 
Vf-riters  with  great  discrimination,  and  illustrated  most  appropriately. '  — 77^t' 
Daily  Neivs. 


14  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  V.  NIMMO. 


NIMMO'S   SELECT   LIBRARY. 


New  Series  of  Choice  Books,  beautifully  printed  on  superfine  paper,  profusely 
Illustrated  with  original  Eitgravings  by  the  first  Artists,  and  elegantly  bound 
in  cloth  and  gold,  large  crown  8vo,  price  5s.  each. 

Second  Edition. 

1.  Almost   Faultless  :    A    Story   of   the 

Present  Day.     By  the  Author  of    '  A  Book  for  Governesses. ' 

'The  author  has  written  a  capital  story  in  a  high  moral  tone.'—  The  Court 
yournal. 

2.  Before    the    Conquest ;    or,  English 

Worthies  in  the  Olden  Time.     By  W.  H.  Davenport  Adams. 

'  The  author's  aim  is  to  illuminate,  what  may  be  regarded  as  obscure,  certain 
periods  of  historic  England,  accompanied  witii  biographical  sketches.  The 
book  is  beautifully  bound  and  printed,  and  cannot  fail  to  command  popular  sup- 
port.'— Courant. 

3.  Every-Day  Objects ;   or,  Picturesque 

Aspects  of  Natural  History.     By  W.  H.  Davenport  Adams. 

'  As  an  introduction  to  heavier  works,  by  awakening  in  the  youthful  under- 
standing a  taste  for  knowledge  in  natural  science,  and  giving  them  a  brief  but 
clear  insight  into  the  why  and  the  wherefore  of  much  they  wonder  at,  this  book 
will  sei-ve  a  very  useful  purpose. ' —  The  Examiner. 


Third  Edition. 

4.  My  Schoolboy  Friends:   A   Story  of 

Whitminster  Grammar  School.      By  AscoTT  R.   Hope,    Author   of 
'  A  Book  about  Dominies,'  '  Stories  of  School  Life,'  etc. 

*"My  Schoolboy  Friends  "  is  a  most  interesting  book.  It  has  many  attrac- 
tive qualities,  which  are  sure  to  win  for  it  a  wide  and  lasting  popularity  among 
the  best  sort  of  readers.  Boys,  for  whom  it  is  especially  written,  will  thoroughly 
enjoy  it.' — Westminster  Rezierv. 

5.  Drifted  and  Sifted  :  A  Domestic  Chro- 

nicle  of  the  Seventeenth  Century, 

'  The  author  of  this  interesting,  and  we  may  add  pathetic,  stoiy  appears  to 
possess  the  art  of  reproducing  bygone  times  with  much  ability.' — TJie  Record. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO.  I  5 

NI  M  M  O'S 


Crown  Svo,  beautifully  printed  on  Superfijie  Paper,  profusely  illus- 
trated by  Enmient  Artists,  and  richly  bound  in  cloth  and  gold,  arid 
gilt  edges,  price  ^s.  each. 

Second  Edition. 

1.  Sw^ord  and  Pen;  or,  English  Worthies 

in  the  Reign  of  Elizabeth.     By  W.  H.  Davenport  Adams. 

'  A  more  i.vholcsoine  book  for  young  readers  we  have  seldom  seen.' — The 
Athenccum. 

Second  Edition. 

2.  Norrie  Seton ;  or,  Driven  to  Sea.     By 

Mrs.  George  Cupples,  Author  of  '  Unexpected  Pleasures,'  etc. 

*  Mrs.  Cupples  has  given  to  the  boys  in  this  volume  just  the  sort  of  sea-story 
with  which  they  will  be  delighted.' — The  Scotsman. 

Second  Edition. 

3.  The  Circle  of  the  Year ;  or.  Studies  of 

Nature  and  Pictures  of  the  Seasons.     By  W.  H.  Davenport  Adams. 

'  Its  purpose  is  to  tell  both  young  and  old,  but  especially  the  former,  how 
much  of  interest  there  is  in  everything  connected  with  nature.' — BelTs  Messenger. 

Second  Edition. 

4.  The  Wealth  of  Nature :  Our  Food  Sup- 

plies from  the  Vegetable  Kingdom.     By  the  Rev.  John  Montgomery, 
A.M. 

'  It  would  be  difficult  to  put  into  the  hands  of  any  boy  or  girl  a  volume  which 
more  equally  combines  the  instructive  and  interesting  in  literature.' — N.  B.  Mail. 

Fourth  Edition. 

5.  Stories  of  School  Life.      By  Ascott  R. 

Hope. 

6.  Stories    of   French   School    Life.      By 

Ascott  R.  Hope. 

'We  were  among  the  many  who  greatly  admired  Mr.  Hope's  "Stories  of 
School  Life"  and  "  Stories  about  Boys,"  and  when  we  found  that  he  had  under- 
taken to  illustrate  French  school  life,  we  gladly  opened  the  volume.  The  stories 
are  interesting  in  the  highest  degree ;  they  appeal  to  the  best  sympathies  of  the 
lads  for  whom  they  are  written.  They  set  forth  the  right  and  the  true  against  the 
false,  and  they  are  full  of  good,  hearty  humour.' — Public  Opinion. 


1 6  BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    WILLIAM    P.    NIMMO. 


NIMMO'S    UNIVERSAL    GIFT  BOOKS. 


A  Series  of  excellent  Works,  profusely  Illustrated  with  original  Engravings  by  the 
first  Artists,  cJioicely  printed  on  superfine  paper,  and  elegantly  bound  in  cloth 
and  gold,  and  gilt  edges,  crown  %vo,  price  3^'.  ()d.  each. 

1.  Rupert  Rochester,  the  Banker's  Son. 

A  Tale.    By  Winifred  Taylor,  Author  of  '  Story  of  Two  Lives,'  etc. 

2.  The  Story   of    Two    Lives  ;    or,    The 

Trials  of  Wealth  and  Poverty.      By  Winifred  Taylor,  Author  of 
*  Rupert  Rochester,'  etc. 

3.  The  Lost  Father;  or,  Cecilia's  Triumph. 

A  Story  of  our  own  Day.     By  Daryl  Holme. 

4.  Christian  Osborne's  Friends.    By  Mrs. 

Harriet  Miller  Davidson,  Author  of  '  Isobel  Jardine's  History,' 
and  Daughter  of  the  late  Hugh  Miller. 

5.  Tales  of  Old  English  Life ;  or.  Pictures 

of  the  Periods.     By  William  Francis  Collier,  LL.D.,  Author  of 
'  History  of  English  Literature,'  etc. 

6.  The  Young  Mountaineer;  or,  Frank 

Miller's  Lot  in  Life.     The  Story  of  a  Swiss  Boy.     By  Daryl  Holme. 

7.  Mungo  Park's  Life  and  Travels.    With 

a  Supplementary  Chapter,  detailing  the  results  of  recent  Discovery  in 
Africa. 

8.  The  Spanish  Inquisition :  Its  Heroes 

and  Martyrs.       By  Janet  Gordon,   Author  of  '  Champions  of  the 
Reformation,'  etc. 

9.  Wisdom,  Wit,  and  Allegory.     Selected 

from  '  The  Spectator.' 

TO.  Benjamin   Franklin:  A  Biography. 

From  the  celebrated  '  Life '  by  Jared  Sparks,  and  the  more  recent 
and  extensive  '  Life  and  Times '  by  James  Parton. 

\Continued  on  next  page. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.   NIMMO.  I  7 


NIMMO'S   UNIVERSAL    GIFT   BOOKS-continued. 


11.  Wallace,  the  Hero  of  Scotland:  A 

Biography.     By  James  Paterson. 

12.  Epoch  Men,  and  the  Results  of  their 

Lives.     By  Samuel  Neil. 

13.  The  Mirror  of  Character.     Selected  from 

the  Writings  of  Overbury,  Earle,  and  Butler. 

14.  Men  of  History.     By  Eminent  Writers. 

%*  The  object  of  the  Editor  in  preparing  this  book  for  the  public  is  a  two- 
fold one  :  first,  to  exhibit  views  of  the  world's  great  men  ;  and,  second, 
to  present  these  views  in  the  best  words  of  the  best  authors. 

15.  Old « World   Worthies;    or.    Classical 

Biography.     Selected  from  Plutarch's  Lives. 

16.  Women  of  History.     By  Eminent  Writers. 

*j^*  This  volume  is  a  further  development  of  the  idea  which  suggested  the 
companion  volume,  '  Men  of  History.' 

17.  The   Improvement  of  the   Mind.     By 

Isaac  Watts,  D.D. 

18.  The  Man  of  Business  considered  in 

Six  Aspects.     A  Book  for  Young  Men. 

19.  Stories  about  Boys.     By  Ascott  R.  Hope, 

Author  of  'Stories  of  School  Life,'  'My  Schoolboy  Friends,'  etc.  etc. 

20.  Violet  Rivers;  or,  Loyal  to  Duty.     A 

Tale  for  Girls.     By  Winifred  Taylor,  Author  of  '  Stoiy  of  Two 
Lives,'  etc. 


*,*  This  elegant  and  useful  Series  of  Books  has  been  specially  prepared  for  School  and  College 
Prizes :  they  are,  however,  equally  suitable  for  General  Presentation.  In  selecting  the  works  for 
this  Series,  the  aim  of  the  publisher  has  been  to  produce  books  of  a  permanent  value,  interesting 
in  manner  and  instructive  in  matter — books  that  youth  will  read  eagerly  and  with  profit,  and 
which  will  be  found  equally  attractive  in  after-life. 


20  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 

N  IMMO'S 

Demy  iSmo,  Ilbistrated,  cloth  extra,  gilt  edges,  price  xs.  6d.  each. 


1.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.     Poems  and  Essays.     By 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

2.  .(Esop's  Fables,  with  Instructive  Applications.     By 

Dr.  Croxall. 

3.  Banyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

4.  The  Young  Man-of-War's-Man :  A  Boy's  Voyage 

round  the  World.  By  Charles  Nordhoff,  Author  of  '  Seehig  the 
World.' 

5.  The  Treasury  of  Anecdote :  Moral  and  Religious. 

6.  The  Boy's  Own  Workshop;  or,  The  Young  Car- 

penters.   By  Jacob  Abbott. 

7.  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

8.  The    History  of  Sandford  and  Merton.     A  Moral 

and  Instructive  Lesson  for  Young  Persons, 

9.  Evenings    at    Home  ;    or,    The    Juvenile   Budget 

Opened.  Consisting  of  a  variety  of  Miscellaneous  Pieces  for  the  Instruc- 
tion and  Amusement  of  Young  Persons.  By  Dr.  AlKlN  and  Mrs.  Bar- 
BAULD. 

10.  Unexpected     Pleasures  ;     or,    Left    Alone   in    the 

Holidays.     By  Mrs.  George  Cupples,  Author  of  '  Norrie  Seton,'  etc. 


*  *   The  abcTJe  Series  of  elegant  and  useful  Books  is  specially  prepared  for  the 
entertaintnent  and  instruction  of  Young  Persons. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.   NIMMO.  2  I 


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1.  Bible  Blessings.     By  Rev.  Richard  Newton. 

2.  One  Hour  a  Week:    Fifty-two  Bible  Lessons  for 

'   the  Young. 

3.  The  Best  Things.      By  Rev.  Richard  Newton. 

4.  Grace  Harvey  and  her  Cousins. 

5.  Lessons  from  Rose  Hill ;  and  Little  Nannette. 

6.  Great  and  Good  Women  :    Biographies  for  Girls. 

By  Lydia  H.  Sigourney. 

7.  At  Home   and  Abroad  ;   or,  Uncle  William's  Ad- 

ventures. 

8.  The   Kind  Governess ;    or,    How  to  make   Home 

Happy. 

9.  Christmas  at  the  Beacon  :  A  Tale  for  the  Young. 

By  Ellen  Palmer. 

10.  The   Sculptor  of  Bruges.      By  Mrs.  W.  G.  Hall, 
ir.  The    Story  of   a    Moss    Rose;    or,   Ruth   and    the 

Orphan  Family,     By  Charles  Bruce. 

12.  The    Swedish    Singer;     or.    The   Story   of  Vanda 

Rosendahl.     By  Mrs.   W.   G.   Hall. 

13.  My  Beautiful  Home;  or,  Lily's  Search.     By  Chas. 

Bruce, 

14.  Alfred  and  his  Mother ;  or.  Seeking  the  Kingdom. 

By  Katherine  E.  May. 

15.  Asriel  ;    or.    The    Crystal    Cup.      A    Tale  for    the 

Young.     By  Mrs.  Henderson. 

16.  Wilton    School ;    or,    Harry   Campbell's    Revenge. 

A  Tale.     By  F,  E,  Weatherly, 

17.  Percy  and  Ida.      By  Katherine  E.  May. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


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1.  FOUR  LITTLE  PEOPLE  AND  THEIR  FRIENDS. 

2.  ELIZABETH  ;  or,  The  Exiles  of  Siberia.    A  Tale  from 

the  French  of  Madame  Cottin. 

3.  PAUL    AND    VIRGINIA.     From  the  French  of  Ber- 

NARDiN  Saint-Pierre. 

4-  LITTLE  THREADS  :  Tangle  Thread,  Golden  Thread;, 

and  Silver  Thread. 

5.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN,  the  Printer  Boy. 

6.  BARTON  TODD,  and  THE  YOUNG  LAWYER. 

7-  THE  PERILS  OF  GREATNESS:   The  Story  of  Alex- 

ander  Menzikoff. 

8.  LITTLE    CROWNS,   AND    HOW   TO   WIN    THEM. 

By  Rev.  Joseph  A.  Collier. 

9-  GREAT    RICHES :    Nelly    Rivers'   Story.      By    Aunt 

Fanny. 

10.  THE  RIGHT  WAY,  and  THE  CONTRAST. 

11.  THE  DAISY'S  FIRST  WINTER.     And  other  Stories. 

By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

12.  THE  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.    And  other  Stories. 
i3-  BETTER    THAN    RUBIES.     Stories   for  the   Young, 

Illustrative  of  Familiar  Proverbs.      With  62  Illustrations. 

[Conflnned  on  next  page. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


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CONTINUED. 


14-  EXPERIENCE    TEACHES.     And    other    Stories  for 

the  Young,  Illustrative  of  Familiar  Proverbs.     With  39  Illustrations. 

15.  THE  HAPPY  RECOVERY.    And  other  Stories  for  the 

Young.     With  26  Illustrations. 

16.  GRATITUDE  AND  PROBITY.    And  other  Stories  for 

the  Young.     W'ith  21  Illustrations. 

17.  THE  TWO   BROTHERS.     And  other  Stories  for  the 

Young.     With  13  Illustrations. 

iS.  THE  YOUNG  ORATOR.     And  other  Stories  for  the 

Young.     With  9  Illustrations. 

19.  SIMPLE   STORIES    TO   AMUSE   AND   INSTRUCT 

YOUNG  READERS.      With  Illustrations. 

20.  THE  THREE  FRIENDS.     And  other  Stories  for  the 

Young.     With  Illustrations. 

21.  SYBIL'S    SACRIFICE.      And    other    Stories  for  the 

Young.     W^ith  12  Illustrations. 

22.  THE  OLD    SHEPHERD.     And  other  Stories  for  the 

Young.     With  Illustrations. 

23.  THE  YOUNG  OFFICER.     And  other  Stories  for  the 

Young.     With  Illustrations. 

24.  THE  FALSE  HEIR.    And  other  Stories  for  the  Young. 

With  Illustrations. 

25.  THE   OLD  FARMHOUSE ;  or,  Alice  Morton's  Home. 

And  other  Stories.     By  M.  M.  Pollard. 

26.  TWYFORD  HALL;   or,  Rosa's  Christmas  Dinner,  and 

what  she  did  with  it.     By  Charles  Bruce. 


24  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 

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In  demy  i  Zmo,  with  IllustratioJis,  elegantly  hound  in  cloth. 

This  Series  of  Books  will  be  found  unequalled  for  genuine  interest  and  value,  and  it 
is  believed  they  will  be  eagerly  welcomed  by  thoughtful  children  of  both  sexes. 
Parents  may  rest  assured  that  each  Volume  teaches  some  noble  lesson,  or  enforces 
some  valuable  truth. 

1.  In  the  Brave  Days  of  Old ;  or,  The 

Story  of  the  Spanish  Armada.     For  Boys  and  Girls. 

2.  The    Lost   Ruby.      By   the   Author   of  'The 

Basket  of  Flowers,'  etc. 

3.  Leslie  Ross ;  or,  Fond  of  a  Lark.     By 

Charles  Bruce. 

4.  My  First  and   Last  Voyage.     By  Ben- 

jamin Clarke. 

5.  Little     Katie  :    A    Fairy    Story.      By 

Charles  Bruce. 

6.  Being  Afraid.     And  othur  Stories  for 

the  Young.     By  Charles  Stuart. 

7.  The  Toll-Keepers.    And  other  Stories 

for  the  Young.     By  Benjamin  Clarke. 

8.  Dick  Barford  :  A  Boy  ^who  w^ould  go 

down  Hill.     By  Charles  Bruce. 

9.  Joan  of  Arc  ;  or.  The  Story  of  a  Noble 

Life.     Written  for  Girls. 

10.  Helen  Siddal :  A  Story  for  Children. 

By  Ellen  Palmer. 

11.  Mat  and  Sofie:  A  Story  for  Boys  and 

Girls. 

12.  Peace  and  War.     By  the  Author  of  'The 

Basket  of  Flowers,'  etc. 

13.  Perilous    Adventures    of    a    French 

Soldier  in  Algeria. 

14.  The  Magic  Glass;   or.  The  Secret  of 

Happiness. 

15.  Hawks'  Dene:    A  Tale  for  Children. 

By  Katherine  E.  May. 

16.  Little  Maggie.    And  other  Stories.    By 

the  Author  of  '  The  Joy  of  Weil-Doing,'  etc.  etc. 

17.  The  Brother's  Legacy;  or.  Better  than 

Gold.     By  M,  M.  Pollard. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


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1.  Pearls  for  Little  People. 

2.  Great  Lessons  for  Little 

People. 


Reason    in    Rhyme  : 

Poetry  Book  for  the  Young. 


A 


^sop's    Little 

Book. 


Fable 


5.  Grapes  from  the  Great 

Vine. 

6.  The  Pot  of  Gold. 


7.  Story  Pictures  from  the 

Bible. 

8.  The   Tables   of  Stone  : 

Illustrations  of  the  Command- 
ments. 

9.  "Ways  of  Doing  Good. 

10.  Stories  about  our  Dogs. 

By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

1 1.  The  Red-winged  Goose. 

12.  The  Hermit  of  the  Hills. 


NEW    VOLUMES. 


13.  EJGQe's   Christmas,   and 

other   Stories.      By   Adelaide 
Austen. 

14.  A    Visit    to     Grand- 

mother,  and  other   Stories  for 
the  Young. 

15.  Bible  Stories  for  Young 

People.    By  Adelaide  Austen. 

16.  The    Little    "Woodman 

and  his  Dog  Csesar.      By  Mrs. 
Sherwood. 

17.  Among  the  Mountains  : 

Tales  for  the  Young.     By  Ade- 
laide Austen. 

18.  Little  Gems   for   Little 

Readers. 


19. 


Do    your    Duty,    come 

what  will,  and  other  Stories  for 
the  Young. 


20.  Noble   Joe:  A  Tale 

for    Children.      By    Adelaide 
Austen. 

21.  Lucy     Vernon,     and 

other  Stories  for  the  Young. 

22.  Anecdotes  of  Favourite 

Animals  told  for  Children.     By 
Adelaide  Austen. 

23.  Little    Henry  and    his 

Bearer.     By  Mrs.  Sherwood. 

24.  The  Holidays  at  Wil- 

ton,   and    other    Stories.       By 
Adelaide  Austen. 

25.  Chryssie  Lyle  :  A  Tale 

for     the    Young.       By    Cecil 
Scott. 


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1.  HEAVEN  OUE  HOME.     We  have  no  Saviour  but  Jesus,  and  no 

Home  but  Heaven. 

'  The  author  of  the  volume  before  us  endeavours  to  describe  what  heaven  is,  as  shown  by  the 
light  of  reason  and  Scripture  ;  and  we  promise  the  reader  many  charming  pictures  of  heavenly 
bliss,  founded  upon  undeniable  authority,  and  described  with  the  pen  of  a  dramatist,  which  can- 
not fail  to  elevate  the  soul  as  well  as  to  delight  the  imagination Part  Second  proves,  in  a 

manner  as  beautiful  as  it  is  convincing,  the  doctrine  of  the  recognition  of  friends  in 
HEAVEN, — a  subject  of  which  the  author  makes  much,  introducing  many  touching  scenes  of 
Scripture  celebrities  meeting  in  heaven  and  discoursing  of  their  experience  on  earth.     Part  Third 

DEMONSTRATES  THE  INTEREST  WHICH  THOSE  IN  HEAVEN  FEEL  IN  EARTH,  AND  PROVES,  WITH 
REMARKABLE  CLEARNESS,  THAT  SUCH  AN  INTEREST  EXISTS  NOT  ONLY  WITH  THE  ALMIGHTY 
AND  AMONG  THE  ANGELS,  BUT  ALSO  AMONG  THE  SPIRITS  OF  DEPARTED  FRIENDS.  We  Un- 
hesitatingly give  our  opinion  that  this  volume  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  productions  of  a 
religious  character  which  has  appeared  for  some  time  ;  and  we  would  desire  to  see  it  pass  into 
extensive  circulation.' — Glasgotu  Herald. 

A    CHEAP    EDITION    OF    'HEAVEN    OUR    HOME,' 

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2.  MEET  rOE  HEAVEN.      A  State  of  Grace  upon  Earth  the  only 

Preparation  for  a  State  of  Glory  in  Heaven. 
'The  author,  in  his  or  her  former  work,  "  Heaven  our  Home,"  portrayed  a  SOCIAL  heaven, 

WHERE  SCATTERED  FAMILIES  MEET  AT  LAST    IN    LOVING   INTERCOURSE   AND    IN  POSSESSION   OF 

PERFECT  RECOGNITION,  to  Spend  a  never-ending  eternity  of  peace  and  love.  In  the  present  work 
the  individual  state  of  the  children  of  God  is  attempted  to  be  unfolded,  and  more  especially  the 
State  of  probation  which  is  set  apart  for  them  on  earth  to  fit  and  prepare  erring  mortals  for  the 

society  of  the  saints The  work,  as  a  whole,  displays  an  originality  of  conception,  a  flow 

of  language,  and  a  closeness  of  reasoning  rarely  found  in  religious  publications.  .  .  .  The  author 
combats  the  pleasing  and  generally  accepted  belief,  that  death  will  effect  an  entire  change 
ON  the  spiritual  condition  of  OUR  SOULS,  and  that  all  who  enter  into  bliss  will  be  placed  on 
a  common  level.' — Glasgow  Herald. 

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3.  LIEE  IN  HEAVEN.     There,  Eaith  is  changed  into  Sight,  and  Hope 

is  passed  into  blissful  Fruition. 

'  This  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  remarkable  works  which  have  been  issued  from  the  press 
during  the  present  generation  ;  and  we  have  no  doubt  it  will  prove  as  acceptable  to  the  public  as 
the  two  attractive  volumes  to  which  it  forms  an  appropriate  and  beautiful  sequel.' — Cheltenham 
yournal. 

A     CHEAP     EDITION     OF     'LIFE     IN     HEAVEN,' 

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4.  OHEIST'S    TEANSriGUEATION  ;    or.    Tabor's    Teachings.      A 

Glimpse  of  Christ's  Gloiy  and  Intercourse  with  his  People  for  Ever. 

'  The  main  subjects  discussed  in  this  new  work  are,  Christ's  glory  and  etern.al  intercourse  with 
his  people.  These  are  developed  with  great  power  of  thought,  and  great  beauty  of  language. 
The  book  is  sure  to  meet  with  as  flattering  a  reception  as  the  author's  former  works.' — The 
Newsman. 

A    CHEAP    EDITION    OF    'CHRIST'S    TRANSFIGURATION,' 

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BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.   NIMMO. 


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1.  ACROSS    THE   RIVER :    Twelve   Views   of  Heaven.      By 

Norman   Macleod,   D.D.  ;  R.  W.    Hamilton,   D.D.  ;  Robert  S. 
Candlish,  D.D.  ;  James  Hamilton,  D.D.  ;  etc.  etc.  etc. 

2.  EMBLEMS    OF    JESUS;   or,  Illustrations   of  Emmanuel's 

Character  and  Work. 

3.  LIFE  THOUGHTS  OF  EMINENT  CHRISTIANS. 


4.  COMFORT  FOR  THE  DESPONDING ;  or,  Words  to  Soothe 

and  Cheer  Troubled  Hearts. 

5.  THE  CHASTENING  OF  LOVE  :  Words  of  Consolation  for 

the  Christian  Mourner.     By  JOSEPH  Parker,  D.D.,  Manchester. 

6.  THE  CEDAR  CHRISTIAN,  and  other  Practical  Papers.     By 

the  Rev.  Theodore  L.  Cuyler. 

7.  CONSOLATION  FOR  CHRISTIAN  MOTHERS  BEREAVED 

OF   LITTLE   CHILDREN.     By  A  Friend  of  Mourners. 

8.  THE   ORPHAN;  or.  Words  of  Comfort  for  the  Fatherless 

and  Motherless. 

9.  GLADDENING  STREAMS ;  or,  The  Waters  of  the  Sanctuary. 

A  Book  for  Fragments  of  Time  on  each  Lord's  Day  of  the  Year. 

10.  SPIRIT  OF  THE  OLD  DIVINES. 

11.  CHOICE  GLEANINGS  FROM  SACRED  WRITERS. 

12.  DIRECTION    IN   PRAYER;    or,  The  Lord's   Prayer  Illus- 

trated  in  a  Series  of  Expositions.     By  Peter  Grant,  D.D.,  Author  of 
'  Emblems  of  Jesus, '  etc. 

13.  SCRIPTURE  IMAGERY.     By  Peter  Grant,  D.D.,  Author  of 

'  Emblems  of  Jesus,'  etc. 


28  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  P.  NIMMO. 


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2.  LIGHT   ON   THE    GRAVE.       By  Peter  Grant,   D.D., 

Author  of  '  Christian  Comfort,'  etc. 

,,  ',7''^'^  '^  a  book  for  the  mourner,  and  one  full  of  consolation.     Even  a  heathen  poet  could  say, 
A',?«  oiimis  moriar;"  and  the  object  of  this  book  is  to  show  how  little  of  the  good  man  can 

die,  and  how  thoroughly  the  sting  of  death,  deprived  of  its  poison,  may  be  extracted 

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Review. 

3.  GLIMPSES   OF  THE   CELESTIAL   ClTY,   AND   GUIDE 

TO    THE     Inheritance.       With    Introduction    by    the    Rev.    John 
Macfarlane,  LL.D.,  Clapham,  London. 


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Henwives  how  to  Rear  and  Manage  Poultry  Economically  and  Profit- 
ably.    Fourth  Edition.     By  the  Author  of  '  The  Poultry  Kalendar.' 

2.  HO'W     to     become     a     SUCCESSFUL      ENGINEER  : 

Being  Hints  to  Youths  intending  to  adopt  the  Profession.  Third  Edition. 
By  Bernard  Stuart,  Engineer. 

3.  Rational  Cookery  :  Cookery  made  Practical  and 

Economical,  in  connection  with  the  Chemistiy  of  Food.  Fifth  Edition. 
By  Hartelaw  Reid. 

4.  DOMESTIC  Medicine  :  Plain  and  Brief  Directions 

for  the  Treatment  requisite  before  Advice  can  be  obtained.  Second 
Edition.  By  Offley  Bohun  Shore,  Doctor  of  Medicine  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh,  etc.  etc.  etc. 

5.  Domestic  Management  :  Hints  on  the  Training 

and  Treatment  of  Children  and  Servants.     By  Mrs.  Charles  DoiG. 

6.  Free-hand  Dra^wing  :  A  Guide  to  Ornamental, 

Figure,  and  Landscape  Drawing.  By  an  Art  Student,  Author  of 
Ornamental  and  Figure  Drawing.'     Profusely  Illustrated. 

7.  The    Metals   used   in    Construction  :    Iron, 

Steel,  Bessemer  Metal,  etc.  etc.  By  Francis  Herbert  Joynson. 
Illustrated. 


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The  charm  of  novelty  is  still  further  heightened  by  the  Stories  being  related 
in  Antient  Ballad  form,  with  appropriate  Music,  arranged  in  an  easy  style,  for 
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1.  Y^  Iiiterestynge  Storie  of  Cinderella  and  y^  Lyttcl 

Glasse  Slyppere. 

Told  anew,  in  verse,  by  FRANCIS  DAVIS.  With  the  antient 
Music,  arranged  by  B.  PI.  Carroll. 

2.  The  Fair  One  with  the  Golden  Locks. 

Told  anew,  in  verse,  by  FRANCIS  DAVIS.  With  the  antient 
Music,  arranged  by  B.  H.  Carroll. 

3.  The  Sleeping  Beauty  ;  or,  The  Enchanted  Palace. 

Told  in  verse,  by  ALFRED  TENNYSON,  Poet  Laureate 
(published  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Strahan  &  Co.).  Music 
composed  by  B.  H.  Carroll. 

4.  Y^  Pathetic  Ballad  of  Ladye  Ounccbelle  and  Lord 

Lovelle. 

The  antient  version,  with  the  original  Music.  Pianoforte  Accom- 
paniment, by  B.  H.  Carroll. 

\_Others  in  preparation. 


THE  ROYAL  ILLUMINATED  BOOK  OF  LEGENDS. 

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Cinderella,  The   Fair   One  with   the    Golden   Locks, 
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TYTLER'S 
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FROM     THE     ACCESSION     OF     ALEXANDER     UI.     TO     THE      UNION. 

'  The  most  brilliant  age  of  Scotland  is  fortunate  in  having  found  a  historian  whose  sound  Judg- 
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v/i\\  soon  become,  and  long  remain,  the  standard  History  of  Scotland.' — Quartej-ly  Review. 

'  The  want  of  a  complete  History  of  Scotland  has  been  long  felt ;  and  from  the  specimen  which 
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COMPLETION  OF  THE  COPYRIGHT  EDITION  OF 

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TALES     OF     THE     BORDERS, 

AND     OF      SCOTLAND: 

HISTORICAL,     TRADITIONARY,     AND     IMAGINATIVE. 

Edited    by    ALEXANDER    LEIGHTON, 
One  of  the  Original  Editors  and  Contributoi's. 

In  announcing  the  completion  of  the  Copyright  Edition  of  the  Border  Tales, 
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versity, Aberdeen. 

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*»*  This  Volume  consists  of  a  Cotlection  of  the  most  j>optclar  Englislt,  Scotch,  Irish, 
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THE  mechanic's  AND    STUDENT'S  GUIDE 

In  the  Designing  and  Construction  of  General  Machine  Gearing. 

Illustratrb  foitlj  numrroxTS  Original  fingrab'mgs. 
Edited  by  Francis  H.  Joynson,  Author  of  'The  Metals  used  in  Construction.' 

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'  Even  if  the  author  of  it  were  not  known  to  be  a  man  of  acute  intellect  and  scrupu- 
lous veracity,  distinctly  biased  rather  towards  believing  too  little  than  too  much,  and 
to  speaking  out  the  truth  without  concealment  or  reservation,  especially  if,  in  speak- 
ing the  truth  and  giving  it  a  slight  jocular  tinge  (the  only  tinge  permissible  with  him), 
there  is  a  chance  of  making  anybody  ridiculous  or  uncomfortable,  it  would  be  mani- 
fest to  intelligent  insight  that  he  had  in  his  narrative  given  no  more  than  an  impartial, 
full,  and  particular  account  of  matters  that  came  within  the  range  of  his  physical 
senses,  certainly  with  no  disposition  to  magnify  Mr.  Home,  or  to  ascribe  undue  im- 
portance to  phenomena  which  few  men  would  be  more  ready  to  ascribe  to  imposture, 
or  joyfully  set  about  turning  into  ridicule.  .  .  .  We  advise  all  who  are  the  least  curious 
on  the  subject,  to  read  Mr.  Alexander's  little  book.'- — The  Scotsman. 

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